AO: POOLER
QiC: _Not Registered
Date: 06/17/2025
Title: NGT
Number of HIMs: 6
A-Boot, Brady Bunch, H.A.L., Honker, Periwinkle, Swabbie
Number of FNGs: 0
Name of FNGs:
WarmOrama:
OYO
Tha Thang:
Once upon a weekday dreary, while I jogged on, bleary, weary,
Over asphalt, wet and winding, echoing with footfalls sore—
While I staggered, nearly napping, suddenly there came a clapping,
As of shoes together slapping—slapping down the path before.
“’Tis just Honker,” I muttered, “charging down the path before—
Got a head start, like before.”
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was dark—like bleak December,
Streetlights casting ghostly embers on the sidewalk’s weeping floor.
Eager for that warm-down coffee, still I chased through paces lofty,
As each PAX flew past me softly—like the shadows legends wore.
Backblast posts would tell our story, etched in Strava evermore—
“Honker’s PR,” nothing more.
Each man running through the misting, early gloom that’s so unlisting,
Waking none but barking hounds and trash cans rattled by the score—
Six of us in motion flying, lungs a-burning, quads a-crying,
One behind us—slowly dying—trailing like a midnight snore.
“Surely H.A.L. will catch us,” muttered I. “He’s run this route before.”
Quoth the gloom: “Forever more.”
And the silken, ghostly chatter from our breath in morning matter
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic dreams of donuts held in store;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I kept repeating,
“F3 makes this pain less fleeting—brotherhood, and nothing more—
We endure the suck together, like we’ve always done before—
Even H.A.L. at mile four.”
Presently, my pace grew flatter; still there came that rhythmic patter,
Not from me—but someone gaining, gaining on this mortal shore.
“Surely now,” I whispered, gasping, “surely now he’s nearly grasping—
Slow no more, his pace unclasping—sprinting like he’s done this chore!”
Then a voice, so smooth, came ringing: “I am coming! Hear me roar!”
Quoth the H.A.L.: “Just one more!”
Back we looked, and lo! advancing, silhouette in gloom was prancing—
Not a ghost, nor fabled banshee, but our six man, now reborn!
Though the honker kept on leading, we were six, and none conceding—
Every soul with lungs now pleading, pressing through that sacred morn—
Onward through the dark we thundered, down the hill and round the store—
With H.A.L. last, but never sore.
COT:
Pledge, Lords Prayer