On Saturday (as you may have heard) several local media members, in a shameless money-raising stunt, hopped on snowmobiles with suits full of eggs in order to raise money for the Pine Tree Camp for Handicapped Children and Adults.

Donors stepped forward and pledged money that equated to eggs … which equated, in theory, to our misery.

As it turned out, the Egg Run – which is organized by radio station WQCB – was a huge success this year. I promised you an account of our day … and here it is.

Saturday morning. Hungry Hollow 76ers Snowmobile Club, Levant.

The Preparation: Arrive at Hungry Hollow. Sounds like my kind of place. Head inside and find out that they’re serving breakfast. Also sounds like my kind of place. Belly up to the serving table. Find out that the menu includes eggs.

Breakfast: Haggle with the serving girl. Ask if any eggs I eat will count against the total of 383 I’m expected to carry. She laughs, but doesn’t approve of the plan. I skulk away and eat.

Post-breakfast: Find out that the snowmobile suit I’ve been provided is very small. Find out that Miss Teen Maine USA’s snowmobile suit is very large. Tell her she can carry my leftover eggs. She looks scared. I take some kind of cruel pleasure in that.

Post-post-breakfast: Stand around with future stepdaughters Molly and Sarah and future wife Dawn. Realize that Sarah is very excited about seeing my suit filled with eggs. Realize that Molly’s goal is to “crack an egg on your head.” Begin to look scared … just like Miss Teen Maine USA.

Eventually: Suit up in loaner gear. Head outside. Realize that Sarah has muckled onto on one hand and is dragging me toward the waiting sleds. “Come on,” she says. “It’s time to egg up!” I belatedly realize refusing her an extra handful of Goldfish crackers last week was probably a bad idea. She seems to hold a grudge.

Egging up: Children line up to drop, toss, hurl and pour eggs down T-shirts that have been attached to our midsections by duct tape. Realize that the organizers are very smart: An adult who did the same to any of us may be in for a bit of a scuffle.

Sarah drops eggs in my shirt. Molly throws them in like she’s spiking a football in the end zone. All that’s missing is her touchdown dance. I sit back and smile … a bit … then realize nobody’s counting my eggs.

A hundred or 200 or 400 eggs later (I’m not sure how many, but I do know that one particularly troublesome youth began to pour eggs in by the dozen just before we left), we’re given the signal. Start engines.

Eggs are already breaking. I see a slimy ooze sliding down my leg.

Mile 1: This isn’t so bad. Heck, most of my eggs seem to be in one piece.

Mile 5: Not any more. Every bump or turn jars and jolts more eggs. But this is still fun … really.

Mile 10: Begin looking for the finish line. All eggs seem to have broken. Egg whites are everywhere … but I’m still remarkably dry.

Mile 12: Modern snowmobiles have handwarmers. At this point, they’ve essentially turned into portable George Foreman grills, perfectly suitable for egg-frying. My previously egg-coated mittens smell delicious, I think … though I may also just be getting delirious after inhaling snowmobile exhaust for 10 miles. Somewhere on this dashboard, there’s a switch that turns the handwarmer temperature from “boil” to “simmer.” But I’m afraid to let go of the handlebars and start flipping switches, lest I end up flopping off my sled and turning into a trailside souffle.

Mile 15: “What is the flash point of egg-caked nylon?” I wonder. I start flipping switches so that I don’t have to find out. Dodge errant tree that some fool planted too close to the side of the trail. Swerve back onto the straight-and-very-narrow.

Mile 17: I find the right switch. The George Foreman grills begin to cool off. I pull one mitten to my nose and take a deep breath. It seems that my omelets are done. Flipping up my visor’s helmet, I prepare for a mid-ride snack.

Mile 18: Realization strikes: It’s hard to chew burnt egg off your mittens while you’re driving. Wonder if this is how most snowmobile accidents really happen. Make mental note to ask Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife personnel if they’ve ever studied the matter.

Mile 19: Find out that trail groomer decided to take the night off. Either that, or he decided that adding a few speed bumps might add to the thrills of an otherwise comfortable Egg Run.

Mile 191/2: Previously aching back begins to throb … or is that just the eggshells digging into my spine? Speed bumps continue. Abandon last hopes of enjoying mitten omelets. Inhale more snowmobile exhaust. Begin to feel a very wet feeling in my groin area. Hope that that feeling means eggs have finally soaked through my snowmobile suit.

Mile 20: Cross another road. See the same Game Warden I’ve seen 15 times in the last hour. Wonder if he’s playing a joke on us, and if we’re really just driving around in circles.

Mile 21: The end is near. Eggs seeping out, left and right. Look at boots. See egg. Look at gut. See egg. Look out! Dodge another errant tree at low speed.

Mile 22: Flip up visor. Speed across Sebasticook Lake. Wave to crowd. Stop. Try to stand up. Realize that eggs have settled during shipping.

Aftermath: De-egg into a slimy pile after peeling off duct tape gut-gusset. The mess is quite unappetizing, and pre-ride scrambled eggs twitch in my belly. Offer hugs to Molly and Sarah. Refused on both counts.

Smile at cameras.

Fade to black.

The rest of the story: Thanks to your help, WQCB successfully raised $19,173 in pledges for this year’s Egg Run for the Pine Tree Camp. Thank you for your support.

John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailynews.net or by calling 990-8214 or 1-800-310-8600.