Runnin'
through the shiggy
Big Shout Magazine
May 1996 Sports Issue
By TOM DOUGHERTY.
ON-ON Damn
those Hares!--RU? Checking, Checking...
What the hell am I talking
about? The Hockessin Hash House Harriers. If you
wanna run with the pack, you gotta work the lingo,
and these dudes meet about once a week to run, run,
run for fun, fun, fun. The complex system of terms
and phrases that you see above are used in their
non-competitive runs called Hashes. Doing hash runs
and drinking afterwards (at the hash house) is a
centuries-old way to blow off steam, and there are
Hashers all over the country. Some are trained
runners, some are not. The one-year-old Hockessin
group consists of corporate execs, military folk,
tradespeople, and now, me. Their hashing names are Up
Chuck, Trisexual, Do Me, Fungi, Ass Wipe, Cumalot,
Erection, and the fearless leader, Crib Snatcher, to
name a few. And boy do people stare when they see
this funky crew comin' down their street yelling out
each other's names. "The hash, if nothing else,
is irreverent," says Crib Snatcher. I guess it
adds to the experience -- their hotline number is
302-NEEDFUN, and running, yelling, drinking, and
being vulgar, as we all know, will release a lot of
that pent-up aggression and anxiety.
The day's events began with an
explanation of the trail markings, mostly for the
benefit of the virgins (myself and one other person
on this particular day). The thing most stressed was
that there are no rules, but you still need to know
what you're doing, I guess. Basically, the running
trail is always laid out in advance by 1-3
"Hares," who mark a cross-country course
with HASHMARKS (splotches of flour). It began in
Fungi's front yard, on your typical suburban street.
We, the Hounds (about 30 runners strong), set out
down the road, and someone sounded his bugle and
cried ON-ON! ("I'm on the trail"). We soon
came upon our first "X" mark or check. This
means that the trail can split off in several
directions, and the Hounds must find the one true
trail on which to proceed. The standard cry of
"CHECKING" went up at this point. So, Crib
Snatcher and I decided to try running up a nearby
steep hill, only to find a big fat "F" mark
a few hashmarks later, indicating that we were on a
false trail. The hares are worthless scum, of course,
and we were cursing them already.
Fortunately, the FRB's or Front
Running Bastards (People who can actually run and
tend to stay in the lead) had found the true trail
and cried "ON-ON!" Clutching my asthma
inhaler with one hand, and my heaving chest with the
other, I thought of all the cigarettes I'd been
smoking and tried to remember the last time I
exercised. As we headed back downhill towards the
correct trail, I heard a nearby hasher say,
"Good lead, Crib Snatcher," referring to
our useless run up the big hill.
Into the woods now, we wove
through the polluted streams and drainage ditches of
suburbia, eventually passing under Kirkwood Highway.
The creek became unavoidable, and most just took the
pain and hopped in with both sneakers. Like a fool, I
had donned some fairly new footwear that morning,
expecting neatly groomed trails and such. So, hopping
from rock to rock to avoid the water, I soon found
myself just about bringing up the rear, shouting
"RU?" (are you on trail) all the while.
Back on the street, we passed an unusual trail marker
consisting of a road-killed rabbit perfectly outlined
with white flour. I thought of the hares.
I was feeling better, warmed up
to running, by the time we got to halfway point and a
stop for a quick beer at someone's house. The worst
was yet to come, but I was having a good time
nonetheless. Back on the road we followed the white
marks into a small causeway, the floor of which was
coated with a half inch of water and the slipperiest
green slime you can imagine. The crew didn't even bat
an eye though, and we proceeded, over hill and dale,
on pavement and through water.
"RU?"
"ON-ON!"
We entered on empty field, and
the group scattered in all directions, searching. The
trail could be anywhere. Experience is definitely a
plus in this sport, and, no thanks to me as usual, we
finally found the trail leading up a steep embankment
from the bed of a creek. This was the worst shiggy we
got into that day, meaning thick underbrush. Judging
by the assorted cuts, scrapes, and gouges in Crib
Snatcher's shins from an earlier hash, I knew this
was nothing. The hill was coated with an unearthly
black muck that sort of resembled mud, and this time
my shoes bought the farm. The gang helped each other
get through the obstacles once again and we were out.
After a quick jog through a
neighborhood later, we arrived at the van for the
ride home. Total elapsed time was about an hour and a
half. We didn't go to the pub as I had expected, but
there was a big picnic in Fungi's backyard. Then the
rituals began. Everyone started singing and I didn't
know what was going on, except that I had a DOWN-DOWN
coming to me, since it was my first hash. Crib
Snatcher poured me a cold Rolling Rock, which I had
to chug (DOWN-DOWN) in one try or wear the rest on my
head. I sucked it down, and the rest is history.
Anyone can join the Hockessin
Hash House Harriers for a run. Call 1- 302-NEEDFUN or
check `em out on the internet: http://www.ravenet.com/hhhh/ There are also clubs in Philly,
Baltimore, D.C., and all around.