Hash House
Harriers
A Drinking Club With A Running
Problem
Running Times
January 1992, pp 61
By Ken McAlpine
As befits the hash, I'll start
by saying that what follows is absolute fact; could
be true in part; or, more likely, is pure bunk. Since
their sole intention is to mislead, hashers have
never put much stock in fact. Why should I? If you
want facts, watch “Jeopardy.”
To prevent this story from
wobbling completely off its axis, a few truths should
be passed along. The Hash House Harriers claim to be
the largest running organization in the world and,
given their erratic habits and dispositions, I won't
argue with them. Hash has a storied history, dating
back to times no one cares about and coalescing in
1938, when Albert Stephen Gispert organized what's
now recognized as the first hash at a British outpost
in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.
Gispert was described by
friends as a “short, stout, rubicund fellow with
a keen wit.” He was not described as an athlete.
Requirements for Hash House membership haven't
changed; neither has the hash format. Hashers follow
a trail laid by members who are dubbed
“hares.” They deposit droppings –
paper, flour, chalk marks, foot powder – to mark
the trail, making it as confusing as possible.
Trailing runners ardently pursue the droppings in a
confused fashion, and the trail ends with a keg of
beer and even more confusion. Hash runs can take
place anywhere, and that's a large part of their
allure. On the last weekend of September '91. I drove
to Long Beach, CA, to run a hash. I did so
voluntarily. There was no money involved. Believe
what you want.
That's how I find myself
standing next to Wombat, who is standing at the mouth
of a sewer drain somewhere in the urban stench of
Long Beach. The things being disgorged from the sewer
drain defy description; Wombat has just run through
them. His feet smell. He's lost. He's far from home.
A pleasanter set of circumstances is hard to imagine.
Wombat beams. “Good shiggy, eh?” he says,
gazing lovingly back into the tunnel from where we
came. “Shiggy” is a hash term that refers
to any liquid or solid that looks bad, smells worse
and impedes forward progress. Sane people –
labeled “poofters” by hashers – avoid
such gleck, thus, drastically reducing the chances of
ruining their shoes and the possibility of
contracting boils, lesions and nausea. Several Long
Beach hashers once ran through a toxic dump in
Philadelphia. Several days later, odd bumps appeared
on their legs. A true hasher views shiggy with
unrestrained relish.
Wombat is a true hasher; I know
this because he told me so. “A true
hasher,” bespoke Wombat as we ran casually into
oncoming traffic, “runs with his head, not with
his feet. Hashing is a thinking man's game.” I
like this logic for two reasons; one, I am not a fast
runner; two, my feet are already covered with
gelatinous goo.
I like Wombat for simpler
reasons. He's Australian, and I've yet to meet an
Australian that I didn't like. Back home in
Queensland, Wombat sells carpet and vinyl, but he's
currently touring the world, hashing. He never tells
me his real name, and I never ask. In my defense,
this isn't shoddy journalism. All hashers have
nicknames awarded them by fellow hashers who've hit
on some personal quirk, embarrassing circumstance or
nothing at all. It's not uncommon for two hashers who
have run together for months to know each other only
as “Scumhead” and “Captain
Naked.”
Whoever Wombat is, he's not
given to rushing. He and I stand stock still as a
dozen runners slog from the sewage tunnel and burst
into the sunlight, scattering bits of yuck in all
directions and crying, “On, on” – the
hash cry signifying that they're on the trail, which,
in moments, they're not. Wombat watches them pass.
Eventually, he hitches up his shorts and we give
chase – which is to say we proceed after them at
a leisurely trot. Wombat doesn't believe in wasting
energy. Judging from his waistline, he's quite
successful.
“Always put 10 or 15
hashers in front of you,” he says, striding up
an embankment.
The brilliance of Wombat's
reasoning quickly becomes evident. We catch the
leaders within minutes. Having lost the trail,
they're milling about in a bamboo thicket like drunks
who've just stepped off a merry-go-round. “Waste
not, want not,” says Wombat, who promptly begins
to sniff about for signs of the flour that marks the
trail.
Today's run is the 360th
for the Long Beach Has House Harriers. Hashers might
sound like people who aren't much for counting or
records, but that's not the case. The Long Beach
Hashers have a board of officers, plus an official
newsletter that's mailed, weekly, to 200 members
whose existence is logged by computer. In keeping
with tradition, these missives are addressed to the
“Hasher in residence” – a dicey skate
on legality's edge, given the colorful names of some
members. “Nobody in the Post Office seems to
mind,” shrugs one hasher.
The Long Beach Hashers are also
punctual. Today's run is scheduled to start at 10
a.m. By 9:30, the parking lot is brimming with
hashers and excitement – and the keg is tapped.
Ten minutes before a burst of whistles signals the
start, I'm dragged in front of the crowd and
introduced to a touching chorus of slander punctuated
by shouts of “Who cares?” I'm asked to do a
“down-down” – a hash expression for
doing exactly that, as expeditiously as possible,
with some form of liquid. I chose beer because that's
what's handed to me. Though the hash is soundly
rooted in drink, beer swilling isn't required. Soda
and water are often offered as options, and some even
choose it. Teetotalers aren't derided, possibly
because it means more beer for the rest of them.
Following my introduction,
Fruit of the Loom pulls me aside for a brief primer.
As a “virgin” – an unspoiled poofter
who has yet to slog his first shiggy – I need to
know a few things. He's a distinguished-looking
fellow who could be a congressman, except for his
garish floral shorts and his to-the-point manner. He
gives me the basics. Today's run will take about an
hour. If I don't get lost, I'll be following a flour
trail. The trail will be difficult to follow.
Assuming I'm not stupid enough to dash to the front.
I'll also be following a considerable number of
runners, and that should make my job easier.
I like Fruit; but, like any
wise virgin, I don't tell him everything. Like most
virgins, I have a secret; I'm not. Once, 10 years
ago, I ran a hash in Indonesia. We – I and a
troopship's worth of Australians – ran through
rice paddies in the pouring rain. The trail was
marked with bits of paper, most of which washed away
in a sea of mud before we could find them. This
didn't faze the Aussies, who crashed through the
paddies – mobile mud globs hot on the scent.
After the run, we stood around a keg in the dark
buzzing jungle, singing songs and drinking beer. The
Aussies took much pleasure in dragging me up front
and requesting a song, and the only song I could
remember was “America the Beautiful.” Each
time, the Aussies would drag me up and demand a new
song; each time, I'd sing was “America the
Beautiful.” Each time, my myopia was rewarded
with a down-down. This vicious circle ended about
midnight, someone depositing me in the back of a car
and murmuring “Good on ya, mate.” I burst
into song.
If all this seems rather
hedonistic, it is. The written rules of hash –
penned, fittingly enough, 12 years after it came into
existence – give requisite mention to fitness
then go on to laud hashing's regenerative powers,
through “acquiring a good thirst and satisfying
it with beer.” Questions about hash priorities
were neatly addressed at a 1986 global gathering in
Thailand, where 2,000 hashers consumed 4,000 gallons
of beer. By and large, training is frowned on.
Apparently, there may be at least one influential
member with strong feelings on this subject. Several
years ago, a group of Aussie hashers was struck by
lightening while training on a track outside Perth.
“One chap standing on the verandah nearby saw 10
of us suddenly jump up into the air,” reported
Colin Carpenter, of the impromptu fricassee. Colin
escaped with burns on his chest and ankles. Hashers
aren't exactly sure of their place I the running
world, though one Long Beach hasher is willing to
take a guess: “I always thought that real
runners saw us as a boil on their butt,” he
says.
Stamina isn't a must, but speed
is definitely an asset. The Long Beach Hash has
dashed through hairdressing parlors, shopping malls
and the Los Angeles Marathon Expo. Hashers in Texas
dashed through a papal assembly. Jock, one of the
founding members of the Long Beach Hash, once ran
through a funeral dressed as a large rabbit. Wherever
the dash, one thought must be kept uppermost:
“You've got to blitz it,” says Wild Bill.
“You don't want to be the last person
through.”
Unquestionably, some hashers
are bona fide athletes and have accomplished much.
Among them is Graham Douglas, who trekked the
Himalayas numerous times without mishap, then
suffered multiple fractures in his wrist and elbow
when he fell through the roof of his home. Some
hashers can even run. A hyperkinetic fellow with a
spry moustache and manner, Wild Bill has run a 2:58
marathon. He probably would have cracked that time on
another occasion, if he hadn't stopped for beer at 20
miles. He'll display this speed later in today's
hash, performing some nifty fartlek work across four
lanes of fast moving traffic. After that, he'll turn
to me and say, “We try to discourage things that
are really, overtly stupid.” Pause. “Well
some things.”
At the moment, though, no one
is dashing anywhere. Wombat, Wild Bill, On Call and a
dozen other hashers are poking about in thick brush
looking for signs of a trail that has abruptly
vanished. Several dispense with the search, crash
through the shrubbery and out onto and adjacent golf
course. I stay put. Taking short cuts is an honored
hash tradition, but it often leads to another honored
tradition – getting lost. Hashers routinely go
astray, sometimes in grand fashion. Once, an entire
club got lost in the Malayan Jungle. When word
eventually reached the wife of one of them, she was
sick with worry” “Well it serves the stupid
old bastard right,” she said.
I may be a semi-virgin hasher,
and thus ill-informed in most matters, but as a
Southern Californian, I know one thing; getting lost
in Long Beach, where certain neighborhoods make
Hell's Angels look like the Welcome Wagon, isn't a
good idea. “Say, Hi! Could you tell me where I
am? Maybe scratch the directions in my chest with
that knife?” I'm also told that going onto the
golf course could be equally dangerous. Golfers are
peevish folk; real poofters – plus, it's
difficult to outrun a golf ball.
Eventually, someone finds what
we need: an almost indistinguishable blotch of flour
on a rotted log. Our group charges off again. The
trail skirts the golf course, crosses several
streets, cuts through and industrial lot, then drops
down a short incline to parallel an enormous storm
drain. At the moment the drain is empty. This
disappoints Wild Bill. If it weren't, we'd probably
be wading in it. He cheers up when the trail points
to the mouth of yet another disgustingly smelly
culvert. I hesitate at the entrance. A pert-looking
woman in her forties brushes past and ducks into the
dark. “I hope you didn't bring new shoes,”
she says. Later, she'll introduce herself as
“Ménage a Toe.” Don't ask.
Yes there are women. Hashing
was once an all-male pursuit; in some places, it
still is; but for the most part, women are as much a
part of the hash as shiggy. (I imply no direct
parallel.) Plenty of women belong to the Long Beach
Hash, and they aren't the least bit prissy. At one
point during the run, I'm running with Ménage a Toe.
We're trotting down a dirt path lined with the
remains of city buses. Looking about, she declares
this a perfect place for a keg stop. “Would we
have to chug?” I ask. She looks at me puzzled.
“You don't have to,” she says, “You
get to.”
Women can also come in handy.
Long Beach's Grand Mistress, a sort of club
president, is a pretty woman called “on
Call.” Having a sweet demeanor, On Call also
does most of the talking when the Long Beach Hashers
run afoul of the law. Hashers don't make a concerted
effort to break the law, but, by definition, they
aren't poofters either.
I run the last part of the hash
with On Call and a half dozen others. We exit a storm
drain, climb a fence, cross a final street and trot
around the back of a Kmart. No one uncorks a
finishing sprint. Someone has uncorked the beer. The
two hashers who finish first are asked to drink beer
from the business end of a rubber chicken. “We
discourage competition,” explains Wild Bill.
Wombat doffs his had during the proceedings.
“Out of respect, mate,” he says.
Wombat leaves tomorrow for Hong
Kong, where he'll hash before he returns to carpet
selling in Queensland. The rigors of the morning have
taken their toll. Wombat's eyes have become quite
small and his speech comes in short, dozy bursts.
True hasher that he is, he wants to get in a final
word. Hashing is wonderful, and because it's
wonderful, it has grown quite big. Why, at the 1988
global gathering in Bali, Indonesia, 86 countries
were represented. “only 97 countries,” says
Wombat, “were at the Seoul Olympics.” He
nods. “Yup. Very popular.” He climbs into a
waiting van. He pokes his head out and has one final
admonition.
“Never trust the facts,
mate.”