Cheap thrills
Hare of the dog

Craig Nickels

At first, the idea either strikes you as stupid or brilliant: Drinking and running. Running and drinking. Your reaction to hashing is either a slap to the forehead and a “Why didn’t I think of that?!” or a “Dude, WTF?” (And yes, you just pronounced it “double-you-tee-eff.”) Depending on your reaction, I can tell you. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” And, “it’s better than you’d think.”

First, the basics: The Hash House Harriers—the “drinking club with a running problem”—intersperse running and drinking. They play a bastardized version of an old English game, hounds and hares. Runners (the hounds) start at a meeting point, try to follow the trail of a “hare,” stop for beer on occasion, then reward themselves with beer when they find the hare’s finishing point. The starting point is usually a bar. The beer stops in the middle are usually bars. And the finishing point…well, you get the picture.

On my first hash, we started at Sullivan Square on an overcast Sunday afternoon. My wife, roommate, and I met up with our veteran-hasher friend, “Master Gator,” and his girlfriend at Forest Hills station. He told us the rules. Around Haymarket we bumped into other hashers. We didn’t know them. Master Gator did. They had been running; and drinking. There was a half-marathon that morning.

They were loud and sat on Gator’s lap, stacked up like tipsy pancakes. We arrived at Sullivan Station and packed into the elevator. Everyone’s running clothes bore a vague faded look of repeated washing and sweatings. We milled about by the free newspapers. When everyone had arrived, we gathered ourselves up and threw our bags and excess clothing in a “bag car” and circled up beyond the upper bus bays. Virgins—first time hashers—were labeled with a “V” on their backs in white chalk. People were introduced and symbols were explained (see images)—the hare had placed arrows with a single edge (think of a 7) along his trail. Every so often, there would be a “check.” The trail could go anywhere from there. People could leave their own symbols as advice, but just because someone went that way doesn’t make it right.

It would be a short hash, about 3 miles. Most hashes fall between 3-6 miles. Being a short run, there was one beer check.

As a warm-up, we sang “Father Birmingham.” If you’re not familiar, the words go “Father Birmingham / likes little boys, / little boys like Father Birmingham. / ‘Cuz he makes ‘em laugh / and he makes ‘em cry / when he touches them in the rectory.”

We started out winding through the industrial underside of Somerville. We ran under McGrath Highway and twisted through back streets. As virgins, my group and I tried to stay with the pack. We’d wait for others to find the trail. Follow the crowd. Try to keep up.

Eventually, we found our way to the beer check. It was on the Prospect Hill monument overlooking Union Square. Genesee and Genny Light in ice-filled garbage bags. Brought by the bag car. Cold beer on a cold day on a tall windy stone monument. It was beautiful.

From there we ran through Union Square, past a lot filled with old radiators, jumped a fence, ran on commuter rail tracks, and damn near ended up in West Medford. I guess we weren’t supposed to be on the tracks that long. That follow the crowd thing. Well…

When we found our way back to the finish there was more beer, Genesee, Genny Light, Genny Cream, and Schafer’s. Appropriate, since the finish was a scrap-filled vacant lot.

“We usually end up at a bar,” more than one hasher said apologetically.

We gathered our bags and added layers. I threw a threadbare green hoodie over my plain black tee. Another circle. This one around an old tire. This time to ridicule people who broke the rules. Wearing a race shirt? Drink. Virgin? Drink. FRB (Front Running Bastard)? Drink. Drinking was accompanied by singing. Singing by more drinking. Virgins had to explain who made them come and how. Double-entendres ensued. Then single-entendres. Then more singing.

Imagine cross-country, a frat house, and summer camp, and all the bad and all the good that comes with those. That’s what this was.

Most of the people were young. All of them were in running shape. I run, optimistically, 5-10 miles per week. Maybe 3-4 miles at a crack. And I had trouble keeping up.

Here’s the rub. Hashers I talked to said it wasn’t hard to drink and run. They don’t run that hard. They don’t run that far. Fine. But you need to be in good shape to suck down a couple of beers, run, suck down another couple, run some more, then still have energy to drink afterward. These are people who run 13 miles in the morning, went out for a few pints, then run again. That’s nuts.

As the post-mortem wound down, we peed in the bushes and found our way home. We were cold. Damp. Salty. By the end of the night, I had a throbbing hangover. Apparently, beer isn’t good for replenishing fluids.

As with most hangovers, I swore I’d never hash again. Then, as it faded into memory, I wanted to do it again.

Craig Nickels can be reached at cnickels@theoysteronline.com

04/05/2006   |   Permalink