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Run for it
The Hash House Harriers are a drinking club with a running problem

BY NINA WILLDORF

A MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN with a clipboard is standing amid a group of people in front of the Red Hat pub on Beacon Hill. People casually greet her: " Hey, Cums Alone. " That’s her name. Cums Alone. She surveys the crowd. There’s an older woman with blond hair and thick eyeliner whom people keep calling Menage à Trois; heavy, middle-aged men in serious running clothes; and a fit thirtysomething guy in a shower cap. Cums Alone is trying to count heads, but for some reason she gets a different number every time. " The problem is, " she sighs to a man wearing a beanie cap, " Anal Avenger is counting them too. "

The multi-generational crowd mills around as a young woman sparks up a cigarette. A few minutes later, after some cryptic explanations and directions, someone blows a whistle, and people start running in every direction — up the hill, across the bustling intersection, into traffic. They’re looking for chalk-drawn arrows on the sidewalk, which are trail markers that they hope will lead them to their final destination. To make things more difficult, the marks could also lead to false trails that lead to dead ends. " Are you? " belts one. Silence. " On one! " shouts another from down the street. And — like flies to a mound of dung — everyone flocks in the direction of the victorious seeker.

The event, called a hash, is a weekly ritual for the eclectic group, a cross between a citywide game of hide-and-seek, a fraternity party, and a road race. Members of the group, called the Hash House Harriers, like to think of their gang as a " drinking club with a running problem. " Once a week, participants call the Hash Hotline, which provides directions to a random location, often a bar. From there they embark on this maze-like road race, which leads them over the river and through the woods — to beer.

HASHING — THE word is used as a verb, a noun, and, if you’d like, an insult — is an international activity that originated in the 1930s with a group of expat Brits in Kuala Lumpur, who were emulating the old road-race chase game called Hares and Hounds. Today, there are more than 1200 clubs in at least 130 countries; every major American city has a hash.

Rumor has it that John Wayne Bobbitt is a hasher in Las Vegas; there, he’s reportedly better known as A Stitch in Time Saves Mine. Such double-entendre nicknames get to the heart of the cheeky, Monty Python–esque nature of the hash. The practice varies from city to city, but in Boston, once you’ve done something people can rag on you about, you " earn " your name. Karen, a 52-year-old former risk-management analyst for Staples, is known as Shine On Harvard Moon or, more simply, Shine On. " To make a long story short, " she explains, " I had to take a pee break in Harvard Yard and it was a winter afternoon. There was snow on the ground. I ducked behind hedges, but as a pack ran by they saw me squatting. As it turned out, I was peeing right in front of a dorm window. "

Other local hashers: Cockaholic and Cum Chowdah. And then there’s the famed lesbian hasher couple in San Diego: Little Dutch Girl and Finger in the Dyke.

THE ONLY thing you need to remember is Rule Number 75, " says Doug Silver, also known as " Hash Cash " (i.e., club treasurer; the group charges $10 per person per hash), before we set out. " Rule Number 75 is that there are no rules. " Sure enough, some hashers walk, others take shortcuts, and most rib each other every inch of the way.

After 45 minutes of running, eyes to the ground searching for chalk marks, the people with whom I’m tagging along come up with nothing. According to a woman behind me, this is a " crap hash. " She starts singing a song. " S-H-I ... T-T-Y ... Shitty hash, shitty hash. " Others join in. Normally, she says, one can " find trail " relatively easily, and a hash continues for three to five miles. But tonight, even when the game never really gets started because we can’t find trail, the hashers seem fairly pleased just to be out here. " We’re a happy bunch, " one later explains.

Some of us finally give up and just head to the destination bar — also known as the " On In, " the location of which is posted on the Hash Hotline as soon as the initial whistle blows. As we roll into the Hong Kong Wok and Lounge in Quincy Market, people start pouring beer down their throats like it’s water. The vibe recalls a kegger, after-work happy hour, and retirement party — all in one.

After 10 minutes of carousing, the hashers start forming a circle. " It’s like a fraternity, " says a girl who goes by Tongue Me Please. " This is called Religion. I can’t really explain it. Just watch. "

A man who says he used to be in the Marine Corps orders the first-timers in the bunch — the " virgins " — to get in the middle of the circle. He barks out questions, rapid-fire: " WHO MADE YOU COME?! " " WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE POSITION?! " " WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE ANIMAL?! " Some actually provide answers, but all appear stunned. Old-time hashers — who range in age from early 20s to late 50s, and whose professions range from judge to financial analyst, student to techie — watch the hazing with glee.

Other folks are ordered into the circle, and following each round of questions, they’re instructed to race each other to pound a pint of beer and then put the empty glass on their heads. I’m called into the circle. " The spy! " they shriek. The former Marine asks my name and favorite color — he’s letting me off easy — and I pound a glass of water, for which I get no small amount of ribbing.

" Religion " soon ends and the hashers start belting out songs. A rousing version of " Swing Low, Sweet Chariot " is accompanied by hand gestures for each syllable. " Comin’ for to carry me home " gets particularly notable visual cues; think the worst and you’ll come close.

IT’S HARD to classify a hash. If it’s a club, it’s non-exclusive. If it’s an exercise group, its members don’t really get much. The most nearly accurate way to define it is as a co-ed, all-ages athletic fraternity for post-collegiates. Or something like that.

A woman called BarbiBox, who just moved here from San Francisco, thinks of it as " family for misfits. " She and her husband met at a San Francisco hash four years ago. Apparently, hash hook-ups are fairly common; at least three other couples who met through hashing are here tonight.

One woman hosted a Christmas hash last year for folks who didn’t have a place to go. " I had a party in May, and like 75 people showed up to my house, " recounts Tongue Me Please. " When you invite hashers to a party, everyone comes. They post it on the [Web site]. "

Hashers can be a bit of a support system, too. The day after the September 11 terrorist attacks, a group of them met at the Cambridgeport Saloon. Shine On Harvard Moon was there. " We just talked, " she recalls. " No one set a trail, no one ran. We gathered there to talk and drink and just be together. We all rely on our sense of humor to pull us through bad situations. And it doesn’t matter whether you run or drink or walk or smoke dope — oh, no, don’t say that; smoke cigarettes — you’re accepted as you are. You’re never told that you can’t be a hasher. "

Like fraternities or rugby teams, hashers accumulate and cultivate embarrassing stories that they proudly share: flirting with arrest in cemeteries, passing out in vomit, getting chased by rent-a-cops in the East Los Angeles Public Library.

" About three years ago, one of our guys set a trail in Belmont, " recounts Doug Baird, a 57-year-old insurance broker who’s been hashing for eight years. " We were going through the sewers. It was the storm sewers, where the surface water runoff goes. It was about six inches to a foot deep. It hadn’t rained in a while, so there were some interesting spiders and bugs that freaked people out. You just had no idea where you were. I couldn’t quite stand up. I wanged my head a few times. But no one backed out. There is sort of a group ethic. My sneakers stunk for weeks. "

But despite the occasional stench, hashers are always game for more. " You get to run around and cause a commotion, " explains Shine On. " You get to run through the mud and muck. You get to drink in public and sing dirty songs. You get to be a kid again. It’s part of me that can be let loose, and it’s a part of me that the public doesn’t usually see. "

Baird, also known as SkiBobbit, agrees. " I’m a textbook case of arrested development. I’m an insurance broker. I’m married ... I think [my wife] understands that it’s a time for me to go out and do something that allows me to run and be a little bit of a dope, and act stupidly. And then that’s that. I come home and I’m my usual normal self. "

Needless to say, SkiBobbit’s wife doesn’t join him. " It’s not that she doesn’t like the hash, " he explains. " I think loathing is an appropriate phrase. "

Nina Willdorf can be reached at nwilldorf[a]phx.com

Issue Date: October 18 - 25, 2001