Hashing the Chase - by Michael J. Warner

Hashing the Chase - 2000

By Michael J. Warner

5 June 2000

The mood was one of dead seriousness. As the runners formed up behind the 9-minute/mile banner there was barely an undercurrent of murmuring conversation. Mid-life runners mixed with young Turks. Bald spots scattered amongst corporate styled hair. Company t-shirts had replaced the Brooks Brothers suits but the smell of wing tips and brief cases still lingered in the air. Expensive sports watches were being zeroed, in readiness. The feeling of weekend runners trying hard to break a 35 minute PR for a 3.5 mile run was a physical thing hanging over my section of the crowd.

Then... they were noticed. Off the course. Up in the trees of someone's yard. Barely visible. Hashers.

"Who are they?"..."Are they a team?"..."They do all have the same shirts on."... "But, they don't have numbers on!"..."They're drinking... beer."..."Should you do that right before a race?"..."Oh gosh. They're coming this way."..."Bandits - that's what they are."

Like a motorcycle gang sauntering its way down into the innocents of a small town, the Hashers worked their way into the pre-race crowd and staked out a rough circle in the midst of the street. And they began their rituals. Dancing something between an Irish jig and a pagan fertility rite. Hasher group songs with questionable lyrics and limericks that you could not quite make out the words to, but knew must be off-color. Cans of Labbatts and Mountain Dew (Mountain Dew?) lifted high in fraternity drinking rites. Who were these people?

"Runners, on your mark!" With a whoop and a holler this small sea of dark green t-shirts began to flow off with the pack down the road. The stoic faced businessman next to the bawdy elf with two entirely different outlooks on the race and on life itself. Wrapped up in my own race I focused on avoiding all of the walkers who had seeded themselves up by the 5-min/mile marker. I soon lost track of the sea of green shirts. Yet every so often a chorus of metal whistles would sound in answer to the bugler's calvary charge - marks of the Hash-pack.

I thought on this as I struggled with the South Avenue hill. No live-hare today for them to chase. No trail left in flour along the route. No mall or bar to run through. But there were plenty of police and race officials to annoy, adult beverages to consume, and chances to get into trouble - all critical prerequisites for a Hash. I have run into groups of these merry bands of pranksters before. So called "Runners with a drinking problem" or "Drinkers with a running problem." The bad boys and girls of the running community. Kindred spirits measured more by their sense of humor than their split times. Those who take the sport less seriously than the mainstream runners. Those who still believe that it's still about fun and fellowship and copious amounts of adult beverages. Those who believe in the run for the run's sake, not for the competitive side, and not for the time and the PR.

Round the corner onto Highland Avenue and into the straightaway. There it is again. The calvary call, just ahead. The clear sound of the bugle breaking through the sound of 14,600 running shoes slapping pavement. A rowdy pack of elves clustered beside a tree on the edge of the road cheering the runners, quaffing cans of beer and soda, looking. Looking for a specific runner. One of theirs is in a corporate t-shirt, clean running shoes, and has an actual number pinned on. As I come abreast of them, the bugle sounds and they surge out onto the asphalt laughing and singing and blowing their whistles. They have found their compatriot.

I run beside them for a good while toward the finish. In my exhaustion I lose track of the hooligan crowd that were in and out for a short part of the race in support of a fellow Hasher. I suspect that they melted into the cheering crowd somewhere before the finish line, avoiding inquisitive race officials. On the way back to the corporate tent I cracked a smile. They bring a bit of humor to a sport that takes itself far too seriously. They are the Peter Pans of the running community who have never thought about growing up. Without rules. Without inhibitions. They are the free spirit of a twelve-year-old running breakneck down the street crossed with a sixteen-year-old in the throes of puberty with a can of beer in his hand. All wrapped up in an adult runner's body. They are the dark side of the sport - or maybe the lighter side. They're not bandits - they're Hashers. They're good people to run with. Hash on.