Hash Harriers - the madness continues

“What is a Caucus-race?” said Alice….

“Why,” said the Dodo, “the best way to explain it is to do it.”

- Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

Much like Alice, after being briefed by a Hare, I haphazardly followed the pack as I was told to, not really know what was going on, as it raced down the street into the heart of the Adams Morgan neighbourhood.

Much like the Caucus-race, the people who take part in Hash runs are from all different walks of life, stripes and colours. There was the ex-General who has been hashing every week for the past few years, a high-powered corporate lawyer working on the Capitol, a dance instructor, and two guys dressed in zebra outfits for no apparent reason, to name a few. For h-core hashers, the delight lies in meeting one night a week, after a long day at the office, or whatever they do, at a pre-determined spot in DC, and run a surprise trail, following clues (the trail blobs and other markers) with the promise of beer and revelry both during the trail, and afterwards.

“Are you?”

“This way!”

I was about three quarters back in the pack. Quite naturally a speed pecking order was put in place. The fast ones were leading the way, following the blobs. The code phrase “Are you?” was yelled at the fast ones by those in the middle, and is the abbreviation for: “Pray thee, art thou following the true trail?”.

There were stops and starts every couple of minutes, given the “Check” points. And we had to back track a couple of times after following false trails.

There was also the occasional “Boob Check!”. The marker for this was a chalk circle, with a dot in the middle representing, well, a boob.   At a Boob Check, only female hashers could scout the next direction. There was, however, a way that the girls could get the boys to help out, and that is if they flashed their assets.

“Girls are slower runners than guys,” said Fistopher Bolumbus, as we waited at one junction, “Boob Checks are good way to pace the pack and keep everyone together – and there is always the hope that we will see some boobs. It’s all good.”

“Are you?!”

We set off again, this time down some steps into a dimly-lit park. It was still snowy and icy. After checking my footing over rocks and twigs, I looked up and saw ahead the pack gathering around… something. As I approached, I saw a Hare behind a small table giving out paper shot cups with steam wafting out of them.

It was hot cider! Just the ticket. We had warmed up a bit, but just stopping like that made our noses runny… it was bitterly cold.

Then on we went. Up hills, down them, along streets, and through alleyways, we streaked past bewildered streetwalkers, and shirked away from police cars, their interest we understandably piqued. “We aren’t doing anything illegal”, a Hare assured me, before we had set off.

We met the beer van eventually at the bottom of what I now discover is the Adams Morgan Spanish Steps. We were half way through. How long had we been running for? And for how long? No idea. It was a frenzied blur. We all got a pitcher of beer laid out next to the van, and I met a couple of other hashers. One of them, called Whiskey Business was training for a triathlon. He told me that one night a couple of weeks ago, he went out on the lash, got home at 2.30am still drunk as a skunk, but wasn’t tired. So he decided to fit in his planned ten-mile run there and then, and off he went into the dark at 3am. Standard behaviour.

Once we were off again, the only notable stops was a crate of budget lager cans down a dead-end part of the trail that had to be completely consumed before we set off again, and a cranberry vodka shot stop. Cold, this time.

“Are you?!?!!”

Eventually we slowed down near a small park near the Hilton, midway between Adams Morgan and Dupont Circle. It was a short run tonight, something close to 4 miles. But the night was far from over…

Keeping up with the Pack: Hash Harriers in Washington, DC (Part One)

CLIO DOES RUNNING IN THE STATES

The snow had stopped falling, thankfully, and it was a clear night, but very cold, about -7°C: too cold. Exiting the DC metro at Adams Morgan station, I stayed close to my trusty Hash sherpa “Fistopher Bolumbus” (more on his name later) passing kebab shops and restaurants, as we kept an eye out for chalk arrows scratched into the pavement. You wouldn’t notice them ordinarily, but eventually they led to a patch of green on the verge of a park where 25-30 people were gathered, huddled and shivering, with light darting here and there from their head torches.

This was the Hash Pack. Gatherings can consist of up to 200 on warm summer nights, so on this chilly, windy dark one it was a pretty skeletal team.

The first person I met in the Pack was the “Hash Cash”, to whom I paid $5 for the pleasure to take part. I confirmed that I was a Hash Virgin, a first-timer. My name for the night was “Just Clio”.

So far, so weird.

A Hash beer van was parked alongside – filled with beer, obviously – and we stripped down to the layers that we were going to run in and chucked our coats, jumpers and bags in the back of the van. It was going to meet us at the midpoint, and then at the end of the Hash trail.

The organisers of this Hash Run, called collectively The Mismanagement, are also known as the “Hares”. One of the Hares, a lady wearing knee high socks with the word “BEER” running up them, yelled: “ANY VIRGINS?!” I walked tentatively over. She explained to me how the Hash trail worked: chalk blobs on the road marked the trail, a chalk circle was a “Check” where the trail could go one of many directions, like at a junction. We would have to search for continuation trail blobs down different roads. Sometimes, there could be some misleading fake blobs, so she showed me a particular sort of chalk arrow which marked the “True Trail”. Also, there were the letter combos: BN (“Beer Near”) and EN (“End Near”).

Noticing my expression of confuzzlement, the Hare said: “Don’t worry too much about this, just stay with the Pack, they will do all the work!”

Before we set off, it was made clear that we would not learn anything about the route prior (they can vary from two to nine(!) miles); only that there would be two shot stops and beer, at some point.

We formed a circle. It is customary for Virgins to introduce themselves to the pack, and having rehearsed the ritual phrasing I needed to adopt for this particular occasion on the Metro, I stepped into the middle of the circle and bleated: “I am Just Clio, and Fistopher Bolumbus made me come”. No prizes for working out the naughty pun in the last sentence! The Pack sang me a welcoming song. To the tune of Frère Jacque:

We’ve got Virgins (We’ve got Virgins)           

At our Hash (At our hash)

Gonna get ‘em drunked up (Gonna get them fucked up)

Down the hatch (Up the ass!)

And then we were off. Americans!

http://www.ewh3.com/homepage/

Ten Miles? Are you insane?

So the other week, we took a step that I didn’t believe was possible – we ran ten miles. Well, to be exact we ran 10.83 miles owing to a minor wrong turn by Clio on the way back.

From Clio’s house we jogged happily enough to Regent’s Park. We even managed some conversation, which was new. Usually we spend the run jogging silently alongside each other, not because we hate each other mind. We were just conserving our energy, sending telepathic signals of support as we ran.

We reached Regent’s Park and started around it. As we ran we spotted signs, restaurants and road crossings and, remembering our route that we had meticulously planned on www.mapmyrun.com, we knew that we would be running past these landmarks another two times before we could even contemplate reaching the end of this run.

The first lap seemed endless… everything was new and we had no references to measure our progress. Taxis muttered past in the darkness; students as youthful to us as toddlers brawled and chattered like the penguins at London Zoo; huge, expensive houses loomed alongside us before passing by.

Having taken an age to get round the first time the second lap felt swifter. We knew where the landmarks would be and could tick them off as we went, knowing how far we had left.

The final lap, however, was the longest. All the strength passed from my legs as the last few grains of carbohydrate were sucked up by my starving muscles. Each step became more of a challenge – lift foot, move it forward, plant it firmly on the ground. Keep going. Breathe... Breathe, damn it! Clio even stumbled as we crossed over some potholed section of the pavement.

Every landmark we passed was a victory but they seemed further away than ever. I started to divide up the rest of the route, hoping that mathematical calculations would distract my brain from the pain in my feet.

But then we saw the streetlights that would take us off the Regent’s Park circuit and back towards Clio’s house. Elation was short-lived. There was still the matter of Primrose Hill to navigate.

With legs like lead and feet complaining with every step, we rounded the final corner and staggered home. We hadn’t stopped once, we hadn’t given up. We had made it!!

Alex (Clio’s brother) took us through a military stretch, we showered and we ate but the effort of the run meant that we forwent our customary Scrabble.

Such sacrifices we make! 

Sniff!

It's emails like this that make the running that much easier (well not easier exactly but it keeps you pounding round!)

  

Dear Charles,

Kayleigh’s son Riley was born 8 weeks early with under-developed lungs. He needed help breathing immediately after birth and was transferred to St Thomas’ for specialist care. Kayleigh recently raised over £1,000 for Guy’s and St Thomas’ Charity by taking part in a 10K run.

“Riley is our little fighting miracle; it's amazing how strong he is. But he wouldn't have progressed like that if it wasn't for the staff and care at St Thomas' Hospital. We cannot thank them enough for what they have done for us.”

By taking part in the Marathon, you too are helping patients like Riley. Your donations can help fund new equipment, update wards and enable important medical research projects to be undertaken. Thank you so much.

Christmas Run

I approached Christmas with a new trepidation last year. I wasn’t concerned about Santa Claus leaving me no presents for my numerous misdeeds. I wasn’t concerned about getting the Norovirous (although some of my relations were struck down by this malicious disease). No, what worried me was the knowledge that I couldn’t let my marathon training slip and slide down into the abyss as I gorged myself on turkey, roast potatoes and Christmas pudding whilst swilling gallons of beer, wine and port.

Not only would I have to cut down my usual festive orgy of consumption… I’d also have to go for a run or two!

So I packed my new running trainers in the car and we all headed westwards for Wales and Christmas in the Brecon Beacons.

My parents (sorry Santa Claus!) were very generous and provided me with swish new running gear – luminous shirts, ankle length lycra and more trendy running socks. No more running in old t-shirts and knackered shorts for me. I now looked every inch the professional runner (well apart from… the mild hangover – I couldn’t resist. It’s Christmas for God’s sake!).

Thusly attired, I strode out into the Welsh drizzle with my trusty Irish Wolfhound Gilhoolie for a Christmas run. Surely, I thought, if things get bad my gigantic dog can at least drag me home.

Off we went, Gilly tugging at the lead as we jogged past bewildered sheep and pausing suspiciously at a cattle grid. Before long we were running alongside the old railway line towards the village of Hirwaun.

Mud splashed up and slapped me in the face. My new running shoes plunged into puddles deepened by incessant downpours and proved themselves to be thoroughly non-waterproof. At least the rain started to ease.

Before long I’d reached the village and turned back for home, filthy but going strong. The same could only be half said for Gilhoolie. The dog was completely filthy but utterly exhausted before we were even halfway back. The last mile we walked to save his strength.

He barely noticed the sheep on the way back and, after a hose-down, lay by the fire all day like a furry mattress, bothering no one and scarcely expressing his usual interest in stealing any morsel of food at table-height. It was not long before my parents were advocating I take Gilhoolie on more of my runs!

Charlotte Fairbairn - Runner

Just so you lovely readers are aware, Charlotte Fairbairn is also running the Brighton Marathon. It is unlikely we will see much of her on the day itself as she is an Atalanta to our Aesop (in that she can run really well and we can write short bits of writing) but we will be with her in spirit as we hope she will be with us.

Charlotte has officially completed three marathons, six half marathons and 'countless' five and 10kms.
She was part of Run to the Beat 2011 Half Marathon, raising around £1,500 for Leukaemia and Lymphoma.
She ran 100 Miles in 30 Days that year as well for the NSPCC, raising around £4,000.

And this year, the Brighton Marathon is merely the beginning for Charlotte (Pheidippides) Fairbairn. She's fundraising for Challenge African by going up Kilimanjaro in August and is doing the Amsterdam Marathon in October.

WE ARE NOT WORTHY!!

I am Runner

Here I am about to head out for a run. Armed with new snazzy trainers, new snazzy socks, ancient beach shorts, charity t-shirt and a bobble hat I cut quite the fine figure. Surely this is the image that immediately springs to people’s mind when they hear the words ‘Marathon Runner’.

After taking this photo, Clio and I went out and ran for 40 minutes. By the end, I was breathing heavily, my shins ached (not shin splints though; apparently I’d know if it was shin splints!) and the arches of my feet were complaining furiously. As we ate pasta and played Scrabble I realised, something had to be done!