The Daily Cardinal's Les Chappell spent an afternoon with the Madison Hash House Harriers and shares his experiences with these quirky, thirsty runners.
As we pulled into the Top O'The Swamp tavern, just off of Highway 113, I questioned my sanity for scheduling this. It was a cloudless Saturday afternoon with ankle-deep snow and negative temperatures—cold enough to stop people from jumping in a frozen lake for charity—and here I was about to go on a jog looking for beer.
I was joining a run of the Madison Hash House Harriers, a weekly running group that described themselves as a drinking group with a running problem.\ The essential theme of the Hash, according to my contacts Slow Hand Dick and Nut Farmer—all Hashers bear obscene nicknames earned over their careers—is a casual run along a set path in and out of civilization, with a celebration of alcohol at the end.
3:35: No later than five minutes after arriving at the bar, we were warmly greeted by the first crowd of Hashers, identifiable by some blue jackets and sweatshirts bearing the Hash symbol: two bare feet labeled ""On-On."" These jackets weren't the norm, however, and no dress code was enforced.
One Hasher by the name of Colonel Mustard sported a full-body blaze-orange jacket with a ""Don't Shoot"" label on the back, while another known as Beer Nuts wore long johns covered in Guinness symbols and at least two Hashers sported fish-shaped hats that looked like stuffed animals were possessing their skulls.
3:45: The group (at least 25 strong) headed out to the parking lot where the week's trail-setter Road Beater, also known as the hare, explained the key markers of the Hash despite being insulted by Beer Nuts and a few others.
The markers were laid out in the snow with a mix of carpenter's chalk and sawdust, giving directions to each of the Hashers. A dot or dash means runners are on the right track, while an ‘X' means the trail has ended and a new path must be found. An X with a circle around it means we hit a false trail and need to turn around, while ‘BC' is the most important of the markers—signaling the location of a beer check.
3:50: The run began as we were pointed in the right direction, jogging down Highway 113. Things seemed to start out easy enough—my fellow runners, Colonel Mustard's garish outfit leading the way, headed up the hill and across the freeway, only to double back into the suburbs at the sign of a false trail.
According to Nut Farmer, it's typical to let a faster group of two people lead the trek, since most hares like to sidetrack the group with false leads far away from the check points.
The leaders shouted out phrases like ""on on"" as they followed the dashes, and ""checkpoint"" whenever they located the X's.
4:10: We moved in a steady path and passed about three checkpoints, leading us deep into a suburban neighborhood—passing houses and cutting behind a school—where anyone looking out their window would have had quite a sight. The route was nothing major, consisting largely of flat roads and few hills, but we'd covered several blocks and I'd started to run short of breath.
The cold was also getting to me, but Slow Hand Dick assured me that for Hash weather this was nothing serious. He recalled one run where it was 10 degrees below zero and they had to deal winds of 30 miles per hour, running ""with the wind, and then against the wind and back.""
4:15: Road Beater decided to get clever in establishing the trail and led us in a circle, six blocks into a neighborhood and then right back out. Some of us started to slow down and chat idly, but when the minute shouts of ""on-on"" came up or a red dash was seen we quickly picked up the pace.
At one point, I came up to an old sofa on the curb waiting to be carted away, and two Hashers—Half-Assed Monkey Boy and Mouse Beater—were lounging on its snow-soaked cushions. Monkey Boy explained it's his job to bring up the rear of the run and point people in the right direction, though I doubted I'd listen to directions from anyone wearing a bright fish hat.
4:20: Just when we were all about to give up hope and I muttered curses under my gasping breath for being led around in another circle, cries of ""Beer check!"" came from right near Cherokee Marsh. A last burst of energy I didn't know I had surfaced, and my fellow stragglers and I forced ourselves into the clearing. A ""BC"" mark on the snow signaled a place to rest, as did a bag of Old Milwaukee making the rounds as the Hashers traded stories of their progress.
Mouse Beater said that while beer is the most common beverage at these checkpoints, it's not uncommon to mix it up a bit. Some of the colder runs have had bottles of schnapps or other hard liquor cooling in the ice, and one even had a ""mystery check"" with absinthe. I grimaced at the thought, as I was so out of breath drinking anything that wasn't beer sounded hurtful.
4:30: As the beers were emptied and collected in their original bag, we picked up the pace again and headed down a snow-covered trail into the swamp. Some of us got off to a rocky start—Beer Nuts dove to pull down someone's pants and hit the snow hard in response, got back up and tried the same trick (with the same results)—but we quickly got into the swing of things and hopped through the snow.
This type of Hash run, according to Road Beater, is known as ""shiggy""—going off the beaten path and into nature. Most runs have some form of shiggy incorporated into them to vary the pace, including woods and ravines and even swimming across lakes and rivers. I got the feeling that if it was summer, we'd be following the exact same path through ankle-deep algae.
One hasher by the name of Ah Shit said that during one Hash, a particularly sadistic Hare led the group into the fields behind a waste treatment plant—to the end result that everyone wound up in what I called ""waste deep in trouble."" Grinning as we both ran along, he said that very few of the first-time Hashers from that run ever came back again.
4:45: After a trek through the swamp—which consisted of leaping through piles of snow, running to keep up with the pack and taking ill-advised shortcuts off the path, we finally reached Highway 113 again.We'd run at least a mile, my lungs felt like someone packed them with dry ice and there seemed to be wet thick sandpaper on the inside of my boots.
In a similar manner to running a mile in high school, I somehow found the last urges of strength to barrel back into the parking lot gasping for breath, where I was greeted with cheers from the group. These last for only a short time, however, as everyone piled into cars to head to Road Beater's house for the festivities. Here, everyone caught their breath and enjoyed even more beer as a well-deserved reward.
4:55: Our caravan found its way back to Road Beater's house and shed our multiple layers of clothing and soaked shoes. We were greeted with a casual feast of chips and salsa, a salad and apple spice cake, two pots of potato and hamburger soup and—of course—two cases of Leinekugel's. Apparently the Hashers were right when they said the runs turn into a net calorie gain.
In this relaxed environment, the Hashers unwind and share stories about past runs, and I learn that today's was fairly average compared to some of the alternative runs. Every July the Hashers don red dresses and run through Warner Park prior to the Independence Day fireworks, and this June will mark the second annual ""running of the brides.""
""Some of the Hashers wanted the party of getting married, but not being married,"" a Hasher by the name of Woodrow Johnson said.
5:30: At this point, all the Hashers gathered in the kitchen for the award ceremonies of today's Hash. According to Slow Hand Dick—now decked out in a prayer shawl bearing ""on-on"" footprints—the award ceremony is designed to recognize all feats of strength and/or idiocy during the run.
Award winners head up to the front of the room with a beer, receive praise for their good work—being the Hare, pulling down pants or being absent next week—and chugs a beer to cries of ""down, down, down, down…"" The award winner throws the cup over their head to prove it's empty, and the group closes with a traditional chant: ""Hooray for the Hasher, hooray at last! Hooray for the Hasher, he's a horse's ass—Hey!""
I myself was the recipient of an award, after several members pointed out that I sounded exactly like a Hasher named Blow Fish. Blow Fish and I stood next to each other and faced the wall, and as the lights turned out proceeded to sing alternating lines of the Oscar Meyer song.
Finally, there was the induction ceremony, where my photographer and I were honored for attending our first Hash. While we won't get names unless we attend more than one run—for now I'm simply ""Just Les""—the crowd welcomed us so enthusiastically you couldn't tell the difference.
In the end, that's what comes out of a Hashing experience—an unbridled enthusiasm and camaraderie at each aspect of the run, be it running through swamps or drinking to frat house levels. Each run has something new and something frightening, and the only prerequisite is losing your inhibitions for a few hours.
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