By Matt Kite
Trail Runner Magazine

It’s all about getting shiggy. And maybe a little tipsy. OK, for some, maybe even rip-roaring, face-down-in-the-gutter drunk. When Hash House Harriers get together, they eschew the finer things in life and focus on the trail in front of them—a trail that inevitably leads to something foamy.

“We see ourselves as a drinking club with a running problem,” says Bill Picatti of Seattle, echoing the mantra of Hashers around the world.

Shiggy is British slang for mud. If you’re afraid of getting dirty, Hashing isn’t for you. Sure, there’s the mud under your soles and the sweat on your brow. But the dirt we’re talking about also covers filthy nicknames, raunchy cross-dressing and raucous beer drinking.

“We have what’s called the ‘piss up,'” Picatti says. “It’s British for getting drunk.”

All the British terminology doesn’t make Hashers any more dignified, but it does go a long way toward explaining their exotic origins. Hashing has roots in the traditional European hunt, but in places where hares and hounds were scarce, humans were often substituted. A runner designated as the hare would run cross-country, leaving a trail of shredded paper for the human “hounds” to follow. The English term “harrier” means cross-country runner.

Hash, of course, is minced meat and potatoes – the hardy but dull fare served up by the Selangor Club Chambers to British expatriates living in present-day Malaysia. In 1938, one patron of the “Hash House,” Albert Stephen Ignatius Gispert, gathered together a group who shared his love of the paper chase, thus giving birth to a sport often described as a cross between a running race, an Easter egg hunt and a frat party

A half-century later, American Hashers use flour instead of paper. And what began as an obscure British rite in the jungles surrounding Kuala Lumpur has evolved into a worldwide phenomenon. Depending on whom you talk to, there are more than 1,400 active chapters in 160 countries and about 300 in the U.S. There is no central organization or list of rules—just a loose coalition of like-minded runners.

“We attract people from all different walks of life,” says Mike Lawless, a San Diego Hash House Harrier. “We just had a Catholic Priest show up yesterday. We named him ‘Altered Boy.’ He took it in stride.”

When new members are welcomed to a club, they are given a Hashname. Lawless, whose job sometimes entails landscaping, was tagged with “Bush Trimmer.” And Oahu’s Celeste Rogers earned “Thighmaster” in typical Hashing fashion. The name, a somewhat convoluted double entendre, refers to her muscular legs and her likeness to a certain blonde bombshell who patented the Thighmaster exercise device.

“I’m tall and blonde,” Rogers says, “and I wear my hair in a topknot ponytail like Suzanne Sommers. So it all fit.”

Likewise, the chapter names are sometimes crass, and always creative. In Texas, On the Rag Hash House Harriers meets once a month in or around Dallas-Fort Worth. In New York City, the Greater Gotham Full Moon group plans its runs around the lunar calendar. And in Washington State, local chapters include No Balls, a women-only group, and Cracked Moon, which runs at a nudist colony near Spokane. The latter’s logo proudly displays a photo of … well … it’s not the sky’s moon.

Irreverent. Politically incorrect. Hashers revel in everything ribald. They boast their own vocabulary, some of which is even printable. Men are “wankers,” and women are “bimbos.” The person that marks the often tricky trail is a “Hare” and everyone who follows it a “Hound.” The “Down-Down” is a ceremony where a Hasher drinks from a revered mug, accompanied by the local club drinking song. Traditions and rituals are presided over by each chapter’s “Religious Adviser.”

“You don’t have to drink beer,” says Picatti, a 44-year-old engineer. “But it is kind of a common theme. If you’re given a ‘Down-Down’ and you don’t drink beer, you can chug whatever beverage you want.”

It’s difficult to imagine a bunch of mud-covered runners quaffing clear soda, but Picatti maintains that some do. Some chapters have microbrew sponsors while others—gasp—party alcohol-free. And Picatti, a 3:14 marathoner, insists that anyone can be a Hasher—and the less competitive the better.

“It’s easier to convert a beer drinker into a Hasher than a competitive runner into a Hasher,” he says. “A beer drinker can eventually jog along with us, and they never have to give up their beer drinking.”

Hashers tend to be vocal on the trail and, between telling dirty jokes and singing expletive-filled songs, they live and die by their rallying cry: “On, on!” Whether that’s enthusiasm for the chase or simply anticipation for the post-run party, nobody much cares. When the chase is over, it’s off to the beer truck, brewpub or pizza joint, where they sing songs, hand out awards and plan their next Hashes.

In Hawaii, Hashers orchestrate the “Mother’s Day Muu Muu Run,” where everybody wears traditional women’s garb. Last June, Lawless organized the 11th annual Red Dress Run in San Diego. More than 600 men and women donned red dresses and pounded the downtown pavement, stopping at a transvestite club for a few drinks before finishing up at a dance hall. In Alaska, meanwhile, Hashers encounter more than mud, beer and sub-freezing temperatures.

“A few months back our Religious Advisor was stomped by a moose,” says Roger Loesch of Anchorage. “He happened to be running down a trail and didn’t notice that he had came between Mama moose and Baby moose, so she got upset and came out of nowhere and proceeded to do a little dance on top of him.” In true Hasher form, he finished his run and beer before checking into the hospital, where he was treated for minor scrapes and bruises.

Raging moose, men in dresses—Hashing has changed, without losing its raison d’être.

“The intent was to get people to go out together in a noncompetitive environment, to develop a thirst and satisfy it with beer,” says Ian Cumming, a New Yorker via England who, in the early 60’s, co-founded a Hashing group in Singapore and thus began the dissemination of Hashing worldwide. (Cumming’s group is believed to be the third Hashing group formed, following a group in Milan, Italy.)

In the end, it comes down to community. Hashing is more than the mud and the drinking and the steady stream of four-letter words. It’s a way for people, united by their unconventional sport, to connect in their hometown and abroad.

“You don’t have to be a world-class runner to participate,” says Jeff Lowman, a 33-year-old student teacher at Western Washington University who discovered Hashing while teaching English in Thailand. “You just have to be good-humored and ready to have a good time. Overseas, a lot of it is about a sense of community and making friends. There are plenty of shady people hanging out in bars and such, but those that will run 8 to 10 kilometers through the jungle are of better character.”