Kristi L. Gustafson
Albany Times Union
Jul. 13, 2004 12:00 AM
ALBANY, N.Y. - With his face tipped toward the sun, Tom "Francis" Wagner funnels plain M&Ms into his mouth. Opening his hand, he plucks a few remaining candies off his palm with his tongue, making sure his towering, foam-topped-beer-mug-shaped hat doesn't fall to the ground. He shoves his hand into a wholesale-size bag of peanuts, shells and eats them, then washes it all down with a can of Coors Light. He shuffles in place on the pavement just behind Van Schaick Country Club in Cohoes, N.Y. Wagner, 39, is preparing for a five-kilometer run, better known as a "hash" - a scavenger hunt-like dash that's more about beer than running. There will be more beer and more food at the finish, with plenty of beer-in-hand drinking along the way. It's no wonder these Hashers call themselves "a drinking club with a running problem."
If it's a particularly long run, there are scheduled beer breaks mid-race - at a bar, or around a prepositioned cooler.
"There's nothing healthy about hashing," says Paul Hauschen, a 47-year-old hasher. "Except for the camaraderie."
That camaraderie began in 1938 with a group of expatriate British businessmen working in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, and looking for entertainment. That first hash included about a dozen runners. Today the international organization is the largest running club in the world. Their goal: to be the first to reach the beer at the end. But really, everyone wins, Hauschen says, because there's always enough beer to go around.
Much of what went on then continues today. The Halve Mein Hash House
Harriers, based in Halfmoon, N.Y., gather at the full moon, once every four weeks or so, at various sites in the Albany, N.Y., area to socialize, get a workout and, most importantly, drink beer.
Chris Hatter, the hare for today's run, took off 15 minutes earlier to lay the "scent," a practice based on the English schoolboy game of Hares and Hounds where one or two members get several minutes head start to drop shredded paper for the others to follow.
The 44-year-old uses chalk today, instead of flour, because it looks like rain. Hashers who catch the hare reap the reward: dumping the unused "scent" over the hare's head, says Hatter, otherwise known by his race name Dirtbag.
Fellow hashers bestow off-color nicknames on newbies after they've successfully completed five hashes. Touchdown Jesus, Pop Top, Wax-On Wax-Off and Sperm Bank are some of the tamer ones - all derived from prodding the "victim" with intimate questions in an effort to create a suitably trashy title.
Ten hashers join Wagner as he warms up. They bend over, touch their toes, twist at the waist and stretch up, up, up one hand at a time, keeping the other free for fueling.
Meghann Hennigan, 25, runs with the hashers and on her own. At least half the hashers are regular runners. A few have even taken on a marathon or two.
"Hashing is much more fun," Hennigan says. "When else is beer encouraged before, even during, running?"
Her boyfriend and fellow hasher, Jake Cohen, also 25, starts the 10-second countdown. 3 ... 2 ... 1.
The hashers take off, following the scent, in hot pursuit of Hatter.
They reach the first trail marking. One, two, three people scatter in opposite directions looking for a "true trail." To the right proves false. Same with the left. Straight ahead it is.
"On, on," one yells.
They weave through the streets of Cohoes, N.Y. Cross through a few back yards and elicit more than a handful of stares. One makes a pit stop behind the Moose Lodge.
"That's what all this beer does to you," he says.
Rounding the bend, they see the scent on the banks of an inlet to the Mohawk River. One by one they cross. The rocks are slippery. The water rushing. They hold on to one another for support. If one goes down, all go down. They don't care. They're beer-fortified and brave.
They step out of the chilly water. No accidents. No time for chatting.
They must run - not race - on. Race is a dirty word. It denotes competition.
They aren't about competition. They're about beer.
Moments later they gather on the corner across from a Mobil gas station and a hair salon. A customer stands on the corner with foils and dye on her head. The hashers try to take her picture. She turns her back and returns to her cigarette and cellphone.
"Wahoo, that was scary," says Dan Pollay, 34.
"Hey, she could have joined us," jokes Wagner.
They pass a church that has a statue of the Virgin Mary. The hashers find this funny because Cohen's brother, 29-year-old David, runs with them for the first time today. "Now you're not the only virgin," Pollay hoots.
Passing the gates of the church, they cross the rectory grounds and charge toward a BN scrawled in the ground. "Beer near" echoes down the line, and the pack follows the scent through the woods, stomping on prickers and underbrush and ducking low branches.
The inducted Cohen brother arrives first, making him the "Front Running Bastard," hash speak for first place. Songs salute him. He gets first dibs on the beer. Eats chips and salsa and declares, "Hashing is the good life."