When I told my parents that I was going on a Hash run, they got all excited and tried to chip in $50. Then I had to explain that a Hash run involves following a chalk trail around a course through the city, stopping at some point to drink a hidden stash of beer and then ending up at a bar for more beer. Unlike the questionable “special pineapple” drink that I once ordered at a juice stand in India (which precipitated an earnest, five-hour conversation on the meaning of life), there is definitely no actual hash involved in a Hash run.
    For this Hash run, I show up at the localtavern, where members of the Boston Hash House Harriers (H3) congregate pre-run. I lament the absence of roommate Scott, who had previously agreed to participate. But just as I’m getting into a groove muttering denigrating remarks about Scott’s lineage under my breath, he shows up. This is good, as there are now two of us with no idea what we’re doing.
    Before setting off, everyone forms a circle and introduces themselves. We virgin Hashers just give our names, but everyone else has a creative “Hash name.” After you run a few times, the group gives you a name, throwing out possibilities until they settle on something you really seem to hate (so I guess a good strategy would be to act as if you love the worst names they come up with).
After allowing the hare (the guy setting the trail) to get far enough ahead, we begin the chase and find the first arrow. Instead of looking for more arrows, Scott and I play it safe and follow some people who seem to know what they’re doing. But I start to think that maybe we should take a more proactive approach when one woman begins walking up a Route 93 exit ramp looking for the trail. “Don’t run down the Central Artery at night” is one of my personal health credos, but luckily we soon bumble into another group that has cell-phoned ahead and discovered that the ultimate destination is the Hong Kong in Faneuil Hall. We blow off the rest of the trail (including the beer check) and run straight there.
    At the Hong Kong, everyone quickly gets on with the business at hand: initiating the virgins. Having once funneled a concoction of Natural Light, Spam and mayonnaise as part of my rugby initiation in college, I feel prepared for whatever they’ve got in store. As it turns out, the virgin hazing is surprisingly benign. You get on your knees in the middle of a circle of Hashers, answer a few questions involving barnyard animals and chug a beer. Scott and I acquit ourselves well, bested in the chugging competition only by a human gullet named Isaac.
    After the initiation, we mingle and continue to dispatch pitchers of Coors Light. At some point, the money everyone pooled (in this case, $5) runs out and people begin buying their own drinks. Scott, although fighting off a nasty cold, ups the ante by ordering that Hong Kong specialty and guaranteed nail-in-the-coffin, the Scorpion Bowl (also known as The Bad Idea Bowl and the You Don’t Really Need This Right Now Bowl).
    Post-Scorpion Bowl, I talk about running with a woman who reveals that she is both older than my mother and can outrun me, as she does a 10K race in 42 minutes. My math-challenged brain works that out to eight-minute-miles, which I find quite impressive. I find it even more impressive when she tells me that it’s actually sub-seven minute miles. She then begins rattling off running statistics designed to underscore the fact that I am pathetic. They basically follow a “Can you run (insert long distance) in (insert short time)?” format. Eventually I get sick of this and shoot back, “Well, can you bench-press 250 pounds?” which shuts her up. I then quickly walk away before the discussion turns to whether I can bench-press 250 pounds.
    I’m not sure what time Scott and I leave the Hong Kong, but I am sure that we have both fully subscribed to the Hash House Harriers’ self-definition as a “drinking club with a running problem.” We end up going home after discovering that, despite the awesome powers of persuasion imbued by Scorpion Bowls, the bouncers at Pravda really prefer that you have some pants on.
I’m keen to Hash again, if only to see what they name me. Here’s a hint, Hashers: I absolutely love when people call me “Better Than.” *