The Fantastic Tale of the Front Running Bastard

I think we all can agree that humans are social creatures. We congregate together in all facets of society. People with similar persuasions, whether it be political, religious, or simply shared hobbies, tend to live in proximity to one another. That’s why we have hippies and beer lovers in the northwest. I mean, where else can you go in the States for such a uniform ubiquity of white people proclaiming their tolerance of all types of people??!! Or the bible belt, which proudly dismisses all the heathens who don’t subscribe to their particular brand of dogmatic vindications. Yet, almost all Americans have a strange affinity for competition, especially in sports. Team sports are encouraged in our society from a young age. Some people thrive with that encouragement. The want to be eating, breathing, and sleeping their particular game. There are a select few who do well enough to be able to play a game for a living, and make more money than a small country while doing it. Others will try, but peter our early in their respective careers. Those people then remove their shirts, get drunk and paint their bodies in an overzealous display of machismo and team spirit.

I have never been one to put much energy into a particular sports team. Oh, I tried. Believe me, when I used to play basketball for absurd amount of time during my early to mid teens, I tried to force myself to get all worked up over a game. But in the end, I didn’t really give a shit either way if my team won or lost. It was just that: a game. That sentiment carried me through college, and remains a steadfast opinion that I revert to whenever somebody begins to tell me the merits of a full court press during the second half with a 10 point lead. And yet, in the ultimate irony of the day, I love being active and athletic. I run quite regularly here. That was an interest that began in late high school. I prefer the individual experience that running promotes. That’s why when I’m at home, I like to run late at night. Nobody is around, so I can just get into this Zen-like state of awareness, where my mind wanders, and I just…go.

Yet, there is something to be said about doing things in groups. Even running. So there it is, I like to run. I like to run by myself. But until recently, that’s all I’ve really known. There is an organization, and the history is a little shaky in my feeble brain, so I’ll just graze over it. The Hash House Harriers have chapters operating on all seven continents, all over the world. Portland has at least 4 that I was able to locate online. The “Hashers” as they describe themselves, are a non-competitive running group that get together to blaze a trail throughout whatever terrain they’re in, and drink beer and socialize afterwards. A less flattering description, the hashers are a self-described “drinking group with a running problem.” Here’s how it works. One person goes out before the others and sets a trail. This person is called “the hare”. The trail can go anywhere and everywhere. Total distance is usually around 4 miles, but the route is plagued with multiple junctions and false leads. Hashers could be led through businesses, creeks, storm drains, abandoned factories…literally anywhere the hare decides. The only rule is that you must have a sense of humor. This isn’t a race to get to the finish first, but to simply REACH the finish. Sound enticing?? I thought so too. And wouldn’t you know, there’s a chapter operating right here in Guyana!!!

Last weekend, I got to experience my very first Hash! The hare had laid a trail that started out in the southwestern area of Linden, and continued on out into the small villages lining the river. Small markers are placed at various points along the trail to indicate the way. One marker means you’re on the right track. Two indicates a junction, so you need to send out people in each direction to find the actual route. Three indicates a false lead, so you’d better turn around and head back. There were about thirty of us last weekend, and I found myself up in the front of the group. Apparently, not many people are as avid of runners as your humble narrator. I heard about this event and group through my friend Allen. He’s a response volunteer who has already served two years in Africa, and is doing a short term program in Guyana. He works at one of the special needs schools here teaching sign language. Allen himself is deaf, and has a pretty fantastic sense of humor. Each Hasher, once they’ve accomplished a certain number of runs, gets a nickname. The catch is, you don’t pick your own name. The group throws out words that might describe you, and they collectively decide what you’ll be known as in the hashing community. Allen’s name is Deaf Lesbian. Remember: the only rule is to have a sense of humor. Allen has been Hashing for 11 years, and embraces his nickname with reckless abandon. He had a special necklace made in Africa with beads woven into it that proudly displays his title. Back to the run…about halfway through, I paused at a junction so that others could catch up and we could explore different routes simultaneously. Deaf Lesbian comes trundling up, and looks at me, proclaiming “F.R.B!!!” I thought he said ‘F.O.B.’ which I suppose would have been somewhat appropriate. The age-old acronym for Fresh Off Boat usually referred to anyone who was just getting into something for the first time. I was corrected by another runner, a member of the Foreign Service and veteran hasher who has been hashing for 23 years in as many countries. He informed me that F.R.B. is hasher lingo for “Front Running Bastard!!” Apparently, I was in a league of my own out there!

As we came back to the starting point, I accepted my award, and proceeded to drink an ice cold beer. Needless to say, it was an enjoyable experience, and I look forward to having some type of regular social activity on the weekends again. Because let’s face it, people are social. And sometimes, even if you like doing things a certain way, it’s good to try something new. I may have found a new hobby…