Sugar Britches

Over the summer, one of my dearest friends introduced me to an activity called hashing. I believe the phrase he originally used was, “Do you want to come to a hash tonight?” My mind ever in the gutter, I assumed it was something involving drugs. Well, not quite– although the use of mind-altering liquids is not only encouraged, it’s enforced.

This activity has been around since World War II, so it’s nothing new, although most people have never heard of it. Basically it consists of one or two people (”hares”) laying a trail through the woods (or, as often in our case, urban jungle) and everyone else following the trail, with the intention of either catching the hares, or simply making it to the end with life and limb intact. Oh, and everybody gets a sexually suggestive or embarrassing hash name, which is bestowed upon them after saying or doing something particularly memorable while on trail. At the end, to reward the pack’s efforts, there is the drinking of beer and the singing of lewd songs.

Hashing appealed to me for a whole lot of reasons. I’m a runner, but a bad one. I need motivation to move my legs, so running with a group is ideal. I also hate treadmills and I generally hate running on asphalt, so being outside AND off-road is great. (It reminds me of when I was little and used to run through the woods behind my parents’ backyard. Of course, back then I was doing it barefoot, but now I’m all grown up and kind of a wimp, so I wear shoes.) Add beer to this, and I’m there. Running a hash does involve an exchange of currency, but it’s usually very cheap. Being unemployed, I’m always down for an inexpensive way to get a buzz.

Hashing in Atlanta is interesting. It’s amazing how you don’t have to drive very far to end up in the sho’ nuff middle of nowhere. Run faster, I hear banjos. I’ve waded through waist-deep swamp water (which is how I got my hash name, incidentally), jumped through sticker bushes that make razor-wire look soft and cuddly, climbed fences, been attacked by hornets, and almost shot by hillbillies. Well, I made that last one up, but it could conceivably happen.

At the end of a trail, individuals are called out and required to drink a beer, based on things they may have done while on trail, or… really just for any arbitrary reason. In fact, I may be called out just for writing this blog. Oops. Anyway, are you going to refuse a chance to drink a beer? I thought not. The more egregious the offense, the more… shall we say, creative, is the drinking. For example, while hashing in Boston, I witnessed a woman drink a beer out of her shoe, after the beer was filtered through her sock. One of my favorite Atlanta hashes involves an ice block, and if you’re called out, you must remain sitting on the ice block until your beer is finished.

So, it’s really a wonder why I can’t get any of my friends to come hashing with me.