Hashing it out
Rick “Tapeworm” Lithgow climbs through “shiggy,” or portions of trail with nettle weeds, poison ivy, thorns and other natural obstacles.
Tim “Spermit” Minard, of Mt. Lebanon, jams before a hash.
Runners taking a short break before tackling the hill, beer in hand.
Bottoms up!
Alison “Lips of Steel” Hadden, of Murrysville, leads her dogs through the four-mile route.
The end of the run brings beer, water and cold cuts.
Rick “Tapeworm” Lithgow showed up to the hash meet at Patrick’s Pub in Connellsville wearing squeaky-clean, white tennis shoes, and the laughs and taunts signaled he would soon pay his dues – he had broken a central rule of the club. The group is a local kennel of the international organization known as the Hash House Harriers, which will celebrate its 78th anniversary in September since forming in Kuala Lumpur in 1938.
Rick’s nickname is a tradition of hashing: that all people are equal. Nicknames do away with title, rank and formal identity, much like the intentions of the British military and ex-pats who first organized in Malaysia.
The social group embarks on non-competitive running trails led by a “hare,” as some lead to dead-ends or beer – and it’s all in the custom started by running on Sundays to kick hangovers. Along the route, bartenders would hold out beer to cheer on and encourage the runners. A tradition was born, and soon spread across the world as most cities have a local kennel.
But how did Lithgow, of Washington, get a nickname like Tapeworm? Most nicknames serve as innocuous puns, or as a commentary on a person’s behavior while out on a hash. For Rick, a tech security engineer, rolls of tape in his car helped him repair another hasher’s running gear while on trail. And thus, he was named.
Some people don’t get ceremonially named for up to a year or more, and even then it might be inspiration for a nickname. “Next Tweak” was anointed because the group kept saying, “We’ll name you next week,” and “Narco Polo” makes fun of an anonymous runner’s bouts of narcolepsy. But most nicknames lean heavily on sexual innuendo and aren’t fit for print. Rick’s wife, Jen, has such a nickname. But if not for the ready-made icebreaker of “How’d you get your hash name?” the club wouldn’t be such a popular place to meet romantic partners. The nicknames aren’t the only things that are dirty on the trail. A July hash in Connellsville was one rife with “shiggy,” or a trail laid through brush, nettle weed, thorns and even creeks and mud. And everyone gets muddy – everyone from homeless people to PhD-holding professors.
“One of the best things about hash is that it really is a diverse collection of people. It’s not a bad way to network. You get to know people really well that you would never otherwise cross paths with,” says Jen Lithgow.
Crossing paths is something you hope for in hashing, as even trudging mall walkers are encouraged to get out. The trails are laid with chalk, flour or ribbons and intentionally leave branching paths and serpentine trails through urban and green environments so everyone can catch up at a beer or food stop.
Echoes of “Beer here!” will often sound off ahead. Hashers running behind yell, “Are you!?” hoping for a response of “On! On!” in the distance, signaling the runner is near a check mark of a true trail. And thus a swath of 20 to 50 slang-speaking people canvass a three- to five-mile area led by the “hare,” or host, who lives nearby and gives one of the most scenic and unique neighborhood tours one could hope to pay for. All it costs is five bucks to offset the price of the hosts’ beer they’ve laid out on the trail. Tapeworm was a hare during the Whiskey Rebellion Festival two years ago.
“It was one of our stops since it’s our neighborhood,” says the former smoker who’s been running hash since 2007.
“Anyone can do this. You don’t have to be a runner. We’re boisterous, we’re loud; it’s a gregarious group of people. We have serious runners who come out and shufflers who are just here for beer. And we have people who are going through Alcoholics Anonymous and don’t drink at all. It’s just an eclectic group of people who enjoy both good and bad jokes, good and bad beer,” he says.
If Tapeworm – or anyone – lays what the group deems a torturous trail, the hare gets “iced,” or sits on a bag of frozen cubes during circle. The circle is the decompression portion of the run – an airing of grievances, where rugby-style songs are sung to taunt and tease those who have behaved badly. And what about Rick wearing white, brand-new shoes on a run? His punishment was to pour a beer into his freshly soggy and muddy shoes and drink its contents. He put the soles skyward, chugged the beer mixture and tipped the vessel over his head to prove he didn’t feign drinking from a shoe. Tapeworm didn’t flinch.
“No one ever makes you do anything you don’t want to do. And that’s why this group is amazing. I’ve met so many great people. I met my wife six years ago on hash,” says the father of two.
The drinking club with a running problem may be too decidedly “adult” for some prospective hashers, but the experience is something a person will never forget. It’s just a question if you’ll come back enough times to get named.