Confessions of a Serial Hasher, Part I
OK, first up this will be a short missive. Why?
1) I am seriously sleep-deprived. This is not a City for the faint hearted. It does however enjoy a plethora of Guinness emporiums, many of which serve their patrons dutifully 24/ 7
2) I can't remember much about the weekend
3) This keyboard is dominated by Chinese Characters and I'm going dizzy trying to pick out the English letters
Hash the First
Saturday 12 March
Distance: 6 Miles (appx)
Duration: 1:10
Conditions: Wet, cold, windy (not what I signed up for)
I arrived in Hong Kong via Qantas at 08:50 Saturday having re-visited the excellent
Sideways and a few hours of contorted snoozing in Sardine Class. Slipped easily into the former colony via the fabulous express train to HK Central and on to my hotel. Quick check-in, bags flung into the corner and off to find The Kangaroo DownUnder, the Antipodian hostelry hosting the Hong Kong Nash Hash weekend - The Forbidden Hash.
Hashing, for those not familiar, is a traditional form of gathering for exPats in all corners of the world. Hashers describe themselves, accurately, as dedicated drinkers with a serious running problem. A Hash is a (barely) organised gathering of runners (of all standards) at a pre-designated meeting point in the middle of nowhere. One or several 'Hares' visit previously to lay a trail, marked by flour, chalk or paper signs, that eventually lead to a common finishing point, where a series of derogatory announcements are accompanied by mass consumption of beer.
The Forbidden Hash is a weekend hash - 3 runs, Friday, Saturday and Sunday - so named because when the local committee heard that the 5 Hash Houses (regional running clubs) in HK were merging for this one-off celebration to mark 35 years of the activity in the region, they pronounced the event 'Forbidden'. In the true spirit of Hashing this became the formal title of the meet.
Saturday's Hash involved around 70 runners. I had intended to sign up for Sunday's run only, but when I saw the mixed bag of human flotsam gathering excitedly in the pub, the nostril sting of Ralgex mingling with the soothing balm of the first pints of the day, I signed up for both days & dashed back to my digs to grab my gear. We boarded three ancient coaches and set off for The Peak, the mountain (or at least very large hill) that rises majestically over Wanchai, HK Central and Aberdeen.
The journey may have taken 5 minutes, it may have taken 5 hours, as I briefly left the group of Wanchai Hashers I'd boarded with for the Land of Nod. On arrival I awoke to find the group exiting into a jungle clearing, shrouded in mist and pelted with freezing rain. The 'mist' turned out to be cloud, and the jungle, err, jungle. A couple in their late 40's suggested I go on the intermediate (or Rambo) run, expected to last just over an hour. There were three trails: Wimps (45 minutes), Rambo (60 minutes) and Super Rambo (2 hours). I took the advice, especially when our hare, a charming Australian known as Bog Brush, announced that his trail was 'mostly' downhill.
I must invest in a dictionary for my new friend Bog Brush and point out the definition of 'Mostly' and 'Downhill'.
After a brief descent on a concrete path the trail veered sharply into dense foliage and up a range of back-breaking, moss-covered stone steps. Brushing through giant Banana Palms and dodging serpentine rainforest tree roots, we sped on. I soon realised that each group would sub-divide into the racers and the meanderers. I set off with the former, keen to make an impression on my new found friends. We reached a clearing where sat a large flour circle. This it turns out is one of many 'checking points' on the trail. Hares leave a 100 metre 'gap' in the trail, inviting the breathless chasers to seek the re-start of the markings. This always occurs at a crossroads, and we now faced at least four possible routes.
'Checking!' yelled a large Fijian man to my left, later introduced as 'Spiderman'.
I dashed off down the closest path, eager yet uncertain as to the procedure.
'ARE YOU???' came a yell from behind. Hmm, am I what? I thought, confused and disappointed at the lack of fresh trail.
'ON ON!!!' came a high-pitched yelp to my right, and the few who had (foolishly) followed me immediately doubled back, cheerfully echoing the call.
'ON ON!!' They bellowed, crashing through ferns and brush, sending plumes of rain/mist into the air. OK, now I get it.
On we raced, and finally the trail began a more general descent. I regained the front of the group, picking up the trail.
'ON ON!!' I yelled, my pace increasing to match my enthusiasm despite the narrow, perilous nature of the slippery, rock-strewn paths.
I crashed through leaves and branches, one eye seeking piles of flour coagulating in the persistent rain, the other on alert for potholes, rocks and anything resembling a snake.
After 15 minutes calling 'Trail!' and 'On On!' at regular intervals the baying pack behind me began to sound a little ... distant. I came to a clearing, then a crash barrier and a substantial road. The markings indicated we should cross, and I set off, glancing back to spot my companions, without success. I was just entertaining the first doubts - was this
our trail, or perhaps a previous Hash? Where the hell am I? What happens if no-one follows me and I end up lost in the jungle halfway up a mountain in a country I'd known for a total of 5 hours? when a saviour appeared.
Saviours come in all shapes and sizes. This one was rotund, clad in a sweat and rain doused red Tshirt and carried a rusty bugle.
'Hello mate' came the dulcet tones of a fellow Londoner.
'Trail's a bit washed out, so carry on up the hill 'till you reach the village, turn right through the houses and bear right again across the bridge. The big green awning says you're home'.
I grinned my thanks and pushed on up the road. The rain-mist, heavier now without the shelter of the forest, refreshed me and I picked up the pace. My regularly errant hamstring, up to now a happily silent partner, murmured and mumbled. I eased off, focused on not missing the turning.
Finally I was 'on in' under a mottley canopy adjacent to a ramshackle beer pit, cold beer in hand, steam rising from my sodden shirt. Runners from all three trails appeared (the Super Rambos had set off a while before us), and the excited chatter of endorphin junkies filled the air.
