Off the Beaten Track : A keen eye is the main requirement for the rigors of county Hash runs. For these trekkers, fitness comes second to friendliness.

By KEN McALPINE

June 30, 1994 12 AM PT

SPECIAL TO THE TIMES

The rocks are small, rounded, and plentiful. Most interesting, they are covered with a disquieting faded brown goo, giving the appearance of a cobblestone street after a long-ago parade involving many horses. This is disquieting because we are treading on these rocks, running actually, lurching through a culvert on the outskirts of Ojai.

“Gosh, this is strange colored rock,” says Colleen Bruns. “I wonder if it’s just sediment.”

This statement is couched as a question, but by the way Bruns delicately sidesteps the more sorely stained rocks, you can tell she’s not far from an answer. You don’t have to be a public works employee of the month to know that culverts can house questionable stuff, which is precisely why they’re the sort of places hashers seek out.

A true hasher views shiggy with relish--shiggy being a Hash term that refers to any liquid or solid that looks bad, smells worse and impedes forward progress. Sane people avoid such gleck; drastically reducing the chances of ruining their shoes, not to mention contracting boils, lesions and nausea.

But hashers are not sane. Fact is, we could have avoided the culvert entirely. Moments earlier, Bruns and I, along with several other members of the Ventura County Hash House Harriers, had arrived at a juncture. Etched by the roadside in white chalk were two words. One said “Eagle,” and was accompanied by an arrow pointing down into the culvert. The other said “Turkey.” That arrow pointed up the road on which we had been running. To the true adventurer the choice seemed obvious, though not everyone agreed. One suspicious hasher eyed the culvert with disgust.

“I’m not going that way,” he snorted. “God knows what’s down there.”

He may, but we don’t. Still, Bruns is a good sport about it.

“We do get off the beaten path,” she said, cheerily picking her way around the uglier splotches of goo.

To fathom such behavior it is important to understand the Hash House Harriers. The Hash, as it is known to its disciples, claims to be the largest running organization in the world, and given its members’ erratic habits and dispositions, only a fool would dispute them. According to the “World Hash Handbook and Directory,” there are close to 1,100 hash clubs worldwide, allowing for a sort of global hostel in which a hasher from Antarctica might drop in on a hasher from Jakarta, whereupon they might immediately procure a rubber chicken and go careening through the jungle.

THE HASH

The Hash has been called many things, often involving descriptive phrases that would flush the cheeks of a longshoreman. But the modus operandi of the Hash can be best grasped by perusing the group’s written rules. Penned, fittingly enough, 12 years after the Hash came into existence, the Hash charter gives requisite mention to fitness, then goes on to laud hashing’s regenerative powers, namely through “acquiring a good thirst and satisfying it in beer.”

This is not to say that swilling beer is part of every Hash run. Soda and water are usually offered, too. Teetotalers are not derided, possibly because it means more beer for the rest of the hashers.

The Hash dates back to times no one cares about, with things coalescing in 1938 when a gentleman named Albert Stephen Gispert, borrowing from the English children’s game hares and hounds, started what is largely recognized as the first Hash at a British outpost in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.

Gispert was described by friends as a “short, stout, rubicund fellow with a keen wit.” He was not described as an athlete. Unquestionably some hashers have been bona fide athletes and have accomplished much, among them Graham Douglas, who trekked the Himalayas numerous times without mishap, then suffered multiple fractures in his wrists and elbows when he fell through the roof of his home.

Truth is, though the Hash does involve bouts of jogging, athleticism is not a prerequisite for membership.

“You don’t have to be a fast runner, you don’t have to be a slow runner--we don’t care,” Ventura County Hash Grand Master John Eckhart told me shortly before the Ventura Hash set off on a run on a recent Sunday. “As a matter of fact, you don’t have to be in any physical shape at all.”

You do have to be observant. A Hash run proceeds as follows. Hashers follow a trail laid by members dubbed hares. The hares deposit droppings--paper, flour, chalk marks, foot powder--to mark the trail. They make the trail as confusing as possible. Trailing runners ardently pursue the trail in floor-of-the-stock-exchange fashion, blowing bugles, tooting whistles and shouting things like “On, on!” (meaning they are on the trail) or milling about and staring at the ground like drunks who have just stepped off a merry-go-round (meaning they are lost). Distances vary, but generally fall between three and six miles.

“We don’t want anyone dying,” said Eckhart.

Not that there aren’t risks. Clever hares lead their hapless minions to some interesting places. Hashers have dashed through jungles, hair dressing parlors and funerals. A Hash in Texas purportedly trotted through a papal assembly. Another Hash wandered through the Library of Congress. Members of the Ventura County Hash have run through shopping malls, sewage treatment plants and across freeways. This has given some members pause, though they are always wise in their choice of options.

“I didn’t want to run across the freeway,” explained Hash member Wendy Lascher, “but going around would have meant running another mile or two.”

Lascher, today’s hare, may not be much for freeway wind sprints, but apparently she has no objection to bacteria. She laid the trail that will send us, among other places, through the questionable culvert.

Before the start of the run, Lascher went over some guidelines. The three new hashers listened intently as she explained the rules of the run, while the 20-some veteran members milled about paying no attention at all. When Lascher was done, Grand Master Eckhart explained the reason for this indifference.

“There are no rules,” he said. “You can cheat all you want.”

At the run’s start, marked by most of the hashers wandering slowly off, I fell in next to a polite woman wearing a T-shirt that proclaimed “Yee Sook Kung Virgin Run.”

“Drop Shorts,” she said, extending a hand.

NICKNAMES

This was not a command. This is Maxine Dewbury’s Hash name. All hashers have nicknames, awarded them by their fellow hashers who have hit on some personal quirk, embarrassing circumstance or no good reason at all.

Among larger hashes it is not uncommon for two hashers who have run together for months to know each other only as “Scumhead” and “Captain Naked.”

Ventura County Hash members are less intent on maintaining anonymity, though during runs they address each other solely by their Hash tags. Wendy Lascher, an appeals attorney, is “Bananappeal.” Eckhart, who at one time worked as a well driller, is “Deep Thrill Her.”

Among the 60-some members of the Ventura County Hash, you’ll also find “Fertilize Her” (a landscape architect), “Butter Cup” (drives a yellow pickup), “Mend Strait” (a seamstress), “Major Dad” (former Marine, current father), “Roc Doc” (a geologist) and “Bunns” (Bruns, give and take a consonant). Those are the names that can appear in print.

“Some of the names are so bad that people just use initials,” explained Drop Shorts. “I wasn’t going to argue with Drop Shorts. It could have been a lot worse.”

Yes, women belong to the Hash, lots of them actually; about one-third of the Ventura County Hash are women. Hashing was once an all-male pursuit, and in some places it still is. But for the most part both men and women frequent the Hash, though it isn’t always easy to tell the difference. A Hash run in Oxnard once required sleep wear.

“You don’t see men wearing women’s lingerie very often,” said Drop Shorts.

Membership in the Ventura County Hash isn’t exclusive, nor is it expensive. Members pay $4 at each run; the money covers beer, soda, chips and a monthly newsletter that goes out to each member. Hash clubs have existed in Ojai and Santa Barbara.

But the Ventura County Hash is the only Hash in the county that’s up and running, which may be good news to hikers unaccustomed to the sight of muddy, flour-caked personages bursting from the shrubbery wearing rabbit ears.

Actually, the Ventura County Hash is fairly conservative. Runs are family oriented. Wardrobe, for the most part, is conventional and stays in place. This is not always the case among other Hash clubs. Drop Shorts has seen her share of derriere during a Hash career that has done stints in Tennessee and Georgia, and she hasn’t been overly impressed.

“Sometimes it’s OK,” she said. “But, you know, some men’s bare buns are pretty ugly.”

ON THE TRAIL

Drop Shorts and I followed the trail which swung up the side of a steep hill and onto the shoulder of Highway 33 in Oak View. Actually, I followed Drop Shorts while she followed the trail; I had yet to glimpse a single trail marker. I scanned the road’s shoulder intently while Drop Shorts pointed out markers: small piles of flour that resembled tidy droppings from an overfed Pillsbury Dough Boy.

“Finding the markers takes some getting used to,” she said. “You’ve just got to pay attention.”

Drop Shorts paused.

“Make sure you don’t get run over,” she said.

Eventually the trail made a right turn into the woods, good news for local motorists, but bad news for me because Drop Shorts had run off. Still there were other hashers around. I stopped for a moment near a curious burst of green foliage. An elderly fellow with the body fat of bamboo ran past.

“Hey boot, keep running!” he shouted.

Perhaps feeling badly, he glanced back over his shoulder.

“Keep an eye out for poison oak,” he said.

The trail wound through scrub and an occasional stand of oak, then turned down into a dry river bed. At least I thought it did. I hadn’t seen any markings for at least 10 minutes. I drew hope, however, from the blasts of a whistle up ahead.

Soon I came upon the whistle blower, a short, dusty woman walking slowly along the trail. I commended her for her wise and selfless use of the whistle to keep others on course.

“Actually, I carry it in case I get lost,” she said.

A crafty hare, it turns out, lays numerous false trails along with the real McCoy. Consequently, hashers routinely go astray, sometimes in grand fashion. Once an entire club got lost in the Malay jungle. When word got back to the wife of one of the hashers, she was unperturbed. “Well it serves the old bastard right,” she said.

Fortunately, a few minutes later I came upon Lascher. She set the trail; she would know where we were headed. Maybe so, maybe not. At one point she paused, brow knit, gazing at an arrow chalked in the dust.

“You know we set this trail almost five hours ago,” she said. “It’s not always easy to remember what you did.”

Hashers are nice people, but they aren’t much for organization. Lascher learned this on her very first Hash run. Out for a jog on the outskirts of Ojai, she happened on the Ventura Hash in mid-chase and was invited along. Shortly thereafter she came upon a large orchard. Hashers were scurrying back and forth like schizophrenic bird dogs.

“They were running up and down trying to find where it was they had put the beer,” said Lascher.

We are more fortunate. Several miles into the run, a car is parked by the side of the road. Hashers are cloistered about the car’s upraised trunk. I am encouraged. Sustenance is my reward at the conclusion of a hot, dusty haul.

“Nope,” said Drop Shorts. “If this was the finish, they’d have the beer chest out.”

REST STOP

For regular runners, drinking on the fly means snatching a liquid the color of radiator fluid and tossing large portions of it down their front. Hashers are more circumspect in their hydration. We stood in the shade and made idle chit-chat, casually sipping water, soda or beer. I opted for beer, hoping it might rescue my mouth, which felt like a sandbox.

Still, I had enough experience drinking cold beer under a hot sun to realize the potential drawbacks. A gentleman named P-Nile--short, of course, for Peter of the Nile--assuaged my concerns.

“Not to worry,” he said. “The liquid part will just come out as sweat. Kind of concentrates the alcohol.”

In pairs and in groups the hashers slowly trotted back onto the trail. The Hash frowns on competition. More to the point, many hashers are in no hurry at all.

“The faster runners go out, get lost and come back,” explained one hasher, as we walked through a quiet neighborhood. “By the time we get there, they’ve figured out which trail is the right one and we’re spared the work.”

She paused, nostrils flaring.

“Smell that?” she said. “Someone burned breakfast. When you move slowly you can really get a sense of a place.”

Or establish a ZIP code.

All of this might lead one to conclude that the Hash is composed of loud, slow-moving drunks with a fondness for nudity and convoluted outdoor travel. While this isn’t entirely off the mark, it isn’t accurate either.

“We’ve been called a drinking club with a running problem and that’s part of it, but it’s not the focus in my opinion,” said Bruns, post-run. “The idea is to get together with people and go for a run with a little bit of challenge and a lot of fun. Some of my best friendships have been cultivated through the Hash.”

Noxious? Infantile? Good, dirty fun? Your decision. Hashers won’t explain their behavior, much less defend it, probably because they feel no need to.

“Some of us can be a little childish from time to time,” said Bruns. “We don’t always have to grow up.”

Details

* WHO: The Ventura County Hash House Harriers.

* WHAT: Fun-loving people who run off the beaten track, make noise and drink beer afterward. And sometimes before. And, on occasion, in mid-run.

* WHERE: Sorry. That would defeat the purpose.

* WHEN: Every three weeks.

* WHY: Camaraderie, liquid refreshment, an opportunity to break in new shoes.

* ETC: For more information, call 488-9798.