On the outdoor patio of Wesley’s Bar at 1201 Adams St., on a Wednesday evening under a warm fall sky, the hashers mingled with beers in hand. Toledo’s Hash House Harriers meet every other Wednesday to run a bit, drink a bit, and socialize a lot. “It’s a night off,” said Wayne Smith, who runs seriously on other nights. The hashers meet all around Toledo to navigate chalk-marked courses through streets, trees, and even shopping malls. They are a batch of former and current runners, former and current partiers, and people who fall in the middle of that Venn Diagram. “We are a big dysfunctional family,” said Don Lindner, who has hashed in Toledo during the past three decades.
Names are earned after a member designs a trail, or “when you do something incredibly stupid,” said “Politically Erect,” a retired political science professor of 43 years. Most names are purposefully detached from polite society in a fun nod to a hasher’s day-to-day life. “Dickspatcher” used to take 911 calls. “Suck Me Baby” told me that she is a respiratory therapist. The names are crude, but thoroughly light-hearted. Hashing fits a certain type of person, said Dickspatcher. Invariably it attracts people with a sense of humor.
Not a race
Hashing began in 1938, while British soldiers were stationed in Malaysia. It is still debated whether it was a fun respite for overtaxed infantry, or as an incentive to condition potbellied troops. But the niche combination of exercise and beer caught on. There are now hashers congregating throughout the world.
Hashing came here in 1990, when Rob Ampthor moved to Toledo from Connecticut. It was a great way to meet new people. “You can show up and have 20 new friends in town,” said Ampthor.
A hash is not a race. Courses are designed to discourage speed and ego. Only the hasher that set the trail knows where it leads. The other runners and walkers are forced to work together to find the right path.
On-On!
Our hash sent us west on Adams St. until the runners found a tennis-ball-sized, white chalk dot on the sidewalk. This indicated that the trail could split left, right, or could just be a trick to slow down the front runners. Hashers took off in three directions. A front-runner will shout “On On!” or whistle twice if they see two more consecutive white dots on a trail, which signals the correct direction. The other hashers will then follow suit.
After a mile or so of false turns and “On-Ons!” we settled in for pitchers at the Ripcord, 115 N. Erie, the first of two surprise beer stops. Hashers shared their stories from trips all over the world. “Minuteman,” a middle-aged man dressed in cut-off military camouflage and Michigan State basketball shorts, had a flight to catch the next day for a hash in Germany.
After another mile or so of trail, we arrived at the second beer stop in an alley where a truck was parked with an ice cooler. I chatted with three 20-something restaurant co-workers who often find their Wednesdays free to hash. We finished our beers, and as daylight faded, we trekked the final half mile back to Wesley’s.
A home-cooked quesadilla buffet was arranged for our return. “Whip It Out” Ray led the group in songs and ceremonies. Celebratory drinks were called for first-timers and out-of-towners. Enough honorary drinks were announced—including a category for all runners with new shoes—that just about everyone had a chance to stand for a drink.
All the hashers posed for a group photo. I noticed Ray’s shirt, which had “DRUNK” written across it with “RUN” set apart in neon print. It was an accurate description for the hashers. They were not exactly drunk, and not exactly runners. But with tongue in cheek, they amusingly balanced the two.
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Dorian Slaybod is 28, a local attorney
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and happily living in Toledo.
