Today, there are around 1500 HHH "kennels" around the world, including the Lisbon area. There's one in Milan, as well as in other places we've lived, including the USA, which has loads of them. I've heard of them before, although I didn't know the history or exactly what these hashing people got up to. Hashers are often described as "drinkers with a running problem", which wouldn't sound all that bad if it wasn't for the R-word.

Drinking I like. I can do drinking. Running, however, is a completely different story.

I like to walk, and hike, and swim. I used to bike everywhere, although I don't currently own a bicycle. I rollerblade and I ski-- downhill and cross-country. I've even raced on cross-country, or Nordic, skis, which you might be tempted to think is like running. It is not.

I abhor running. I'm not even sure why, although the fact that I'm rubbish at it probably has something to do with it. I'm horrible and slow and look ridiculous. In short, I run like a girl and I do not mean that in the nicest possible way. When I was younger, my mother signed us up for the Summer recreation program run by the city, which was sort of like a stay-at-home summer camp. As part of this, we had to run in the city youth track meet. Since the camp was run by the sort of people who believed that participation trumped winning, and that every child should be treated equally, regardless of athletic ability, we ALL had to compete. I despised it. My sister would sprint along, elegant and gazelle-like, winning every time. I didn't resent that-- she was seriously good, enjoyed it, and ended up with a wall full of trophies and a spot on the track team in high school. What I did resent was being forced to run, even though I hated it and I sucked. I'd end up galumphing in dead last, after everyone else had already started to get lined up for the next race and all the good popsicle flavors were gone. Once I didn't even get a popsicle. My sister had tried to save me one and it melted and fell off its stick, and there weren't anymore left. I would have much rather stuck to reading my books and been there at the finish line, handing my sister a frosty fresh grape one and a dixie cup full of water. But I'm not bitter. Much.

About the most I can handle is running the bases while playing softball, and even then I'm secretly afraid that I'll hit the ball somewhere in the infield, or that someone else will once I'm already on base. Getting thrown out when you shouldn't have because you run with all the grace and speed of a toddler wearing a full diaper tends to be a bit humiliating, not to mention making your team mates very angry and, quite frankly, spiteful.

Lady Jane and Sir are hashers. They've been after us to go for months, but given that we're at the LNBOE until somewhere around sunrise and the hashes start in the early afternoon, it's never quite worked out. Of course, they stay out that late as well, but Lady Jane is working and therefore slightly less drunk. They are also a lot younger than we are. Ten or fifteen years ago, I had a lot more energy, too. But this time, Lady Jane had timing on her side: lots of things sound like good ideas at 5:30 am when you're on your way home from a long night of drinking. We even managed to forget that it was our second night in a row of going to bed with the sunrise. Most importantly, Lady Jane promised me I wouldn't have to actually run. So we set the alarm for a pitiful 4 hours and 45 minutes of precious sleep and on Saturday, we did our first ever hash.

Oddly enough, it WAS a good idea.

When we got to the meeting point, we were immediately informed that we were virgins. It's been a long time since that term has applied to either of us. Then someone handed us each a beer. Things weren't looking too bad.

Once the crowd had assembled we headed out to Guincho beach and we were off. The trail is marked with flour-- blobs, usually, but also circles and arrows and the symbol that means "Gotcha sucker! Turn around and go back." The thing is, sometimes blobs lie. Three blobs in a group don't, but one or even two might leading you astray. Since we were hardly ever, after the very first bit, at the head of the pack, it wasn't really a problem for us, though. When you spot some trail markings, you are supposed to yell "on, on!" for the benefit of those following behind.

The trail led us along the ocean, over some rather treacherous rocks, then away and up steep hills, and down and up ravines, and over streams, and though brambles and some sort of bushes with actual spikes on them. Bits of the trail were muddy, but it wasn't too bad. They set a good pace and it was hard work in a lot of places, and before long my shirt was soaked in sweat. Allergies I didn't even realize I had since we've never lived in Portugal in the Spring started to make themselves very apparent.

On the other hand, the weather was awesome, and the scenery even more so. Majestic. Breathtaking. Panoramic, especially from the tops of all those tall hills. (Actually, they're foothills, where the mountains run down to the sea.) Not that we saw that much of it; we spent most of our time looking down and trying not to break an ankle. This is where the nose blowing came in handy-- it was the perfect opportunity to take a look around. It was truly beautiful.

The hashers are a great bunch of people. Some of them in particular are hysterically funny. And we had a blast, even before we made it back to the cars and the copious quantity of beer and other junk food. We finished squarely in the middle, which was gratifying. It's a non-competitive thing, which is great. It doesn't matter where you finish, or which trail you do-- either the wimps (us) or the rambos, who had a longer, more difficult trail. Some of the rambos even ran a lot of it, which is fine if you like that sort of thing and if you don't mind shattering an ankle now and then. The choice is yours. Still, I would have been mortified if they had to send a search party out for us. As it was, I think we would have had no problem keeping up with some of the faster wimps if it wasn't for the nose-blowing thing.

Once everybody had made it back, it was time for the Hash Circle. In the circle, you discuss how you thought the trail was and so forth. More importantly, "down-downs" are administered, for reasons varying from setting the trail to being a virgin, to a variety of other misdemeanors, real or imagined. In down-downs, you drink your beer in one go and what doesn't get drunk you wear when you hold your "receptacle" upside down over your head at the end. The recepticles were a variety of unusual items, generally toilet-like in nature, from giant chamber-pots to plastic portable urinals used in hospitals. Apparently, if you are foolish enough to wear new shoes, you'll end up drinking out of one of them. I've never realized how hard it is to drink out of a plunger-- at least it was an accordian style thingamabob and not one of the shallow bowl-like ones. I'm pretty sure I'd have ended up with wet eardrums and a lot of beer-wastage if it had been. Elvis got a tin cup, which was much easier to deal with. Not fair.

You also get a down-down when you get your Hash name. These are doled out after your sixth hash, are often risque, and are sometimes downright vile-- the cruder the better. Not so much in the local group, though-- it's a "family hash", although there's enough ribaldry around to keep it plenty interesting.

The next hash is in two weeks. We're there.

Saturday night, it would have been tempting to take it easy, but we had agreed to go to a party at Harold and Maude's. It was pretty low-key; their parties usually are. After that, of course, we went to the Late Night Bar of Evil. Why not, we were on a roll and the third time, as they say, is the charm. We managed to make it until Mr. Evil kicked us out at around sunrise in excellent form, then shared a taxi home with Sir and Lady Jane. We usually walk, but the hash had started to hit our legs by that point. Also, I have a damaged achilles tendon where the back of my Spaceman Spiff trainer sawed into the skin. I thought I had broken them in last Summer, but apparently I was wrong.

It should heal by the next hash. If not, I'll just have to wear double band-aids.

And that's pretty much it for the rest of our weekend.