20th Annual Oil Hash - Somewhere Near Dorking
More dark tales from the leafy bowels of suburban Surrey.
Another venture into the murky world of the Oil Hash courtesy of an invite from Niguel of this parrish. As ever the rendezvous was cunningly disguised as an up-market gastropub, the bedrizzled car park filled with milling running folk wriggling into a variety of running regalia and lightweight windcheaters, the air filled with good-natured banter and apparently casual ponderings on the challenge ahead.
Last year we were bathed in golden summer sunlight, running through bright fields of wheat shimmering in the evening glow. Tonight we huddled under grumpy, leaden skies, the ground sodden with day-long rain, the failing light scurrying behind the thick wall of woodland all around us.
Following a safety briefing, the nub of which was 'run fast to avoid getting lost in the dark' and 'watch out for tree roots' the 'on out' was called by Hash master Alistair. We thundered into the Surrey evening, I for one thankful that the clouds appeared to have emptied their payload leaving only the residual leaf-drop to rain intermittently down upon us.
Fields adorned with lazy cows and their ubiquitous, slippery deposits yielded to a series of styles and we were into the woodland proper. Dense foliage conspired to block out the last of the waning light, making the small splodges of flour intended to mark our passage that much harder to pick out along the shadow-strewn trail. The course proved challenging; hilly, muddy, slippery and, as is the wont of the scurrilous Hash Hare, at times trecherously misleading. For those new to the world of Hashing
check here.
A couple of miles in I had cause to regret my earlier fuelling strategy. Concerned that I'd not eaten well enough at lunchtime I'd panicked, purchased a box of Jaffa cakes (note: biscuits, according to Bill Bailey, NOT cakes) and proceeded to devour the lot in a sort of semi-conscious daze as I drove towards the meeting point at Wooten Hatch. Now that unhealthy amalgam of melted chocolate, orange gloop and mangled sponge sat heavily across my belly, grumbling in a most unhappy and alarming manner.
No time for gastronomic concerns; our leaders had reached a flour circle - a mark on the ground to indicate a break in the trail. Tradition dictates that there should be, within approximately 100 metres from this point, one, maybe two, but possibly up to four flour deposits indicating either a continuation of the trail or, most infuriatingly, a false trail.
'On-On!' came a cry to my left. I turned sharply to see a group of hashers hurling themselves up an impossibly steep embankment into the dark heart of the forest. I set off after them, hoping I'd work up enough speed to allow momentum to carry my carcass over the summit. Just! As I bounced off a rough-barked tree another cry rang out.
'False trail!' The lead runners had come to a flour 'X', a clear indication that our mischievous Hare had decided to have some fun.
'Bastard' I spluttered, turning back to plummet down the perilous mudslide.
Away in the distance, through large clumps of forest fauna, a new cry of 'On-On!' rang out. It sounded miles away. With a heavy heart - further burdened by my now sodden RC shirt - I lumbered off in this new direction - and the mad, helter-skelter procession of huffing, puffing humanity was once again in motion.
Forty minutes in we hit some serious climbs. The light by now was negligible; tree roots were fleeting shadows on the dim floor, overhead branches last minute Ghost-train frighteners as they leered out of the gloom. I had to dig in, pump my elbows, puff out my cheeks and strain every reluctant sinew just to keep up with the younger, altogether more bouncy hashers. On, on, up, up ... it was almost dark now. A few of the leaders, being well-prepared sorts who keep an eye on daylight times and that sort of stuff, wore head torches. The beams from their lamps danced across the trail, a wild cross between a search party and an all-night rave. I fought like the Devil to keep up, scared that I'd lose sight of these human lighthouses and be left, lost on the deep, dark woods. And then: we're saved! Headlights! Not a road, you understand ... the beer stop!
Merciful heavens this was a sight for sore legs. Two tresstle tables alongside the dim shadow of a family saloon. At one end a keg of ale, at the other any number of opened bottles of lager. I grabbed a beaker of ale and slurped greedily. This is one of the most celebrated and eagerly anticipated rituals on any Hash run - the beer stop. Some Hashes, usually those located in more remote areas, choose to save the beer stop until the end. The good people of the Annual Oil Hash elect to go with a three-quarter drinks break AND a finish-line fillip.
One of Niguel's associates announced he was in training for New York and questioned - out loud - his sanity at risking unfathomable ankle damage on such a reckless adventure. Setting off after a ten minute breather I could see his point; or, rather, I couldn't. In fact I couldn't see anything, apart from the slight contrast in shadows where trees lined the invisible trail home. Helpfully the flour-water mix appeared to be ever so slightly luminous. I could also make out - just - a rutted ridge of thick mud running along the trail. I could feel my feet twisting on landing as the ruts and troughs of this slippery path yielded to my heavy tread. This was, I told myself, utter madness. It's pitch black. I can just about make out the figures ahead of me as they run, hunched, through a tunnel of branches, completely blind, heading towards some kind of steepening descent.
There's a special kind of trust required to run, re-fuelled with beer, along tree-lined, branch-covered slippery woodland trails in the dark. Trust .. or a lack of any kind of sense. In the end there was nothing for it but to trust to good fortune, get your head down and get on with it. Somewhere in the distance, a kilometer, maybe two ahead, lay a warm pub full of ale and fine food. The options were to
a) crawl into a prickly bush to weep like a child until daybreak or
b) strike out for salvation, sanity and beer.
Remarkably we all made it. I'm even going to tempt fate and say we all made it without serious mishap, though with around 40 runners it could be we lost a few along the way and nobody thought to mention it so as not to spoil the Dunkerque spirit engendered by our unlikely survival. The Down-Down, conducted by our ruddy-cheeked, terribly smug Hash master, took place in the gloomy pub garden. You can't blame the establishment for sparing their regular patrons the ignominy of dining amidst a wild pack of steaming, sweat-soaked Hashers; we dined
al fresco. My steak sandwich, when it finally arrived, tasted like the finest feast, the ale, laid on in ever-lasting (refilled by the bar staff) jugs, pure nectar.
I sat and chatted with Niguel and another of his associates - a marathon man, veteran of Paris and Dublin - until, as if to hurry us on our way, the drizzle returned to put an end to our festivities. Another cracking Oil Hash adventure; here's to 2010.
Around 7 miles, somewhwere close to 90 minutes
Below (L to R): Hash Briefing; On into the Woodland; Checking ... ; On-On!; Beer Stop; To the Victors, the spoils!
