Running, and especially hashing, seemed to be the right thing to do on this fifth anniversary of a dark, dark day for our planet. There can be few better celebrations of life than tearing across the open countryside with your fellow man, yelping and whooping as you spot the trail of white flour that will, eventually, lead you home.
The airwaves had been filled with remembrance of the 9/11 atrocities all morning. I listened to moving accounts of loved ones making last desperate calls from the hijacked planes and from the doomed floors of the burning towers. A man called his wife to say goodbye to his two young children, the wife of a cleaner wept as she recalled speaking to her husband even as she watched the second aircraft swallowed by Tower Two on live TV. It was almost too much to bear. I have some sympathy for those quick to point out how many women and children perished under the US/ UK-lead onslaught that followed. Another caller claimed that on that very day twenty-four thousand children worldwide died from malnutrition or disease. These comparisons are sobering and valid. Yet there was something utterly horrible about the manner of the deaths in New York, Washington and on flight 93. It had something to do with being ‘played out’ in front of a watching world, the awful inevitability of the collapse of the towers, the tiny fluttering objects hurtling from the ruined structures that the CNN presenter whispered were people. People making choices; leap into the abyss or stand and burn.
My own recollection of that day is crystal clear. I was working at ExCeL, London’s newest exhibition centre. The event, open that morning, was one of the world’s largest displays of state-of-the-art military hardware; a market place for arms dealers. Contraptions designed to streamline the killing of our species lined the halls; here a glistening rocket launcher, there a gleaming multi-purpose tank. The irony was not lost on me as I watched US nationals, purveyors of misery, watching their worst nightmares unfold on their laptops. The cynic within me looked on; for many gathered there this was ‘good for business’.
I walked outside onto the south lorryway to get some air. A small passenger aircraft took off from London City Airport, flew directly over my head, climbing past the glistening spire of Canary Wharf and into the clear blue skies over the city. I reached for my radio and quietly informed my staff that they should wrap things up and head home.
Now, five years to the day after those life-changing events, I’m hurtling through the Surrey countryside in my way-too-hot pick-up truck, desperately late for my rendezvous with Nigel and the Oilfield Hashers. It’s seven-oh-five; kick-off was scheduled for seven. Nigel’s voice crackling through the mobile is calm. He’ll call me if they set off and I’ll have to catch up by following the trail. Ten minutes later I’m in the vicinity and Nigel’s back on the blower. They’ve set off but he’ll meet me along the route - there’s a car park I can use and we can set off from there. At last I spot that familiar lanky frame on the roadside pointing across the road to the churchyard. I park up and scrabble to get changed, racing to tie on my runners as Nigel assures me there’s no need to rush. I hate to be late and I’m patently aware that I’ve cost Nigel precious time and yardage that he’d rather not have to make up.
I leap to my feet, ready to set off.
‘Which way? Right!’ and we’re off across the road and into a rutted field. Another latecomer joins us but I’ve no time for pleasantries; got to catch the pack. I’m guilty of an LJS-like sprint-start, sucking wildly for air as I scamper across the fields, breathing tight, all upper-chest struggle. But wait – there! A small collection of brightly coloured T-shirts disappearing into a thicket. I change course, heading across a ploughed field, the baked, dusty ruts playing havoc with my ankles. Boy I hope they’re not blackberry-pickers or . . . the distant cry of ‘On On!’ as the Hashers pick up the trail rings out ahead. Excellent! On On indeed!
I continue my mad dash, catching and overtaking the stragglers, telling myself I really need to slow down, too excited to listen to such (t)reason. I push harder, my calves whining at this unnatural pace, but I’m grimly determined to catch the leaders. It’s madness of course; I’ll spend the rest of the evening drenched in sweat, catching a chill as the night rolls in, but hey – this is a Hash; there’s no holding back. Another half-mile of winding paths, ducking low branches, scraping past nettles and bushes, dodging rocks and loose scree along the sheltered pathways and the runners start to slow.
‘Checking!’ The call just ahead – and sure enough, around the next bend the leaders have stopped. On the ground a large white flour circle – a checking point. Somewhere within a hundred yards or so of this spot the trail continues; all we have to do is find it. I venture left onto a concrete path festooned with huge rolled bails of hay. A fellow hasher has already weaved through the massive spools, diligently searching for that tell-tale blob of flour. I look up. Hashers are milling about like lost sheep, checking grassy trails and shortcuts through the farm. I reach the other side of the yard to be greeted by a large iron gate.
‘What’ya reckon?’ gasps a man in an ‘On On’ vest.
‘Shouldn’t think we’d have to hurdle that - ’
Deliberations are cut off as the cry goes up.
‘ON ON!’ A surge as the pack pick up the scent and we’re off, through the farm buildings, across a road and up another leafy lane, more breathless scrambling and friendly jostling on the narrow trail. Another half-mile and there’s a drinks stop. A large wooden dinghy sits incongruous under a backyard umbrella in the middle of a grassy field. A grinning man is handing out plastic beakers and pointing to two large buckets filled with clear liquid.
‘One’s virgin tonic and one’s vodka tonic’ he beams.
Yeah right. Bloody hell! He’s not kidding.
I heave great gulps of air as the pack arrives. The light’s fading rapidly and we’re still around a mile from home. I start looking for the next trail. I find the flour circle and in keeping with tradition yell ‘checking’ to let others know I’m starting a search. A very dark pathway leads into heavy undergrowth, but the tiny fairy lights set evenly along one side tempt me this way. I break into a jog – what’s that up ahead? Oh it’s a busted branch, the dry blonde fibres looked a bit like – wait! A definite white blob; and another. One more a few yards ahead.
‘ON ON – ON ON!’ And I’m away, pounding feet just behind me. The trail twists and turns, the lights disappear and it’s very dark now. An opening up ahead in the gloomy half-light reveals a long straight path rising gently across a series of fields. A watery moon hangs low over the trees, an ineffectual lantern on dusk's backdrop.
‘This’ll be it’ pants a large bearded man as he flies by me up the path. Another two follow him and I try to step on the gas, but there’s nothing there. I hang on grimly as the runners become dark shapes and then only fading sounds as they pull away into the night. My legs ache, my lungs burn; my body’s in revolt.
What’s going on? This is a rest day, not a lets-go-run-like-a-loony-in-the-dark day!
Pack it in!
But I can’t, I have get ‘on in’, get to the beer and grub. Another patch of woodland, black against a dark grey background, more winding dry-mud paths and at last a glimpse of a car, two cars, a whole host of them, then barns and outbuildings – we’re home. I stop, the thudding of my heart and rasping of my breath masking any clues as to where the on in might be lurking. Another hasher arrives and he seems to know the way so I follow him through a series of turns, down a grass bank and into a generous back garden adorned with a large tent, a series of tables and chairs, two gorgeous beer kegs and a large man flipping a variety of meat products on a crackling oildrum barbeque; home!
Five minutes later I’m slurping fine real ale and chomping on French bread dipped in warm brie and mango chutney – I’m in heaven! There’s around ten of us in now, all grinning like loons, saying little; slurping and chomping is the order of the evening.
In groups of threes and fours the pack arrive, asking the same questions;
Where’s the beer? Is there food? Where’s Popeye?
Popeye is our host, the barbeque-flipper and a very popular man just now.
The Down-Down, a series of tributes to sponsors, hares and sinners involving ritual chanting and the swift consumption of ale, is followed by some serious eating. Nigel’s arrived and we’re chatting about running and writing. He tells me he’s started a new site, a showcase for his travelogs. I vow to check it out – it’s called
Roads of Stone, combining Nigel’s twin passions of rocks and running.
Finally the cold wins the battle against my body heat. My sodden Forbidden Hash T-shirt clings to my ample, rapidly cooling frame like slewed translucent skin - it's time to go. I bid farewell and thanks to my generous host and head back towards the main road.
So a day that started with somber reflection ends wreathed in sweaty smiles and firm handshakes between friends. A timely reminder that whilst the gone are not forgotten, life is for the living. I’ll drink to that.
When September ends . . . again . . .
