By DUSTIN RACIOPPI
Every Saturday, precisely at 10:17a, and in a location often not revealed until the night before, a questionable bunch assembles. They are small-business owners, retirees, cops, attorneys. Most are in running shoes, and all clutch cans of beer.
The size of the group varies from week to week, but is typically between 12 and 15 strong. They greet each other, crack a few jokes. No real names allowed guys like Brave Dave, Dead Man Walking, G.I., Butt Naked and Nearly Dead have the only publishable monikers. Women, or ‘bimbos,’ as they’re endearingly referred to, aren’t allowed either, except on special occasions.
After a few minutes skylarking, the group sets off running on a trail that could lead anywhere, but always ends where attendance is required: a bar.
This is “a drinking club with a running problem,” the self-proclaimed “Hell’s Angels of Hashing,” but best known in esoteric circles all over the world as the Rumson Hash House Harriers.