FO-TEE-FO

I do not remember when I stopped acting my age. As a teenager I spent a lot of time around people older then me. I learned how to interact with folks significantly older then myself. I grew my first mustache when I was in Junior High and since I hit six foot tall soon after I could pass as visually older as well. By high school I not only could make small talk with anyone regardless of age, I could find a point of context to truly relate to them. Of course more importantly, I could buy beer or order a drink in most bars without raising an eyebrow.

After college when I started my consulting career I was over 20 years younger then anyone else working for the company. Early on I started lying about my age; I knew I would get little or no respect from my clients if they knew how young I really was. I got very good at vaguely answering questions about how old I was without ever really giving out my actual age. Once I hit 30 it became easier because I could just say I was pushing 40. I was, it just might have been a very long push.

Now my personal life is a different story. I have often said that I act like a 12 year old so if you take the average of 12 and my real age I must be somewhere in my 20s. I do not think anyone that knows me would argue that point. I have never really had a desire to grow up. I might be insanely responsible but I sure as hell can be goofy while doing it. For the record I am 44, which also happens to be my lucky number. If you need proof that I do not act my age ask any of the folks around me that have had to endure me constantly announcing my age this year by holding 8 fingers up in a mock pseudo-homeboy style while saying ‘fo-tee-fo’.

Growing older has really never bothered me. Yeah my body does not do all the things it used to do but it is fun to watch the slow changes like a very very long science experiment. Lately I have been thinking of my body as being a bit like an older car. It does not look as good as it did when it was new. Yeah it’s got a few dings, dents and rusty spots. It takes a little bit of time to warm up but with a little extra maintenance it will still get me wherever I want whenever I want. That maintenance, of course, includes occasionally going to the doctor.

Years ago when I lived in Orlando I had a great doctor. I paid the $100 bucks or so for my visits out of my pocket and always got great service. When I later moved to Saint Petersburg, I changed my medical insurance to one that covered doctor visits except for a $15 co-pay. I found a physician on the plan and went for a physical. This witch doctor was hideous. He obviously wanted to bilk my insurance provider for every procedure that he could so he had me doing things like getting an ultrasound. I never went back although I ended up having many phone calls with the grossly unprofessional, under-trained office manager over the next two years when I started receiving bills from them for a $600 blood test that they originally insisted would be covered by my insurance.

A year or so after I moved to Texas I thought it might be time for another physical. One of my wife’s coworkers highly recommended their doctor. I called and confirmed that they took my new insurance and made the soonest appointment they had available. Three months later when I showed up, they informed that they in fact did not take my insurance and the visit would cost over $500. I was ready to walk out when the office manager with large dangly Playboy bunny earrings recognized me. She was a customer of mine at my store. She told me if I paid $300 the doctor would see me for a physical as long as I did not require a blood test and did not ask any specific direct medical questions. I agreed but imagine my dismay when the doctor turned out to be a grumbly rude 300lb plus heavy breathing short man in a Harley Davidson shirt. By the end of the visit I felt extremely unimpressed with his abilities and again found myself leaving a doctor’s office feeling taken advantage of. That was well over three years ago.

A man that is ‘fo-te-fo’ should not go ‘fo’ years between physicals especially a man that treats bacon as one of the major food groups. Since Harley-boy was out of the question, I started asking around about doctors. My wife’s is more of a gynecologist then general practitioner so she was out. The people I work with each rave about their own doctor and they each feel they have the best one in the area. I knew if I picked one of theirs I would run the risk of offending everyone whose doctor I did not choose. I did end up going to one that was recommended by a co-worker but when asked who I went to I have been using my old ‘talk around the subject without giving a straight answer’ skills I honed back when I was lying about my age.

The visit seemed to go great. This is the first female doctor I have ever had so the more intimate parts of the physical were a bit more awkward then usual. I never had to have a nurse in the room when I turned and coughed before. A woman has smaller fingers then a man, which made my life a lot easier. I have to admit to being almost embarrassed by how easy the prostate exam, went. I kind of wish I would have grimaced or reacted a little more if only just for show.

I think I like this doctor. Everything went smooth and she seemed very professional. Even though I mentioned that there might still be a White Castle burger wedged in my colon from the 1990s, I was relieved when she told me that since my family history is good I did not need a colonoscopy for another few years. Maybe my cholesterol levels would have been a bit better if I had not had large quantities of beer and brats at the Octoberfest the day before my appointment. All things considered, apparently I am pretty healthy for a man who is ‘fo-tee-fo’.

HASH

Back in 1991 my friend T-Bone introduced me to The Hash House Harriers. No, it is not a diner. It is a loosely organized non-competitive international group that describes themselves as a ‘drinking club with a running problem’. You see why I would be attracted to such an organization. I dropped in to visit T-bone in Atlanta and he told me how this club ran races most Saturday afternoons (and late night during full moons as well as Friday the 13th and a few other other odd times) and asked if I might want to run that weekend. Always up for an adventure, I agreed.

We got to the announced starting point of the race early enough to mingle with a few of the group’s seasoned veterans, Harriers and Harriettes with sophisticated nicknames like Cunning Runt, Wanna Pecker and Panty Waste. They told me that each race is unique and went over a few of the basics with me. The previous race’s winner becomes the next race’s Hare. Their task is to announce where the next race starts and to set up the secret route. The trail can start and go anywhere; the more creative the better. Some of the best courses run through parks, streets, parking lots, back yards, streams, etc. I even heard of one that went through the lobby of an office building. The course has traditionally been marked by an occasional splotch of flour dropped on the ground although more recently paper, chalk and other pre-designated materials have been used as clues to show the runners which direction the trail might go.

After several dozen other Harriers arrived (some with horns, whistles, paddles, wacky hats…), the race started. The splats of flour on the ground marked that you were on course but did not indicate what direction the trail went next. Since no one but the Hare knew where the actual trail went, the speedier runners sprinted off into different directions until someone found the next marker. That person would then blow their whistle, honk their horn or simply yell out that they were ‘on’ and everyone else would head towards them often asking other runners ‘are you’ to make sure they are going in the right direction. This organized chaos would repeat itself as we ran through the streets of a residential neighborhood, into a few backyards, over a low fence, around a small kiddie park, near some office buildings, next to a small pond and finally finishing in a thick wooded area.

Other ‘Kennels’ (chapters) of the Hash House Harriers run their races differently. Some are ‘live’ where the Hare gets a short head start and marks the trail as he tries to elude the rest of the group. Race courses that are laid out by the Hare in advance are called ‘dead’. Either way, a good Hare will set up lots of twists, turns and several false trails. Faster runners will ‘check’ or make off false trails as they go, to help the slower walkers that follow to stay on course. There is a cachet to winning but there is definitely a ‘getting there is half the fun’ attitude. There are over a thousand Hash groups with at least one in almost every major city around the world.

The Hare’s other important duty is to meet the runners at the finish line with a large quantity of beer ( & wine coolers…) for the post race celebration. Although sometimes there are beer stops along the trail, the real drinking starts right after the race during the circle ceremony. At this mock-religious event songs are sung, ‘down-downs’(emptying one’s beer immediately while standing in the center of the circle) are handed out to those that did anything good, bad or indifferent, virgins that have run three to five races are given nick-names, and any other extremely silly group business is addressed in as serious a manner as possible.

I have omitted a lot of other details about the races I have run but they are hard to recall because not only is there a lot of beer consumed during the Circle but afterwards everyone heads to a nearby bar for the ‘On After’ or ‘On-On’ celebration that typically features consuming a few more beers. If that is not enough, after the ‘On-After’ everyone heads home to clean up and those still wanting more meet for the ‘On On On’ at a different bar for still more beer consumption.

As might be expected, I created a bit of a stir during my first race and ended up with the very rare honor of being awarded a nickname my first time out. I think it was my antics with the fish shapped canteen that I carried that caused them to name me Blowfish. Over the years since then, I have run with a few different Kennels in various cities and always had fun. Twice since I have lived in Dallas I have tried to find a local group, but the nearest active Kennel is over an hour away.

I thought of The Hash House Harriers when I picked up the newspaper the other day and read that in New Haven Conneticut Dr. Daniel Salchow, a 36 year old ophthamologist known for his volunteer work with needy children and his sister visiting from Germany, were arrested on felony bio-terrorism charges for leaving spotches of flour in an Ikea parking lot. Yes, they were Hares and while they were patiently waiting at the finish line, beer at hand, for the runners to arrive, the local police were evacuating the Ikea store. He bicycled to the store to tell the police it was flour but that did not go over well. Welcome to post-911 America, where we can all sleep better at night knowing we are safely protected from imbibing joggers.


http://www.gthhh.com/
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/08/25/nyregion/25beer.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hash_House_Harriers