The First cry came within seconds. "On one!" A few runners put their faith in this early finding, scurrying down the steep hill in anticipation of the next flour marking.
Their excitment dwindled as they stood in the stubby brush. This path led nowhere. They'd been fooled by the hare who set the course for Syracuse's second Hash House run.
"It can get frustrating for serious runners," said Bruce Bachman of the Syracuse Track Club, the group that organized the event. "Sometimes you keep coming back to the same spot and you can't get anywhere."
Ron Herried and other dedicated hashers from the Ithaca area coached Bachman and his fellow organizers in the traditions of the sport. Hashing has it's roots in Europe and started in 1938, Harried said.
A couple of British expatriates were looking for a way to burn off the beer they'd been drinking all day. They ran through mud, fields and anything else that blocked their way to Hash Houses, which were diners that served beer.
They challenged some folks from other countries to join them next time. Soon the sport of hashing as born.
The rules are that there are no rules. Disorganization is the foundation of hashing's organization.
Hash House Harriers, those who hash locally and in national and international runs held during alternating years call themselves "drinkers with a running problem."
Socialization is the goal. The word "race" is considered vulgar.
The Syracuse Track Club held it's first hash last month in memory of Fred Lange.
Lange, a former Track Club Member, died of a heart attack three years ago. For years he had tried to get local runners interested in hashing.
More than two dozen people finished "On On Fred 1" despite a course that took runners through a drainage pipe under Route 5.
"On On Fred 2" brought as many people to Schiller Park on Sunday. The hares-Sam Beardsley and Joe Flynn-spent more than two hours spreading flour along the city's streets and in several Eastwood parks.
Flour tick marks indicate the trail. Three marks in a row tell runners they are on course. The markers are usually followed by flour circles or "checks" that tell the runners it's time to search for the trail again.
This is where the less-fit runners can rest and let heartier runners find the way. If markers lead to a big flour "F," the runners have followed false trails and must go back. Those who pass three marks holler back to the others.
The cry is "On, on."
The small pack of hashing "virgins" who stood baffled at the base of a Schiller Park hill Sunday scrambled back up the slope at the sound of these words. The trail curled over another hill and past a baseball diamond out of the park.
The runners were oblivious to the stare as they slipped through a break in a fence at Lincoln Park. Two children playing catch asked what game these dults played. A small boy on an Oak Street sidewalk asked whether this was a marathon.
"No. It's hashing," a runner yelled, leaving the boy behind for another tick mark.
Some of the deep throated cries of "on, on" weakened as time wore on. "You," one runner told a fellow hasher who lacked vocal edurance, "need a whistle."
The pack thinned. The trail of white markers became a pasty blur.
Suddenly a large patch of white appeared over the crest of a hill. The pattern in the road became clearer as the runners approached. The flour formed the word "home." An arrow pointed back to the park.
The hares stood waiting beside two coolers, checking off names as runners crossed the line. The hard part was over. Now it was time to concentrate on the key element of any good hash: socialization.
Harried grabbed a beer from a cooler. Some runners joined him. Others grabbed soda. They formed a circle. Harried called for accusations. He pulled the tab on his can and listened as tales from the pack flowed.
The wind blew hard and the air grew colder in Schiller Park that Sunday afternoon. These runners, steeped in the tradional songs of Hash House Harriers, didn't care.