AS A general rule, you hear them long before you see them; a distant rumble in the undergrowth, then the slap and patter of feet. Suddenly they are upon you, a thundering, panicked herd, wheezing and jostling in a cloud of dust and sweat and demented simian chatter, following the bellowing horn of the alpha male. And then, as quickly as they appeared, they are gone, leaving nothing but a sour and lingering miasma and their chalky spoor.
No one is safe from this menace. They are just as likely to appear in the wilds of Sai Kung as they are to show up on the Peak or Bowen Road. I refer, of course, to that twisted tribe known as the Hash House Harriers; mean and ugly misfits whose idea of a good time is to run around in stinking hot weather, trying to decipher bizarre hieroglyphs while howling 'on on' and other incomprehensible paeans to pain.
They are usually recognisable by yellowing T-shirts proclaiming allegiance to one of several sub-tribes, beer bellies which belie their exertions, and a grisly array of fungal infections. Should you encounter them while driving, do not, under any circumstances, leave the car. If you are on foot, the best way to avoid being trampled is to climb the nearest tree. Failing that, curl up into a ball, thus reducing the available surface area on which rancid Reeboks can be planted.
The herd is at its most dangerous, however, when feeding, or approaching a watering hole. I had the misfortune recently - while trying to enjoy a quiet dinner at a Lan Kwai Fong restaurant - to encounter one Hong Kong-based tribe in a full feeding frenzy. Once sated, the alpha male rose to his feet and began to pound his chest with clenched fists. Then began an odd ceremony in which he exhorted each runner, one by one, to stand, balance a beer on their head and then guzzle it, while he kindly shared with the group - and the rest of the restaurant, and a sizeable portion of Lan Kwai Fong - their most intimate quirks and foibles.
His voice was a weird blend of the mellifluous and the stentorian; the Gregorian Monks' Greatest Chants meets Homer Simpson. Still, I couldn't but help admire their generosity of spirit, sharing amply with the rest of the patrons the nostril-singing effluvium emanating from several dozen streaming armpits.
Whatever happened to the loneliness of the long distance runner? The stringy, solitary athlete pounding away, eyes fixed transcendentally on the middle distance? These hordes are more like freemasons with low resting pulse rates, what with all their regalia and ritualistic signs, incantations and ceremonies.