I abhor running and despise the taste of beer--two characteristics that are almost incompatible with being a Marine. Yet in the late 1990's, while stationed at Marine Corps Air Station Miramar, I decided to join the San Diego chapter of the Hash House Harriers, a running club which has as one of its stated goals, "To acquire a good thirst and to satisfy it in beer."
I had first encountered the infamous international group of "drinkers with a running problem" in Okinawa. Despite the running and the drinking I had enjoyed the camaraderie and so thought it might be an opportunity to meet new people in California.
On my first San Diego run we were on a long hash through the city when an old man jogged by, easily outpacing me and another thirty-something Marine. We chuckled at first, but as his balding grey head faded into the distance we realized that we didn't have the stamina to catch him. When I caught up to him at the finish line I expressed my shame at getting beat by a geezer. He laughed and boasted that as a retired Army Lt. Colonel he had been running longer than I had been alive.
Instantly charmed, I was eager to learn more about the life of Dave Connors. He told me about his kids, his grandkids, and how he had divorced after two decades of marriage. Dave also told me about what he considered his most noteworthy distinction: he was the world's oldest working pornographic-film star.
Over the next year I ran the hash nearly every week, logging over a hundred miles and a dozen conversations with the avuncular Vietnam Vet. We'd talk during the runs and after each event a gaggle of hashers would typically end up at a pub or restaurant to chat some more. Dave, needing always to be the center of attention, would steer every conversation toward the topic of sex--the raunchier and more twisted the better. He savored his pseudo-celebrity status and was eager to share with us the gory details about his on-camera exploits.
Being only slightly less moralistic than I am now, I was naturally disturbed and disgusted by Dave's repugnant vocation. Yet I truly wanted to be his friend. He was warm and amiable and, like many of us, completely messed up. For his age, he was physically vibrant and healthy. But it also seemed as if he suffered from a form of moral leprosy, as if his soul was slowly rotting.
Looking back, I realize I should have set aside my disdain for his work and my fear that he was contagious and simply showed him the love of Christ. But I didn't know how. I still don't.



