Bay to Breakers

My first Bay to Breakers

As the gate to my apartment building shut behind me I looked to my right. Next door there were three women, one of them peeing in the corner of the driveway.

As I hopped over the urine stream flowing down the sidewalk, my attention turned towards the noise I heard from the distance. Cheering, yelling and the honking of horns was a constant in my neighborhood yesterday, as the craziest road race in the country was in full swing just two blocks away.

Bay to Breakers puts two of San Francisco’s favorite pastimes together: fitness and drinking. I left the apartment around 10am to go on my regular run, knowing I wouldn’t need my Walkman and KNBR for entertainment this time. By this time all the serious runners (the ones who actually registered, for instance) had already long passed Golden Gate Park, so the emphasis was much more on the drinking.

 

Though I was one of the only ones on the street who wasn’t drinking (or stumbling slowly in the wrong direction), I didn’t appear to be the picture of sobriety one block into my run. While watching a group of people dressed as elves wheel a pony keg in my direction, my left foot slammed into a crack in the sidewalk and I went flying. Before I knew it I was sprawled out on the sidewalk, taking inventory. Am I hurt? Did anybody see that? No and no. On to the park!

At the park I realized I no longer needed to watch “Forgetting Sarah Marshall,” which apparently starts with several shots of male genitalia. I saw more cock in my five-mile loop than the shower-fight scene in 50 Cent’s movie, “Get Rich or Die Trying.” The, um, highlight was the nude smurf whose entire body was painted blue.

While in just 45 minutes I almost became desensitized to the sight of wrinkly butts and proud packages, I somehow saw no nudity from the fairer sex, besides a Wonder Woman with stars on her nipples (which I think we can all agree doesn’t totally count). I couldn’t tell if I was in the middle of a race, a huge party, or a country club steam room with all the middle-aged guys walking through the fog with nothing on besides running shoes and socks, which unfortunately were on their feet.

Other than the dong-fest, weaving through the drunken masses was a blast. Every half-mile there was a different (and surprisingly high quality) band playing. More than half the “racers” were holding cans of Budweiser and Tecate, or some sort of mixed beverage in a Gatorade or iced tea bottle. However, there was an overwhelming sense of peace in the crowds, even where fifths of vodka were being consumed in far greater quantities than the Crystal Geyser served at the aid stations. I was getting high-fives from guys dressed like cavemen, dodging snout-wearing girls dressed as “Desperate Housepigs” and wondering how the hell this whole mess was going to get cleaned up. Soon I couldn’t wait to turn around, get back to my place and shower up so I could join the festivities.

When I got back home, my block was lined with public urinators. Men and women, alone or in groups, all watering the neighborhood trees and garage doors. There were porta-potties all over the place, including about 20 in Alamo Square Park just half a block away, but these people seemed too far gone to even know what part of town they were in anymore, let alone find a legal area to relieve themselves.

After powering down water, coffee and the breakfast sandwich Sports Girl Liz made for me while I was on my sightseeing tour, I walked across Alamo Square to Greg and Susan’s Bay to Breakers/Game 7 party. Thank God for that sandwich, since yours truly learned how to play “Flip-cup” for the first time yesterday, and it wasn’t even 12:30 pm yet.

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