San Francisco, 2010
Official runners were everywhere, displaying their tags, numbers, even foot tapes to track their start and finish lines down to the hundredth of a second. I was an unofficial, un-costumed, numberless reporter drifting amidst their ranks. To capture the movements, the characters and the spirit of the 99th San Francisco Bay to Breakers, I preferred to be invisible, dressed in black and gray amidst a sea of the colorful and outlandish: embedded.
I skirted the entry checkpoints, walking instead along the wired barricades in search of the most radical participants in this campaign: the notorious float section. Brightly staffed floats had been favorite entertainment in prior enactments, followed closely by those creatively attached individuals comprising a variety of outrageous centipedes, six-packs, dragons, and other thematically constructed groupings. Senior command had relegated both heavy rollers to the rear, ostensibly to allow for an unobstructed charge by the forward calvary of sprinters. Still, I was determined not to miss this year’s embellishments.
The barricade line had multiple security breaks; at Embarcadero and Howard, I slipped through two concrete dividers and into the Free Zone. On Main Street I found the floats – remarkably few but colorful in the widest sense of the word. The BabeWatch Lifeguards were across from a Rubber Ducky pool party in a rolling hot tub. Up at the front of the pack, two ships vied for position. Pirates flew the skull and crossbones above the Pearl Necklace while Vikings highlighted a dragon that spewed forth smoke – sometimes, when it was hit by a hammer, or an available sword.
The countdown clock continued past the number one, initiating a roar that lifted into the air – along with balloons and flying tortilla Frisbees. In the past, this hail had announced the beginning of a half hour wait as fifty thousand people approached the starting line. But no; to my great surprise, we moved, and moved again into a slow jog. The starting gate was only a block away. Although the floats would have to await their release into the fray, I’d ended up in a patrol that was on the front lines. We were away!
The sidelines ahead marked our route with masses of cheering revelers. We accelerated past the walkers and slow runners, themselves displaying no distinction in speed. Sweatshirts had already worked loose from waistlines and were trampled underfoot. Music blared from open windows and landings, encouraging us on. On through the neon wigs atop a rainbowed cluster of heads; on through the pink pixies expressing their monochrome unity; through the sneakers-only nudniks that would thankfully never make the centerfold of any magazine. Then there were the rest: thousands of regular, Adidas and Nike-attired runners with caps, fanny packs, and water bottles. Tourists gaped from the sidelines while more seasoned supporters raised plastic cups, liberally spilling beer in our honor.
Making the turn off Howard Street, I was swept toward that highly contested battleground: Hayes Hill. I asked the unicycle rider to my left, “You going to make it up?”
“Absolutely!” The troops had confidence going into the fight. The long slog began. Runners shifted into lower gears. Some pulled over to the side of the road to re-hydrate, gasp and sputter. Remnants of costumes began to litter the street: poorly seamstressed tails, multicolored headbands, the occasional rubber ear.
Then they appeared: the famous salmon, swimming “upstream” from the ocean end of the race, against the current of runners. I had heard of them and delivered my prepared greeting: “Go, Coho! Go, Coho!” I high-fived the half of them that still had their hands out. In their wake emerged something I’d never seen in all my times in-country: a series of bears, clawing their way in desperate pursuit of the salmon!
Cresting the hill, I noticed onlookers cheering and congratulating. We were half way to victory! Some in my platoon throttled back on the downward side. I used the favorable gravity to increase my stride. As we turned onto Fell Street toward the panhandle, the distinctive smell of an earlier, smokier age wafted out over the crowd. A bubble machine blew a stream of circles out a window. I was back in the Haight-Ashbury.
Golden Gate Park exhibited dueling versions of free speech. On the right, three television news vans aimed satellite transmitters aloft. On the left, the Jesus freaks waved signs and bellowed through a megaphone. “You take care of your bodies but not your souls, and you’re still thirty pounds overweight!” Unperturbed, a runner just ahead of me responded with a silent gesture of his hand.
Water station agents held out cups; I drank. A Monster energy drink battalion was dug in on the right side; they passed out cans of Nitrous. I grabbed one as I ran, opening it a few hundred yards down the road in a startling spray of effervescence.
Somewhere in the last quarter of the distance, a fresh stream of runners zoomed through us. This had to be the high-letter corral, sequestered down one of the side streets and unleashed after the riff raff among us had cleared the start. As they raced ahead, I seemed to slow and fall back, whether relatively or absolutely. I was tiring. My usual endurance technique for such extended maneuvers proved elusive, as I did not find a lovely figure, running at about the same speed, to take my mind off the pain and guide me like a Siren toward the rocks at Ocean Beach. For a mile or more, I followed a woman whose back asked the unlikely question: “Does this shirt make my butt look fast?”
At mile six, I realized I was in the slow lane – just like at the grocery store. Other flows to the left and right seemed to be processing runners faster. Upon further study, I noticed that no one was directly in front of me.
I sensed the pain in my blistered foot, unsure now that I could complete my mission. Just then, up ahead like an angel sent to earth, I saw a woman under a red cross. Hobbling over, I asked the medic for a band-aid. She smiled sympathetically and sat me down in a folding chair. Her table was filled with the elements of triage. She spoke reassuringly in a soft voice and handed me something: a three page Release of Liability form requesting ID, email address and signature. I had no time for this; the campaign was on!
Passing the Dutch Windmill, I could smell the sea salt on the foggy breeze. Soon I made the turn onto the Great Highway and pushed to accelerate toward the finish line. My right knee objected. My hip likewise disagreed. My body threatened to go AWOL. Inspired by the runners ahead, and behind, and passing me on the sides, I limped on.
There they were, a few hundred yards up the beach: gates with hoisted flags, signaling an end to the struggle. Pushing the limits of endurance, I thrust myself through the arc of balloons, then turned back to scan the exuberant crowd at the Finish Line. Arms were raised in triumph, then lowered in exhausted collapse. Aides handed out analgesic patches that, when applied, brought back the smell of high school locker rooms. Runners donned dry clothes, met friends, and celebrated a mission successfully accomplished. The 99th had made it home.