Race Report: San Francisco Bay to Breakers- 5/20/07

This was my first contribution to the newsletter and the first thing I shared publicly in many, many years. Originally published under the title, “Bibs, Booze, and Buns: Bay to Breakers 2007”, I also liked “Bay to Breakers: Exposed” and “San Francisco's Binge to Bender” as good working titles.

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“It’s like if someone came into your office while you were trying to [work] and started smashing things and throwing all your papers onto the floor,” Bay to Breakers elite athlete coordinator Josh Muxen reported to the San Francisco Examiner. And when I think of the world-renowned, elite athletes chasing after a potential $40,000 purse—the highest dollar-per-mile prize in the US outside of the marathon—while being taunted by a band of Elvises, a man in a gorilla suit, or the traditional salmon swimming upstream (they start at the finish line, finish at the start), I can’t think of more fitting analogy.

The ING Bay to Breakers 12K is actually part race, part parade, mostly party, with the requisite booze, bands, drugs, and nudity. At 8 o’clock in the morning.

Needless to say, there was no mandatory recreation lane at this year’s 96th run. The main rules of the road were, “NO ALCOHOL or NUDITY” and “wheeled objects and over-sized costumes must line up at the back”.

Neither of these was enforced.

The official race history is actually respectable. The first one, then called the Cross City Race, was run in 1912 in a noble effort to rebuild city morale after the devastating 1906 earthquake. In 1964 the race was renamed Bay to Breakers based on the course description, which starts downtown along the San Francisco Bay Embarcadero, winds through the City and Golden Gate Park, and ends on the Great Highway overlooking the Pacific Ocean breakers. Things started to take a turn for the bizarre when, in 1978, the first centipede team of 13 participated in the event, paving the way for the race to become the official site of the World Centipede Running Championships, and language about twinkie feelers, stinger toxicity, Lenichi Turns, and the “exchanging of segments” became part of the race vernacular.

There were less than 200 participants at the first Cross City Race. This year an estimated 60,000 participants (35,000 registered, 25,000 bandits) and 100,000 spectators came out to play.

Even though I grew up in California and lived in the Bay Area for a number of years, this was my first Bay to Breakers experience. And I think I got it right:

- I was slapped in the face by a flying tortilla before the start
- Awaited the starting gun with the runaway brides, Dharma Initiative guards, Napa grapes, and naked cowboy (FYI—no tighty whities, no strategically placed guitar)
- Followed a 7’ Smurf over sidewalks and around newspaper stands to bypass the walkers, unicyclists, and soccer players throughout the course
- Triumphantly crested the infamous Hayes Street Hill to the tune of "Chariots of Fire" blasting from a reveler’s window
- Got slapped in the face by another tortilla
- Passed up the generous offers of jell-o shots, beer bong hits, and cigarettes from the crowd
- Edged out at least four naked runners (iBod and Bare to Breakers were wearing body paint and hats for identification)
- And smiled for the cameras as I crossed the finish line in just under an hour to secure 900th place (NOTE: don’t expect a PR at this race!)

After the race I strolled leisurely through Golden Gate Park toward the Haight for a quick bite to eat and some record shopping. I passed the Shakespeare Garden and veered toward the newly renovated de Young Museum for a little self-reflection. But my moment of Zen was interrupted by the familiar sounds of cheering, whooping, and that unmistakable disco beat that is so authentic to San Francisco. I made my way in the direction of the clamor, curious at to what could still be going on at Mile 4…three hours into the race.

The forward movement was barely perceptible at this point—the race had become a rave. So I trekked against the crowd, taking pictures as I passed one keg-in-shopping-cart after another, the crew from BoneAir (James Bombed’s posse,) what remained of a few floats, the Never Nudes, and a guy who was dressed as a keg while smoking a cigarette. Brilliant.

There were a lot of winners that day. Not just Kiplagat and Korir, but the participants who, in the fourth hour, were rallying by the side of the road, heads in their hands, empty bottles glistening in the warm California sun. Though a strong finish was probably not in the cards, I have no doubt that a few personal, if not course records, were set this year.