Bay to Breakers

SAN FRANCISCO--The Wandering Naturalist is not a running naturist. But we've got plenty of those here in San Francisco, and some of them came out today. Even before the grand footrace, Bay to Breakers, began, I had taken a picture of a naked man's backside. Never did pluck up the courage during the race to turn around and snap a shot after passing such a sight. I only saw naked men, but apparently there were some women naturists as well. As I crossed the finish line, I could hear the male announcers focused on a runner behind me: "You'll have to put your clothes on. But not till after you pass us..."

I wore a costume, like many of my compatriots in this zany event. My original concept was obake, Hawaiian ghost, something on the order of scary-glam. The actual result of my long black wig, dark makeup, glow-in-the-dark fangs, lei, and sarong was more like "Bride of Frankenstein goes on vacation." If you've seen the movie Mean Girls, where Lindsay Lohan's character makes the mistake of dressing as the bride of Frankenstein, while the popular girls dress like sex kittens, you know just how grotesquely square I felt.

Of course, I was going to wear a skimpy little white tank top with my outfit, but the day dawned San-Francisco-foggy and drizzly with no "sweats check" available. I went with a long-sleeved black T-shirt instead. This worked well until about Mile 5 when I began to sweat under my thick black wig, long-sleeved shirt, and long sarong-over-shorts. My face turned completely red, and that's just where the official race photographers had set up their cameras.

My "Mean Girl" nemeses were the St. Pauli girls, a quartet of girls with blond braids and barmaid outfits. Not only did they look cute, they stayed together and stayed ahead of me. I hated them.

For my part, I got separated from my running partner (my husband) immediately. Somewhere in the first mile, I threaded my way through the crowd, only to lose sight of him. I figured he'd be able to spot me with my long black hair, easier than the other way around. I made my way through the miles unaccompanied but for the thousand kindred spirits in my immediate vicinity.

Most of them weren't costumed, though. We lined up among runners expecting to run between a 10-minute mile pace (1:15) and a 13-minute mile pace (1:38). That left plenty of room for a lot of "serious" runners--most of them clad in traditional runner-gear. I never saw a single "centipede" along the course, alas. It took seven minutes of walking to reach the starting line after the race began, but once I crossed it, I ran it in 1:14. I was quite happy with that time, considering my only other 12K I ran in 1:10, without the crowds and the costume. And that first mile took me almost 11 1/2 minutes, weaving through the crowd, so I made up time later on.

I couldn't close my mouth, really, nor talk properly with my fangs in, but since I didn't look cute anyway, I could afford to growl, Wookie-like, at the runners who suddenly stopped to a dead walk in front of me, the stroller-pushers who refused to move courteously to the right.

The Hayes Street hill caused a lot of these sudden stoppers. To me, it didn't really live up to its mythic quality. Yes, it plateaus and then rears up again in front of you as far as the eye can see, a sea of runners still above you, but we have a worse one at our local practice park, and I climb a 13-story hill every day at work. My glutes were pretty sore the day after the race, though, so maybe it was tougher than I thought.

After that hill, a long and glorious downhill... spectators partied on the side, bands encouraged us, teams of Elvis impersonators, beer drinkers on their front stoops... One sign said "Jesus Saves from Hell" and the guy on the loudspeaker next to it was yelling in a disgusted tone, "You people in San Francisco are proud of being gay and strange and weird..." and I found myself, a former good Christian girl, joining my fellow San Franciscans in flipping off the Jesus guy, raising my middle red-lacquered fingernail on high.

Plastic fingernails are scary. I don't recommend them, Gals. It's like being handicapped. You can't use your hands in any normal way. I'm currently annoying my fellow library patrons with my clickety typing. By the end of the race, I'd lost a thumbnail. Fine, I thought. I'll just remove the other nails on that hand, soak them in acetone as the box suggests. But after 20 minutes of soaking one finger in acetone, the plastic nail had merely melted into a sticky red mess, still attached to my real nail. I gave up and glued another one over it. Super glue. Frightening.

The black wig became Fright Night, too. I like to give things back in better condition than I got them, but the borrowed wig became a sweaty Rastafarian mess. At last, when all was said and done, waiting for the Muni to hustle my tired body home, I had to remove it. My hair was hot. We caught the tram, and then the wig over my arm caught on someone's briefcase. "I'm sorry, Sir, I've got my hair caught on you." This before falling on him as the train lurched. I managed to make my way toward my husband and fall on him after that, having finally reached our stop.

Yes, I did find the husband. After the race, we got herded another mile, it seemed, through Golden Gate Park to the polo field. Party in the polo field! Free to the public! Band playing! But churros cost $3, I'm tired, and I want my T-shirt--which, of course, is at the furthest possible booth from the entrance. Mission accomplished, I stand to the side, knowing he won't miss his T-shirt, either. Sure enough, there he is. Whew. He's got the house keys. He mumbles something about stomach problems in this race. I don't blame him. We got up and had breakfast f--in' early--5:00 a.m. This for someone who works the Night Tour at Alcatraz. Wookie-like wail of anguish.

Mind you, I didn't feel sorry for myself once we stood at that starting line. The energy of this event of events caught me in its spell immediately. Maybe it was the tortillas flying everywhere... the lady nearby who jumped in shock every time one hit her... the beach-ball batting, crazy costume sightings, mayor on the microphone, all of it... I especially liked the nun and the pope, complete with cardboard popemobile and tie-dyed shirt in honor of this great town, or, later on, the bananas ("Go, Bananas!). The two blond-braided Vikings suddenly charging through the crowd delighted me as much as the blonde St. Pauli girls pissed me off. Best of all, a group of people dressed as fish appeared on the horizon and passed by in the center of the road, running through the crowd in the opposite direction--salmon swimming upstream!

I clutched my camera through the entire race, failing to capture, of course, most of these favorite moments. Took pictures of the oh-so-beautiful Finish Line, though. Now that you've read this far, I might as well reward you with an R-rated finish-line experience. Just as the gratifying sight came into view, it was matched by an unpleasant physical sensation, um, down below. You see, I'd been on my period, so I was wearing a panty shield. Well, apparently the adhesive doesn't hold so well, once one sweats enough. (Who knew?) So the sight of the finish line synchronized with the sensation of something sticky suddenly adhering to my buttocks. A lovely moment, as I'm sure you can imagine.

It was all worth it the next day, finding my name in the paper. I came in number 5,870! Not bad, I say, for a race of 70,000. Well, actually, there were only 40,000, reports my husband. John, my boss, says there were probably only 10,000 serious runners.

Good thing I'm not serious. Just a wannabe wandering naturalist, signing out from this year's--the 94th annual--Bay to Breakers, only in San Francisco.