So, a few weeks ago, in an effort to reverse the effects of these free weekly meals, I decided to take to the road with 75,000 of my closest friends and attempt to move my ever-enlarging butt 7 1/2 miles -- from the Bay to the Breakers.
Of course, I thought, this brief flirtation with exertion needn't be devoid of all culinary concern. I mean, a boy's gotta eat, don't he? And there was the column to think about.
But who the hell was I going to get to cook me dinner at 8 on a Sunday morning?
I considered the famous group of salmon who spawn upstream each year, running the race backward from finish line to start. But the possibility of them getting cute with kelp-themed dishes seemed a little too high.
I could just drop trou and head naked to Footstock for the free PowerBar/Crystal Geyser buffet. But who was I kidding? Me and my back hair just aren't ready for public display. And I didn't really see SF Weekly bailing me out if I happened to be taken in on one of the SFPD's annual symbolic arrests.
Then I remembered the always-popular Tiki Hut. That fully functioning party on wheels somehow each year makes its way through the madding crowd in raging tropical style. They must have pretzels on the bar, I thought. That's dinner.
I typed "Tiki Hut" into the search engine, and minutes later was on the phone with Darren Schleth, one of the Walnut Creek-based brothers behind the bamboo wheel of the Tiki Hut.
Much to my delight Darren informed me that not only were there pretzels on the bar, but a full array of appetizers for the trip. And, at the finish line -- an actual spaghetti dinner prepared each year by his mom.
So this week, The Man Who Came to Dinner is pleased to present these very exclusive excerpts from ...
A Glutton's Journal: Athlete for a Day
6 a.m., Race Day The alarm goes off. The hangover hits. Snooze bar.
6:15 a.m. I'll skip the shower. Snooze bar.
6:30 a.m. Fuck breakfast. Snooze bar.
6:45 a.m. Shit! Drag ass up. Pull on running shoes. Grab newly purchased Hawaiian shirt (a Tiki Hut requirement). Brush teeth. Swallow aspirin. Split.
7:02 a.m. 24th Street BART Station. Crowd looks too happy. Stomach and head make compelling case to abort mission. Feet prevail, moving me forward into packed train.
7:27 a.m. Starting line, Howard at Spear. I locate the familiar thatched roof of the Tiki Hut in the distance. Attempting to make my way through the sea of bodies, I am struck powerfully in the side of the face by one of the thousands of corn tortillas being tossed, frisbeelike, about the crowd as part of some annoying promotional stunt. Head makes a final appeal to turn around, go home. But nose smells dinner in the distance.
Reaching the Tiki Hut I am greeted by Leslie Schleth, Darren's sister-in-law, who signs me in and sets me up with a disposable wristband identifying me as one of the 120 official Tiki Hut participants this year.
I immediately test out the magic wristband by introducing myself to Leslie's husband, Derek, the brother who started it all back in 1991 with a portable blender and a backpack filled with margarita mix. Standing inside the elaborate Tiki Hut, Derek passes on his tradition by filling my plastic cup with a frosty frozen margarita. Happy Sunday.
As I begin to drink my breakfast I take a moment to survey the ornate structure that for the next several hours will serve as the center of our existence. The Tiki Hut is about the size of a large San Francisco bedroom, 20 feet long by 10 feet wide. An oak bar runs around all four sides, creating a spacious area in which the three bartender-brothers can run the show.
In addition to the bottomless margaritas, the Hut offers four beers and Bloody Marys on tap. Everything is kept cool by an on-board generator that also runs the blenders, ceiling fan, two TV sets, surveillance camera, and stereo system with 200-CD changer.
Wait, I think, this is better than most San Francisco apartments.
8 a.m. Somewhere, I imagine, a gun has gone off and people have started to run. But I and the other 119 floral-clad, grass-skirted Hutters continue to drink. The music blares. Dancing breaks out.
8:42 a.m. The crowd before us begins to stir as we realize it's actually time to start the run. I grab onto one of the 10 or so ropes that extend from the sides of the Hut. Up front a Hutter on the steering post gently guides our course. Pulling the structure on level ground is fairly easy. Between the few of us on the ropes and the casual hands on the bar, the Hut seems to run all by itself on an alcohol-based fuel.
Mile 0.5 All this activity is making me thirsty. Olin, the youngest brother on the bartender team, senses my need, refilling my cup even before I can ask. I introduce myself to my Hut-pulling neighbor, Cher, who, I quickly surmise, began the race-day festivities a few hours before me. Cher is happy. Very happy.
Mile 1.0 A minor victory in itself. I am already feeling the effects -- of the margaritas. As we walk, surrounded by thousands of costumed runners, I catch sight of a group of girls all dressed as Britney Spears. Hello, ladies. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice one runner actually using a cell phone. I briefly consider moving in to trip him before realizing my cup has somehow emptied itself again. Oh, Olin ...
Turning to Cher I observe, "Just 6 1/2 miles to go. That sucks!"
"Just think how you'll feel at the end," she suggests, referring to her highly active Bloody Mary cup.
"Yes," I agree. "The sense of accomplishment."
The Tiki Hut, in all its glory, attracts quite a bit of attention from the non-wristbanded runners. As another group of girls walks by I hear one of them remark, "Who are these people? And why aren't they our friends?"
Mile 1.5 The infamous Salmon, dressed in large foam fish suits, meet us, heading in the opposite direction. Upon seeing the Tiki Hut they all ceremoniously drop to the ground and writhe before it in what seems to be some annual display of mutual respect. Moments later they continue spawning upstream -- to die.
Running up alongside us come the men of Stanford's Kappa Sigma house. Throughout the race the red-shirted brothers shout orders at pledges pushing three kegs on a giant homemade wheelbarrow. As they attempt to pass us the entire group begins to loudly chant, "Beat the Hut!"
Mile 2 Must pee.
Begin to consider my options. Have already passed lines of 50 or so people waiting for Porta Pottis.
Must pee. Now.
Make bold break from group and run (actually run) across race and into a side alley. Pass several Kappa Sigs peeing on bushes, buildings, nothing. Settle between two cars in driveway facing the back of a Hayes Street restaurant. Just as relief begins a round-bellied man in a dirty apron walks out screen door and stares disdainfully at me.
"Hi there."
What could I do? I was pissin'.
A second later he retreats back into the restaurant to give me, I think, as much due privacy as possible. Instead he returns with the owner of the establishment, a woman, who takes equally great interest in my personal bidness.
Hello again.
And ... shake, shake ... goodbye. Love to chat, but I've got a race to run.
Mile 2.5 Morning house parties hang from upstairs windows, waving to the Tiki Hut as we roll on by. Around us, the entire race comes to a temporary stop to watch a group of men in full Village People attire skillfully perform "YMCA" on the steps of an old Victorian. As we continue, the street suddenly begins a steep rise, presenting us with the Bay to Breakers' only real challenge -- and the Tiki Hut's greatest enemy: the Hayes Street Hill.
I maneuver myself forward to get a hand on one of the lead ropes. For the first time the party is actually concentrated as a group, focusing on getting the Hut up the hill. We take her up at a pretty good clip, breaking a sweat, as the crowd chants, "Tiki Hut! Tiki Hut! Tiki Hut!"
Just then a set of plastic tubes emerge from the thatch of the Hut's roof to deliver a cool, tropical mist across the crowd.
That's right: built-in misters. Just one of last year's annual Hut improvements.
At the top of the hill we pass the green Nike ad centipede idly posing for pictures on the side of the road. Wimps.
Mile 3 Coming down the Hayes Street Hill I am hit with an emotional epiphany: These margaritas are really, really good.
Turning onto Divisadero we pass a rockin' party above the reggae store. Water balloons rain down upon us. I briefly consider abandoning the Hut to join the party before reminding myself of the dinner awaiting me at the other end.
Mile 4 The Hut pulls up in front of the Gun & Doll Show, one of the many live bands performing along the Bay to Breakers route. An air horn blows, signaling us to maintain a holding pattern while the Hut brothers restock the bar from cars strategically parked earlier that morning containing kegs and ice for the second leg of the trip.
As the Tiki group dances like mad, I take the opportunity to sample the shrimp cocktails making their way around the bar.
Just then, I realize I have to pee again. I run off into the trees of the Panhandle only to find that fellow runners have already claimed the most strategic spots.
Returning to the race I enjoy watching a woman dressed as the Flintstones' Pebbles do a little striptease for the Tiki Hut's benefit. After the show my old friend Cher sidles up to me. "I've been training for two months for this," she says.
"You've been taking long drunken walks every morning for two months?" I ask. "Come on, Cher! We can still win this thing."
Just then a rather attractive girl on wheels rolls by, catching my eye. Now, more than just a little drunk, I pick up my pace to catch her. "Hey, you're cheating," I say.
"You're not even running," she replies, looking back at the slow-moving Hut.
"I am now," I smile, trying to keep up with her, before watching her roll out of my life forever.
Mile 5 Once again the Hut comes to a full stop as I am introduced to one of the more popular annual traditions. At Mile 5 each year the Hut distributes "After 5" shots to the entire group. Test tubes filled with a concoction of Kahlœa, vodka, and peppermint schnapps are enjoyed by all. Following the shots, a conga line dances around the Hut as "Hot, Hot, Hot" blares from the stereo.
As the Hut pulls up stakes I bump into Pebbles and a friend, who, it turns out, are from Norway. Together we dance down the road as they sing an as-yet-unfamiliar Scandinavian chant: "La, la, la drunk. La, la, la puke," over and over again.
I finally have to interrupt their concert to ask, "Hey, Pebbles. Where do I la, la, la piss?"
This time I climb across the Golden Gate Park waterfall to scale a small mountain for some bona fide privacy.
I catch up with the Hut just as it crosses under the cranes holding platforms of photographers, hovering to take official race day portraits. One of the photographers makes the international "Lift your shirt" gesture, which I'm sure he's been repeating all morning. Several of the "athletes" in our group oblige, providing me with a very close-up view of one particularly interesting nipple piercing.
Miles 6, 7, and 7.5 A complete blur.
I know we passed the ocean so I assume we crossed the finish line. I do remember the walk up the hill back into the park and over to the area beside the Polo Fields where the Hut finally comes to rest for its celebratory -- and sobering -- spaghetti dinner.
Beverly and Skip Schultz, the Hut brothers' parents, had forgone the race in order to set up a large buffet-style dinner including huge pots of spaghetti, salad, sun-baked bread sticks, and 10 gallons of delicious sauce made by Darren's wife, Liz.
I find a nearby tree for piss number, what is that, five? Then I load up a plate and doze off in the sun. Waking up around 1 o'clock, I slink off into the sunshine, exhausted from a morning filled with grueling athletic challenges.
Darren and friends kindly invited me back next year to once again test my endurance in "The World's Largest Participatory Footrace," and to see what additions the new millennium will hold for the incredible rolling Tiki Hut.
Now, it's just one athlete's opinion, but if I could make only one suggestion, it would be a rolling Tiki-toilet caboose.
By Barry Levine
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