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"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.
