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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
Want to host The Man Who Came to Dinner? E-mail SFDinner@aol.com and tell us what's cookin'.
