Many world cultures have a costumed holiday of sorts. For San Franciscans, it is Bay to Breakers — a 7.5-mile foot race from the Embarcadero to Ocean Beach, traversing the full width of the city. The 115-year-old race, which in 1986 set the Guinness world record for the biggest race in the world with 110,000 participants, is now the biggest party of the year in San Francisco.
The Cross City Race, as it was called, began in 1912, meant to raise the spirits of a city still rebuilding from the 1906 earthquake and build excitement for the 1915 Panama-Pacific International Exposition. The race had nearly collapsed, with just 15 people registering to run by the time a local paper took over sponsorship in the 1960s, and changed the name. Women were officially allowed to run in 1971, and the national running boom of the 1970s drove attendance even higher.
What makes Bay to Breakers unique is that it is authored by the people. The traditions — such as three generations of a family running together or men walking around with only shirts on — are more than the price of entry or whatever company is sponsoring the event. This year, above the New Balances and Asics and Hokas, runners came dressed as bottles of beer, bees, bears, butterflies, Buzz Lightyears, and bananas.
From the start of JFK Drive, on the cloudless day, a rainbow sea of people spread out through Golden Gate Park. Dads pulled wagons loaded with a boombox and a toddler. Groups stopped for selfies with police officers.
At one point, a little girl innocently playing in the park shrieked when a naked man jogged past her. The air smelled of weed smoke and liquor.
Referees blew their whistles. Construction workers told runners to slow down. Pink crabs sidled past pink cowboys. Women skied the whole course cross-country style. Some flew solo, or with significant others, or with a group tied together in a centipede formation.
Whereas at most races, onlookers cheer on contestants or hand out water or protein bars, here people lay on the Panhandle grass nursing hard seltzers, drunkenly debating the merits of Chicago thin-crust pizza over mimosas.
Mallika Pajjuri and Campbell Lunt held a spinning wheel with only one option: “gobbagool,” which meant runners would be spoon-fed spaghetti from a plastic bag on one knee. That, or given a cigarette to smoke.
On a table beside them were three totally random books: one of (opens in new tab)Kim Jong-il “looking at things,” (opens in new tab) one on the history of marriage, and another on the (opens in new tab)Oedipal complex (opens in new tab). “There’s not a whole lot of thought behind it,” Lunt said.
On Fell Street north of the Panhandle, DJs and bands sounded out from the stairs of Victorians, below which the runners danced and sang.
Luis Rossini had jumped the fence in an inflatable frog costume to join a moshpit. When asked what you do if you’re not running, she didn’t miss a beat: “You drink, have fun, and talk to people.”
More about the author
此内容由惯性聚合(RSS阅读器)自动聚合整理，仅供阅读参考。 原文来自 — 版权归原作者所有。