Boston has the marathon, yes this is true, and I've heard all about the crazy time that day entails. But after yesterday, I'm pretty sure that San Francisco's Bay to Breakers 12k Run takes the cake when it comes to America's No. 1 street party.
Sunday morning rolled around and upon waking up at 6:30 I was having second thoughts. Even though I was registered and everything, first glance out the window looked ominous (it seemed on the verge of raining), I was warm and comfy in bed, and so going out to run 7 miles just didn't seem that palatable. I went into Karen's room and we agreed not to go.
Ten minutes later I hear someone knocking about the apartment so I get up and it's Karen, all showered and eating breakfast. "I think we should go," she said over some porridge, her hair wrapped in a towel.
Done. We got into our running clothes and headed towards BART where we sat alongside other runners, pirates, a giant chicken, and someone dressed up like a Muslim lady drinking a latte with a straw threw her burqa. We got off BART at The Embarcadero, greeted by tens of thousands of the other participants. One look down the wide boulevard yielded crazy people, naked people, floats, kegs, hooting, costumes...oh, and the sky was filled with flying corn tortillas.
FILLED with flying corn tortillas.
Karen and I looked at each other with that unwritten gleam that meant, "Holy shit! We're really glad we got out of bed for this!"
We crossed the start line and it's probably no surprise that someone had to pee, and that someone was NOT Karen. Of course, we had passed a row of port-o-potties like 2 minutes ago. But there's no turning around at Bay to Breakers; there's just too much fun stuff always ahead.
So we decided to hop into a bar so I could go...and of course, that became the secondary reason for being at the bar. We downed a pint and headed back out there.
And by 11 we had been treated to numerous free jello shots (some with whipped cream!), a dance party, beer from a giant red Smurf mushroom hut, another dance party, an old man's wrinkly penis, a ski shot (shot glasses attached to a ski--a group activity), people holding signs of lists of stuff that "God hates" (including, apparently, fun), the world's smallest penis (I swear to God), a marching band, balloons, beads, a lot of stuff I can't remember and...another dance party. We literally couldn't believe it wasn't even noon yet, and at the same time literally impressed that we had even made it 4 miles. (To our credit, we insisted that any sort of forward motion must be "on the jog.")
We eventually met up with the whole gang and preceded to set up camp somewhere in Golden Gate Park (the exact location of which escapes me) where, well, lots of stuff happened, none of which can be best described on a silly blog. Let's just say it seemed that the entire city of San Francisco thought making out in "the woods" was a good idea.
By 2pm things were winding down as a whole and the course had been closed; it started drizzling and most people decided to head home.
But not the ladies of 3646! Karen, Leigh and I decided it just wasn't "right" not to finish the run...what with how far we'd come and all. We said goodbye to the crew and headed, on the jog, to the Pacific Ocean.
Drunk, delirious, and down-right dirty we made it to the beach--the literal edge of America--and hopped in the frigid water, celebrating all we had accomplished. We washed our spirits clean and baptised ourselves in the merry attitude of California, finding joy in every thought and so thankful to be in a place where...
Then the beach police made us get out. In hindsight, I suppose it just wasn't "safe" for us to, well, be playing around in the freezing cold ocean drunk.
That was this year. Who's down for next??