For Thursday, May 20, 1999 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 710 words

Bay to Blisters

"Are you sure you want to wear jeans?" asked my wife, Susan.

"I perform well in jeans," I replied, and put on my jeans.

With them, I entered the Bay to Breakers race last Sunday and zoomed past Lazarus Nyakeraka like he was standing still. In fact, he was standing still, down past the finish line, which I crossed in just over three hours. Actually, I never saw the man, but I heard he won in 34 minutes 11 seconds, and that he was thin.

Along with Susan and our adventuring sidekick, Ron West, we braved the rigors of strolling across San Francisco by attending the 88^th annual race. Sue and Ron had both been to the B2B before, but I hadn't. It was my first encounter of the weird kind.

We took Bart, which transported a jolly juxtaposition of joggers, transvestites and cartoon characters. We sat next to two gentlemen with purple bouffant wigs, stuffed bosoms, and grass skirts. Though we all looked different, we had one common cause: to walk seven miles, silly.

We stepped out at the Embarcadero Station and straight into a torrent of flying tortillas. Luckily, I wore a wide-brimmed hat and could deflect incoming flouring saucers with a flick of my head.

Promptly at 8 a.m. the race began, and by 8:30 we were effortlessly crossing the Starting Line. From then on it was more of a parade than a race. The curbs were lined with the few San Franciscans who chose to be spectators this year, and everybody waved, or squirted us with water cannons. We marched with giant eyeballs, cardboard Muni busses, Jabba the Hut, orange naked people, blue naked people, green and black naked people, and lots of guys pushing beer kegs in grocery carts.

"Get a load of these guys," said Ron. We were passed by three guys holding three glasses pushing a 16-gallon keg of beer in a tiny-wheeled cart. They did not share, they had no ice, and they hit a lot of bumps. Our question: what would they do with 13 gallons of warm, agitated beer at the end of the race?

As we walked the distance we were serenaded by two dozen bands and DJs. Through the residential streets, garage bands jammed in doorways and the neighbor kids danced. When the garages ran out, bands rented flatbed trucks and electric generators and jammed from the street corners.

As we approached Golden Gate Park, along shady Fell Street, the spectators and the walkers (runners?) finally merged into one broad party; Breakers took breaks on the curbs and the grassy lawns of the Panhandle; residents played music and mingled with their neighbors. Inside the park everyone was treated to free water and ample opportunities to find friendly bushes.

As we traversed the final mile we passed by the photographers aloft in their rented cherry-pickers, click click clicking at all the strangeness. Here's where the freaky freaked and the flamboyant flounced for their fleeting fame on film.

After crossing the Finish Line we came to the toughest part of the tour: a half-mile uphill walk to the polo fields. At the top we flopped on the massive lawn along with thousands of other spent participants and rejuvenated for an hour before heading back into town.

We used our new cell phone and called people and told them where we were.

At the close of day, rather than take the costly pre-arranged bussing from the field, we walked over to Judah Street and caught the city trolley to the Powell Bart Terminal for $1 each. Actually, we walked a dozen blocks down Judah before finding a trolly that wasn't already packed to capacity with sweaty joggers.

As we rode, I stood hovering over the back door. Two stops later the doors opened and I heard, "Mr. Gibbs! What are you doing here?" It was Katie Munn, one of my students. She was with her father and some other girls. They, too, had just finished the Bay to Breakers Parade.

Hi, Katie.

Susan, Ron, and I strolled the Union Square area for a while, for exercise, caught a bite to eat at Lori's '50s Diner, then rode the Bart back to Concord North. Though I was the only one wearing jeans, everyone looked rather normal on the ride home.