Bay to Bonkers Report--Some Notes Written From Back of the Pack

One runner’s diary of the 76th annual Examiner Bay to Breakers 7.5-mile run, world’s largest and silliest road race . . .

Sunday morning, 7:45. Fifteen minutes before the starting gun, tired and cold, and the giant birthday cake is starting to get on my nerves.

In the jam-packed starting area, the 13 Girl Scouts who are supporting the cake keep shifting and lunging, knocking me into the human slice of pizza. Trapped between a pizza and a birthday cake, and I haven’t even had breakfast yet.

The cake is a centipede. A centipede is a group of 13 runners physically linked together, carrying or wearing a costume. It’s the centipedes, and other costumed freaks and lunatics, who give the Bay to Breakers its unique flavor. In this case, the flavor is green cake frosting and pepperoni.

The other distinctive feature of this race is that it covers a course that can comfortably accommodate about 10,000 runners, and about 120,000 runners--or are they roller-derby jammers?--show up.

Nobody is sure how this centipede business got started, about 10 years ago. Probably some guy called up a buddy one day and said, “Let’s go for a run.”

His buddy said, “OK, but just so we don’t get lonely, let’s invite 11 other guys.”

“Great idea. And say, how about if we carry some aluminum siding and pretend we’re a 747 jumbo jet?”

There are all sorts of centipedes lined up, ready to race. Thirteen runners carrying a huge papier-mache Air Force jet, 13 more under a gigantic pig, 13 in wheelchairs, 13 disguised as a two-sided mural of San Francisco, complete with bridges and skyscrapers. One centipede races as a giant condom.

I make a mental note to contact the IOC and suggest centipede competition in the Olympic Games.

The gun goes off and I struggle to break away from the relentless birthday cake. Near disaster, as I almost run into a centipede of 13 skiers, their sharp-edged skis slicing dangerously along the pavement.

Can imagine the boss’ voice on the phone: “Whattaya mean, you can’t write today because you were in a skiing accident?”

Chances of overtaking the leaders appear dim. I’ve already hit the runner’s “wall” of pain and fatigue and have yet to reach the starting line. Takes me 20 minutes to shuffle across the starting line.

By now the leaders, the seeded runners, are halfway across San Francisco. Will have to settle for a PR.

First couple miles is slow going due to heavy traffic. Make note of the passing costumes, in case I’m ever invited to a Halloween party or IRS tax audit.

Two guys in bath robes . . . Mr. Potato Head . . . “Danger Mouse,” with a papier-mache head . . . Mercury, with silver body paint and winged feet . . . A giant can of Spam with four legs . . . Two men with their heads stuck through a dinner table set for six . . . Three runners with T-shirts covered with bird seed and the message: “Seeded runner.” . . . A man disguised as a large office safe, labeled “Safe sex.” . . . Two men, from the front wearing conservative business suits, from the rear buck-naked except for see-through panty hose . . .

At two miles, the crowd of runners is thinning enough to allow full strides, not to mention occasional deep breaths. At 2 1/2 miles, I make my move, charging past the Porky Pig centipede. I mutter: “Th-th-that’s all for you, fat boy.” Hey, I didn’t come all the way to ‘Frisco to lose a foot race to a pig the size of a school bus.

Halfway through the race, entering the Golden Gate Park area. Hope fading of achieving my goal of finishing in the top 100,000, but I take heart in small victories. Breeze past man dressed as an infant and running inside a giant baby carriage labeled “Born to Run.”

Sprint past an American Express Card with legs, then past Howie Long, or someone wearing Howie’s Raider jersey.

Up ahead are four men running on stilts, a centipede of 13 playing cards, and a man reeling inside an artistic but ungainly 15-foot-high papier-mache rock-and-roll guitarist.

I give encouragement to a kid running beside me, all of 8 or 9 years old, running real nice. “Way to go, son! Keep it up.” The kid speeds up and pulls ahead. Punk probably jumped onto the course at the five-mile mark. Yell after him, “Rosie Ruiz! Rosie Ruiz!”

Nearing the finish line, off to the side of the road two male streakers, bodies painted green, are being handcuffed to one another by a policeman on horseback. Or are the streakers, cop and horse all part of a theme centipede?

Still haven’t seen the condom centipede. Glance nervously over my shoulder, imagining newspaper headline : “Times Writer Loses Photo Finish to Condom.”

Sprint across the finish line, breaking imaginary tape. Imaginary crowd cheers.

The winners have already been awarded BMWs and plane trips to foreign countries. Volunteer workers offer me what’s left--free candy bars, cups of water, cups of beer and religious pamphlets.

I politely decline all the gifts, in order to maintain my amateur standing.