Something I wrote after this “race” May 17, 1987.

Surely San Francisco is the only city that could stage the 7.5-mile spectacle called the Bay to Breakers. About 100,000 runners signed up for this year’s race. It might have been a serious race for a few, but not many.

A guy at the free beer tent at the end asked, “Who won?” Upon hearing no answer, he answered his own question: “Who cares?” and laughed. That about summarized the competitive spirit of Bay to Breakers.

I saw:

A fat man running in a tan, transparent bodysuit so as to appear nude.
A big pink pig float carried by human runners.
A 12-person scorpion charging from behind and chanting, “We want the pig.”
A man wearing a “Miss Piggy or Bust” T-shirt. Any connection?

About halfway through, a television station was pulling over these human float spectacles and interviewing them. One was a group dressed as playing cards, their heads peeking out from behind the suits. “We’re the cards. We’re no big deal,” they would yell in unison, with no prompting or warning.

A man with a big black cane and a Reagan mask wore a sign that read: “Ronald Warhead.”
A group of five elderly women had baby dolls sewn to their suits and a sign that read: “Arms to the Contras.”
A fat lady in a green lacy gown strutted along with a sign: “Am I winning?”

A skinny Black woman standing on the hood of a car along Market Street held a small wooden doll. She kept pulling up the wooden tube, exposing a man’s erect penis carved inside. “Come on, get hard,” she kept exhorting the crowd.

Entire multi-story apartment buildings along the route placed loudspeakers on their decks and cheered the crowd on. The runners clapped and sang along to the beat.

There was a giant Cathay Pacific plane, several boats, many cars, and a gray centipede that looked suspiciously like a penis, prompting a TV announcer to ask, “Oh, you’re an earthworm?”

A man ran about halfway with a half-empty quart bottle of Miller in one hand.
One young woman streaked by in extremely tight buns wrapped in turquoise, pink, and black abstract-patterned running tights. Even the guy next to me, running with his wife and kid, had to point her out.

At mile one, and only at mile one, half the runners jumped up and slapped the banner. There was bottled soda water at mile four. Many people took a sip and said, “Yeech.” There were free granola bars at the start and finish. More “yeech.”

There were many people pushing wheelchairs and babies in strollers.
Many running suits had tuxedo designs in the front and bare asses behind.
A Beastie Brontosaurus ran with a Beastie Alligator and a Beastie Turtle.

One group ran with a big palm tree on wheels disguising a large beer cooler.

At mile four, at an hour and 45 minutes, a fat man walking said, “Come on, let’s push to beat last year’s time.” Staggering drunks appeared transfixed in doorways as the throngs of runners passed by.

Later, in Golden Gate Park, a man was jogging beside a woman saying, “The only way we opened up was to tell each other our most intimate sexual experiences.”

Indelible image: Looking back down Market Street and seeing four lanes absolutely packed with bobbing heads.

A group offering free cans of beer to imbibing runners.
A guy running under a real Christmas tree.
All the beanie hats.
All the bare bodies.
Kids.
Senior citizens.
Overweight people.

It was a hell of a race. Or party.