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<P ALIGN=Center>by Mikal<BR>
<P ALIGN=Center>
<font color="#990099"><B>How I Streaked the World's Biggest, Wildest Urban Footrace</B></font>
<br>
<font color="#000000"><font size=2>A story from an early day runner.</font></font>
<br>
<P>
<A HREF="#Begin">The Beginning</A> -- <A HREF="#Weeks">Weeks Before</A> --
<A HREF="#Race">The Race Day Begins </A>-- <A HREF="#Starting">The Starting
Line</A> -- <A HREF="#Hayes">Hayes Hill </A>-- <A HREF="#Fell">Fell to the
Park</A> -- <A HREF="#Climax">Climax on the Great Highway</A> --
<A HREF="#Conclusion">Conclusion</A>
<br>
<br>
<P>
<B><FONT COLOR="BLUE">I . The <A NAME="Beginning">Beginning</A>: Bare Busts,
and Will Strip for Justice!</FONT></B>
<P>
I first heard the tale over three years ago.
<P>
According to the story, the <I>Bay to Breakers</I> run, San Francisco's annual
cross-city mini-marathon and May Mardi Gras, featured among its 80,000+
wildly-costumed, partying amateur-athletes a contingent of runners who did
the whole 7.5-mile course wearing nothing but Nikes and sweat socks.
<P>
Just weeks after I'd moved to the Bay Area, an ugly incident confirmed the
rumor. Apparently, a score of men and women had done B2B '93 in the altogether,
and a handful of them were scooped up mid-run off the route by San Francisco's
finest, and charged with indecent exposure.
<P>
The busts earned the SFPD many inches of bad local press. In a city with
a rapidly-rising murder rate, it seemed an absurd waste of police power to
arrest a few harmless nudists at the straight-jock equivalent of the Gay
Pride Parade. This scandal, coupled with the pro bono efforts of the nudists'
lawyer (his name was -- I kid you not -- <I>Will Strip</I>), helped quickly
quash the charges, SF's selective-enforcement squads earned themselves yet
another black mark in the public mind, and I forgot about the incident.
<P>
<P>
<B><FONT COLOR="BLUE">II. <A NAME="Weeks">Weeks</A> Before: Training and Planning</FONT></B>
<P>
Flash forward to a chilly early-March evening in 1996. Yours Truly is cruising
the Net in search of naturist and hemp-friendly data. While checking out
<I>rec.nude,</I> a Usenet group devoted to all things clothing-optional,
I notice a post about "San Francisco's Bare to Breakers" being organized
for the annual May run. Intrigued, I E-mailed the author and awaited a reply.
<P>
It wasn't slow in coming. My correspondent was longtime naturist-runner Ed
Van Sicklin, who claimed to be the first of the Bay to Breakers nude athletes,
having started the practice on the race's 75th anniversary in 1986. Every
year afterwards, he said, a few more people joined the Streakers' Contingent
-- many of them spontaneously during the run -- and like so many of the other
outrageous antics that characterize this peculiarly San Franciscan event,
it had become a semi-organized, annual thing. By '96, the "naked people"
rivaled the jogging alligators, gown-clad drag queens and tethered "centipede"
running groups as the race's biggest crowd-pleasers, eagerly anticipated
by the media and lustily cheered by racers and onlookers alike.
<P>
The concept was outrageous, yet strangely compelling. Running nude
and unpunished across eight miles through the streets of a major city
was something I<I> had</I> to try. Anticipating joining Ed's contingent
just two short months away, I began to get into shape.
<P>
Since I hadn't run all winter, I took my reconditioning slowly. As March
progressed, I gradually increased my distance and speed, alternating runs
with upper-body workouts. By Vernal Equinox, two painful miles had turned
into three comfortable ones,.
<P>
By May Day, I was doing five miles every other day, inured to 6 AM wake-up
calls and dizzy "runner's highs" lasting into mid-morning. One week before
the race, I was at a lifetime peak of strength and endurance, all due to
one incentive: the chance to run nude in front of over 200,000 people on
the streets of one of the world's great cities.
<P>
Two days before the race, my registration from the sponsors at the <I>San
Francisco Eaminer</I> arrived, and I became Runner #38627, eligible for not
only a commemorative T-shirt at the end of the race, but a souvenir photo
of me in action should any of the EXAMINER photogs stationed along the run
catch my number, and match the contact-sheet pic to my name and address...
<P>
On Saturday the 18th, the eve of the race, I'm a little jittery. The Bay
Area has just been in the grip of an unseasonable rain front -- what if
thunder-showers break during the race? Do I possess the stamina to run the
full 7.5-mile course? Will Ed and my fellow nude-runners even be at the
prearranged meeting place on time? And most importantly, do I really have
the nerve to jog naked in public before a city full of strangers?
<P>
<P>
<B><FONT COLOR="BLUE">III. The <A NAME="Race">Race </A>Day Begins: Blue Skies and BART</FONT></B>
<P>
Fortunately, all my fears turn out to be groundless. Sunday, May 19 dawns
with a near-cloudless sky; by the time I arrive at the Rockridge BART station
at 6:45, the temperature is already approaching 60 degrees, and the crowds
of designer-sportswear clad suburban runners crowding the SF train show nary
a trace of goose-flesh or shivering. If only they knew, I think, what
<I>I'll</I> be wearing when that starting gun goes off at eight...
<P>
And true to their words, Ed Van Sicklin and his co-organizers are waiting
at the Embarcadero bus turnaround. Ed sports a "Bay to Breakers Volunteer"
blue windbreaker, which allows him access to a side route where we'll be
able to insert our group into the 80,000-strong mass as one. To identify
each other, as well as to build group spirit, Ed gives us each a day-glo-green
"BARE to Breakers" baseball cap. (I feel foolish wearing such nylon wonders,
but put mine on. The cap turns out to not only work well as identification,
but also keeps glare and sweat out of my contact-lensed eyes.)
<P>
Minutes before the 8 AM start, we wander from the Embarcadero over to Spear,
a restricted sidestreet just off the race's main drag on Howard. Ed shows
his credentials, and we position ourselves behind a metal barrier, watching
as the police vehicles and media pace cars roll past. And Your Author takes
advantage of the temporary lull to do a few last warming-up stretches behind
the barriers.
<P>
<P>
<B><FONT COLOR="BLUE">IV. The <A NAME="Starting">Starting</A> Line: Take It Off, And Take Off!</FONT></B>
<P>
Seconds after the 8 AM gunshot, the "seeded" runners -- the 1,000 or so
top-flight athletes who run the course hoping to win -- roar past in a tight
heat to the cheers of onlookers and the 80,000-odd "fun runners" behind them.
<P>
When the pros have a lead of about two blocks, the first wave of "normal"
folks moves by in a near-solid mob. Already I notice the festive rainbow-riot
of colors, the bobbing masks and animal-heads, and the various painted pictures
and slogans emblazoned over runner textile and flesh.
<P>
Ed holds us back as a few thousand folks run past. One by one, we strip off
shirts and tug down shorts while we wait. As our nude bodies appear, people
on the edge of the moving mass skid to a stop and gawk.
<P>
Following my group's lead, I toss my old shirt aside, and wriggle out of
my shorts, rolling them carefully. Now I stand at Spear and Howard, surrounded
by thousands of people, totally nude save for my shoes, socks, cap and runner's
number.
<P>
Finally Ed pushes the metal barrier back, and followed by a couple of giggling
young (clothed) Asian women, twenty or so naked runners become a rivulet
of bare flesh entering the torrent of racing humans that clogs a six-lane
city street.
<P>
Did I mention the noise? Charged with adrenaline, and far from the
hyperventilating final leg of the course, the hissing roar of the crowd goes
ten decibels higher as the moving mob spots the naked bodies in its midst.
Clean-cut yuppie-jock couples laugh hysterically...sorority sisters squeal
lustily and click disposable cameras...kids in middle-school gym outfits
giggle and point. Flanked by the tethered human-chain "centipedes," we become
a moving public spectacle as we cascade down Howard Avenue with the crowd.
<P>
Already we're beginning to drift apart, due to the relative speed and endurance
of the Front Four Runners: road-captain Derry, his British-accented companion,
a college guy who looks like the teenaged Alan Ginsberg, and -- yes -- little
ol' <I>moi.</I>..beneficiaries of our relative youth and fitness. No matter
how often we slow our pace to keep our nude contingent together, the older,
larger and less-toned of our number fall behind even when we slow to a walk
up front, or stop to pose for photos. Bodies are as diverse a set of entities
as the individuals who live in them, I guess...
<P>
After about two kilometers of Howard, the mass turns to the right, up Ninth
and right through San Fran's civic center. We notice the first crowd-control
cop-squads flanking the crowds, and I'm sure I'm not the only one among our
skyclad crew feeling a slight twinge of paranoia. But The City's Finest ignore
us.
<P>
<P>
<B><FONT COLOR="BLUE">V. <A NAME="Hayes">Hayes</A> Hill: The World's Slowest Streak</FONT></B>
<P>
Ninth feeds into Hayes, and we get our first glimpse of the dreaded Hayes
Hill: a kilometer-long incline that most runners take as walkers. We run
a couple of flat blocks, and then it's a grueling upward push, unrunnable
by all but the fittest athletes. Derry says this stretch is where the news
media hangs out, and that we'll be slowed further by possible interviews.
<P>
There's not much media in sight, but a lot of tourist-runner types want to
take our pictures, and we share some brief hilarities with participants and
observers alike. One young guy, grinning hugely, photographs his fully-clad
wife/girlfriend flanked by myself and Derry. Another bear of a man loudly
cheers us on as his family stares, nonplussed. A blonde Tri-Delta type runs
alongside me, checks out my bouncing, jiggling genitals, and pointedly asks,
"Does <I>that </I>hurt?" (It doesn't.)
<P>
The hilltop, our slowest stretch yet, is where radio and TV reporters do
begin to approach us. Derry handles a few comments for all-news KGO, while
some of the TV cameras demurely pan us as well. At one point, someone claiming
to represent B2B Grand Marshal Jay Leno tries to rope us in, but our road
captain blows him off. It's a wise move – fun stuff aside, we still
have to maintain a regular forward pace if we want to make the Great Highway
and the Pacific shore five miles away. All the while, the tide of humanity
carries us as flesh flotsam riding the crowd's momentum.
<P>
From Hayes Hill's crest, it's a long, barely-perceptible downhill through
the Western Addition district. Locals on front steps and windowsills drink
orange juice and coffee, and laugh at the wildly-garbed celebrants, especially
the crazy naked ones. There's hardly a disapproving gaze towards us (some
do turn away, but quietly), and the only negative comment is from a toothless,
short-dog toting relic who berates us as "faggots" for our penis-positive
"disrespect."
<P>
"Hey, doesn't he know this is San Francisco?" inquires our group's lone brunette
as the two of us turn onto Divisadero. Her ample breasts protected from running's
tissue-jangling effects by a studded black-leather bra, she's been running
bottomless and unashamed since we joined the human tsunami way back on Spear
Street. All I can do is shrug, and mutter something about the tragic long-term
effects of fortified wine.
<P>
<P>
<B><FONT COLOR="BLUE">VI <A NAME="Fell">Fell </A>to the Park: Water Games, Cellists and the Great Camera Gauntlet</FONT></B>
<P>
At the westward turn onto Fell: more chaos. A teenaged brother-and-sister
team spray the crowds with powerful water guns; sticky with the first sheen
of sweat from the Hayes incline, I gratefully accept a hose-down from the
young woman. Big, bearded guys in B-boy and biker garb roar with laughter,
and give us the thumbs-up as we pass. A lithe woman, moving speedily up through
the center lanes, spots our front-nude group and squeals "You boys are
<I>beautiful</I>! I love you!" A trio of ladies, approaching from the rear,
demand and receive a quick full-frontal view. Kids either stare in utter
disbelief or giggle uncontrollably, as their parents merely shrug it off
as a Wacky San Francisco Experience. And the cameras of runners and spectators
alike continue to click furiously as we pass.
<P>
Even the "Run to the Beat" bands, stationed and playing on temporary stages
every half-mile or so, work us into their songs. The goateed would-be
Michael-Stipes fronting the groups inevitably salute the "naked guys" as
we run past their amps. Best reaction: when I stride past an electric trio
augmented by a willowy blonde cellist, I wave at them, and the gently smiling
strings-player returns the salute, lifting both bow and free arm to acknowledge
me mid-song! Perhaps part of her spirit was out there running as well...
<P>
Another thing we notice is the nearly-uniform reaction we provoke among
middle-aged female runners and spectators: a cackle of nervous laughter,
followed by an "<I>Oh-my-gaaawwd!</I>" and a quick grab for a camera to capture
the moment. By the time I turn off Fell, onto John F. Kennedy Drive and into
Golden Gate Park, I figure that at least 200 shots of meputting my bare body
where my big mouth is, are bound for photo albums from Toledo to Tokyo.
<P>
The park features another B2B phenomenon: early-morning drinking. Along with
the usual park winos, there are mimosa-sipping gentry eyeing the spectacle
from their town-house balconies, and beer-swilling punk girls cheering on
us "nude guys" from the sidewalk. Personally, I find it hard to relate to
this kind of beer-for-breakfast behavior, but wave and wish the celebrants,
and their good buddy John Barleycorn, well.
<P>
By now, the crowd of runners has thinned out noticeably. We're slower and
quieter than during that first noisy dash through the Howard Street Canyon
miles ago. I feel another layer of sweat cover my body, and am glad for the
first wispy sea breezes that not only cool me, but remind me that the finish
line looms closer than ever. The Bare to Breakers contingent is now spread
out over the park, with the Front-Running Four constantly slowing down to
accommodate the next line of naturist joggers nearly a city block behind
us. Eventually they motion for us to continue on; like countless other runners
today, they've shot their wad by the four-mile mark.
<P>
By the glass-domed Conservatory, we pass an open-air star chamber of
running-costume judges, all decked out in the periwigs and black robes of
Anglo-American parody tradition. We can't decide whether the unclad human
body constitutes a "costume," and don't really care, so we continue onwards.
<P>
The next two miles take our four-man contingent under stone-bridge overpasses
and hired cranes festooned with photographers. Guessing that these are the
famed EXAMINER hired guns, we make sure our Official Numbers are visible
and legible, and slow down to wave up at the crews, vaguely hopeful that
the promised souvenir pics-while-running will be taken and maybe even distributed
before the summer's over.
<P>
<P>
<B><FONT COLOR="BLUE">VII. <A NAME="Climax">Climax</A> on the Great Highway: "Stay NAKED!"
</FONT></B>
<P>
After more running, and an array of amazed looks from Russian-immigrant
picnickers in Marx Meadow, we approach the 7-mile mark: the home stretch,
and the area where we plan to put our shorts on before we cross the finish
line. Bare to Breakers rationale for this (unenforced but encouraged) is
that we don't want to push the body-positive act too far and give over-zealous
official-types a chance to bust us as we hit the human log jams at the end
chutes.
<P>
While the other three take care of their cover-up in the Tulip Garden, I
jog skyclad 200 yards more onto the Great Highway: the sole nude person among
a hundreds-strong wave of runners. I finally pull my shorts on just a block
away from the finish line.
<P>
"Aw, don't get dressed! Stay <I>NAAYKED!</I>" cry two young blonde women
with the well-fed looks and nasal tones I associate with Midwestern tourists.
<P>
Sorry, but I need to do these last few meters minimally covered. Reunited
with Derry, we funnel into one of the finish chutes and slap the hand of
an elderly gentleman volunteering at the line, who tells me that we've clocked
in at 1:34...not too shabby, considering how easily we've taken the 7.5-mile
course.
<P>
From there, it's a quick grab-and-glug of free mineral water, and a slow
procession along the southside passage to the Soccer Field. Here, the
cutely-named "Footstock" -- a mass party headlined by Gregg Allman and band
-- is already underway. But I have com-mitments elsewhere, so I bid my co-runners
adieu, claim my souvenir runner's T-shirt, and head off to a friend's house
in the Outer Sunset for a shower and a quick change into street clothes.
<P>
<P>
<B><FONT COLOR="BLUE">VIII. <A NAME="Conclusion">Conclusion</A>: A Dream Becomes Real</FONT></B>
<P>
Looking back on the morning, I'm haunted by something one of my fellow
Bare-to-Breakers-ers said. As we jogged through the core of one of the world's
most renowned cities bare-assed, the soft-spoken young Allen-Ginsberg-type
whispered, "It's like a dream, but it's real." Yes -- the common night fantasy
of being caught naked in public, but with fear and embarrassment overpowered
by love, courage and tolerance. I suspect that many of the runners and spectators
who cheered us on recognized that wild expression of freedom in our gestures,
and may become more accepting of themselves because a few body-positive runners
dared to bare it all on the streets of San Francisco that fine May day.<BR>
<P><HR SIZE="5" width=270><CENTER>
<font size=2>This story was contributed by Mikal.<BR>
He can be reached at:<A HREF="mailto:
mikalm@ix.netcom.com"> mikalm@ix.netcom.com</A></font><BR>
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Copyrighted © 2006 Ted. All rights reserved.</font>
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</blockquote>
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