This weekend I did another run. The official name of the event isn't the tourist shuffle, but the route does go from fisherman's wharf across the golden gate bridge and back. It is a distance that you do have to train for, but can also go to Oktoberfest the day before. In my view of hell the devil does not play the fiddle but the accordion.
The race started a few ticks after dawn as a mobile mosh pit; the narrow course barely fit the sneaker wearing hordes. After a few minutes the crowd thinned out and that was when I found myself running with a small pack that had my pace. There was a large guy wearing a belt with six goo bottles attached like he was a plumber, two cute girls with different styles of jog bras, and a guying wearing a Spiderman outfit.
Halloween is a year round celebration in California. You know you live in a nutty state when Northern Californians were the ones that didn't vote for the aging action star. I am working on the theory that Southern California must have much better weed.
We cruised along the northern edge of the city technically called the Marina but is actually affinity housing for peroxide blonds with expensive wardrobes. Most of them would still sleep for a few hours more before going to Starbucks or the Grove.
I decided that somewhere on my list of great exercise ambitions was to beat the arachnid.
Spidey wasn't backing down. I could make a little ground on him when he had to lift his mask up to get cyto max at water stops, but he kept on prancing with his spidery strength.
The thing is that if you run next to someone wearing a costume everyone along the course will point that out to you. All I heard besides sea gulls were cheers of "go Spiderman."
Throughout Spidey's career he has beaten among others Dr. Octopus, the Green Goblin, and Kingpin. But he has never encountered the obstacle that cause Lance Armstrong to quit a few laps early – San Francisco hills. New York might be great if you like baseball or Carrie Bradshaw, but San Francisco does wonders to your quads.
When we hit the last long flat I took off and never saw web crusader again. Even at the after race expo as I wondered if the booth for running massage should somehow be combined with the booth with the girls from the new Hooters, I couldn't see him. I guess he had gone back to being to Peter Parker.
I think competition can sometimes bring out the best us (unless you are giants, cubs, or red socks fan). Where would literature be with out the old man and the sea, or Ahab and his whale? Without Nobel prizes how would I hear about so many authors from around the world?
And so whether your next great event is running with the bulls in Spain or just running to video store to rent "Finding Nemo" try to pass the person next to you. Unless, of course, he is wearing a Flash costume.
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