Bay to Breakers: Why every true San Franciscan owns a costume box

The unwashed masses 

Bay to Breakers is a San Francisco tradition. For those of you not familiar with it, it's a 12k that spans from one end of the city to the other. But unlike traditional races, this one has a distinct San Francisco-ey appeal (and I'm not only talking about the wafting marijuana clouds that you'll inevitably walk through during that day.) It's arguably the biggest party of the year.

Organizers had threatened to kill the fun this year, saying that floats would be prohibited, and no drinking was involved. That's akin to cancelling Christmas to a 4-year old and telling him there's no Santa Claus. I AM NOT EXAGGERATING. I don't think anyone was trying to kill the fun, just limit the inordinate amounts of trash that the city pays for since only a small portion of the thousands of attendees actually pay the $40+ race fee (that helps fund the cleanup efforts.) But as race day drew near, they lifted some of the restrictions, and floats were allowed (only at the end), alcohol was ok & only kegs were prohibited (but basically just needed to be disguised) and even though there were reports of a 'no nudity' clause this year, nary 39 minutes had passed before I saw my first genuine micropenis. This is a frightening animal in the wild, I shit you not.


This year – as with the last two – I chose to participate in this spectacle-cum-soirée. Donning my ball gown & adding a few accoutrements, I emerged as Miss California, replete with visible bosom. (Well, slightly.)

At our spot at Alamo Square watching the 'runners'

It was a long day, but as a veteran, I knew the importance of pacing. And hydration. And food…oh yes, I give credit where it's due, and Little Chihuahua quesadilla kept me motorin', Sister Christian style. Well, that and a mid-day mininap, after which I heeded the call of my friend Andrew and headed back out to dance my booty off at a nearby bar. It wasn't his persuasive words that coerced me; rather, it was the promise of his famous hotpants. And Andrew, as always, delivers.

Andrew can sport gold lamé like it's nobody's business

Friends, I think we've found my Christmas Card. Now, how to explain *this* one to Mom & Dad is another story entirely.

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