Remembering a Bay Area race worth forgetting

I started running in May of 2013. That fall I had run a couple 5k’s and my first half-marathon (see my previous column). Somehow, I thought I could run my first full marathon by January 2014 – and I did.

That race, the second and last Honkers Marathon in Anaheim, gave me the confidence to sign up for the San Francisco Marathon the following July.

Sometimes confidence is misplaced.

First, let me say I’m not a big fan of San Francisco. Don’t get me wrong, it’s got a lot of great culture and history, but overall, it’s not a place I choose to visit if given my druthers. Still, I figured it would be exciting to run in The City.

The day before was spent doing lots of touristy things just because I had never seen San Francisco from that perspective. There’s always something to do and see, and where else can you hear five different languages being spoken on a short walk down the Embarcadero?

That night, even though I had turned in early, there was no sleep due to anxiety and the all-night noise from a nightclub across the street from the hotel. Despite the lack of sleep, I got ready and walked several blocks to the starting corrals of the race, not far from the Bay Bridge on that same Embarcadero that had been swarming with a totally different crowd the day before. The sun had yet to rise.

Remembering a Bay Area race worth forgetting

A few thousand people were getting into their waves to begin running at staggered start times. I think I was somewhere near the back.

By the time my wave started, a light rain had begun to fall, dropping the temperature on an already chilly city. (Or was I shaking because my anxiety and excitement were battling it out?)

We ran into the truly tourist-centric area along Pier 39 and past Ripley’s and other neon-lit attractions. People chatted with other runners excitedly. The sidewalks were flanked with spectators holding signs of encouragement or sarcasm.

Out of the glitz, the rain subsided and the line of insane peo- I mean, the line of runners headed through the Presidio and then up the first sign of doom: a hill. The words of my Uncle Ron, also a runner, came back to me: “Run as fast uphill as you plan to run downhill.” In other words, “Easy does it.”

It was a pretty steep hill that I and most other runners slowly trudged up. There were a select few showoffs who we collectively glowered at.

Side note: in the running world, we refer to lanky runners who don’t seem to break a sweat as “gazelles.” They have a tendency to make every step look flawless as they bound along, while the rest of us plod, sweat profusely and grunt in response to questions.

Just around the corner from the top of that hill was a landmark I had only ever previously viewed from afar: The Golden Gate Bridge. It was my first time going across it and I was running it. It was magnificent. It was difficult to pay attention to the crowds of runners all around (was that guy juggling and running?) while wanting to look off the side of the bridge at the bay below.

Once across the bridge, we circled around and came back over the reddish-orange structure. That put us at the 10-mile mark. Just 16.2 miles to go. But first, another hill. And then another. And another.

Finally, we reached the midway point of the marathon in Golden Gate Park. Some runners finished there since they were only running a half. Others started for the same reason. One of the fresh-faced runners was a guy in a bathrobe, shower cap and slippers, holding a copy of The San Francisco Chronicle. At least he wasn’t naked.

More hills and twists and turns came inside the park. I thought it couldn’t get any hillier than that. After all, wasn’t the down the hill at the base of this madness? I thought wrong.

Exiting Golden Gate Park into Haight-Ashbury, I was hit by the undeniable smell of … urine. It’s hard to run an endurance sport that requires breathing when you’re running through neighborhoods that smell of pee and pot smoke.

Doing my best to avoid inhaling, I ran down a hill, then walked up a hill. Surely there were no more hills after this, right? By this point, all the cool weather San Francisco is known for had given way to bright, sunny skies, bouncing off the pavement into my face. It made the hills even more unbearable. Yet, rounding a corner, there was another uphill climb. My quads screamed at me to “make it stop.”

With each climb, I lost a little more hope that this race would ever end.

As I reached bottom and neared the finish line, I would run a little, then walk a little. Doing my best to keep pushing forward. Coming around AT&T Park, a runner had collapsed and was receiving medical attention.

Finally, the end of the race was in sight. Crossing the finish line, I vowed never to run again. When I got home, I promptly signed up for my next race.