For the first time ever, I participated in San Francisco’s rite of passage, the annual seven-mile Bay to Breakers party-race-extravaganza. And, well, um, I think this meager video speaks more loudly than any incoherent parsing on my end.
That hottie in the orange cheerleading skirt spinning fire without the fire is my running buddy/good pal Autumn, who got quite the fan support for her routines.
We had all these elaborate plans for costumes—get this: we had nine people in our original count and were going to go as a lip-plumped Octo-Mom and her Octo-Babies (tails, respirators and all)—but they fell by the wayside as I was out of town until the day before and didn’t have the time nor energy to whip something up. Next year, kids.
I’ve never seen so many naked people above the age of three in one place, and some pretty intricate life-size pieces of “art.”
SVV, who “conveniently” banged up his knee (and also my camera) on a whooptie two weeks ago and is on disability leave until mid-July, got out of running it—this time—but was at the bison pasture on mile six awaiting us, taking pictures of many of the weirdos creative souls who passed him by (we didn’t see the majority of crazies, as we actually ran the race, and most come straggling in five hours down the line).
From there, we tracked down Jemima, her hubs, and their pantless dog Beulah like the huntresses we are and trekked back to their place for bottomless mimosas and Jemima’s world-class, slam-yo-momma-good French toast (made from her homemade bread, I might add).
I’m a total lightweight and hardly a partier, so instead of heading to the polo field after leaving J’s and partaking in some true B2B madness, SVV and I took a leisurely walk—hobble on his part—through it, then along Sunset and soaked up the glorious 80-degree weather. It really couldn’t have been a more perfect day for such a fete.