I hate running. Even just the thought of it evokes within me a certain childlike petulance. I slouch. I sulk. And more than anything else, my stomach curdles — a bubbling, miasmic discomfort, best described as something like stage fright mixed with food poisoning. The response is innate; I admit it’s a flaw. But for this reason, it’s not surprising that as I’m waiting in line to register for the 2015 Rogue Ales House 5K City Beer Run, all I can think about is finding a bathroom.
The registration table for the day’s 5K had been set up in the beer garden behind the Ales House — a rustic space that City Beer Runs, the company that was putting on the day’s event, had turned into something of a runners’ party. Stacked on the picnic tables were water coolers, baskets of free wristbands, and complimentary packets of energy jelly, which CBR personnel handed out enthusiastically. Carly Rae Jepson water-ballooned out of the speakers. On a table near the back of the garden, prizes for today’s post-run raffle were displayed — a pot that included an irrationally large box of organic oatmeal (made with chia seeds) and a year’s subscription to Runner’s World magazine.
As the garden filled up, and as my girlfriend, Alex, and I inched forward in line, I forgot about the bathroom for a second and returned to the question that brought me here: Why the hell do people participate in 5K beer runs?
In case you’re like me and spend most of your time watching Netflix, beer runs are events that incorporate alcohol consumption before, during, or after a loosely organized run of varying distances. They’re insanely popular. In the preceding couple of days, I figured that the beer aspect of the whole experience must be what accounts for its popularity. I like drinking beer, especially on Saturdays, and especially before noon. That made sense to me.
Accordingly, I’d assumed while heading into today that people would be drinking beer before the run as well as after. In fact, on the way to the event, Alex and I had stopped by a liquor store and bought two 25 oz. cans of Bud Light just so we could pregame a bit. I’d read that runners are supposed to “carb up” before a big run; that’s how I justified it.
Turns out, I was wrong. After drinking most of our beer outside the liquor store, chugging for lack of time, we made our way to the beer garden to register. Outside we met a coiled squirrel of a woman named Maggie from Wisconsin. She’d been running in place and checking her pulse when she saw us walking up.
“Oh my god,” she said, stopping abruptly. “What are you guys doing?”
I looked down at my beer, confused. Then I realized.
“Uh, carbing up?”
By 10:45, nearly 75 runners, clad in only slightly varying shades of Nike performance apparel, assembled in the garden. From my spot in line, I scanned the crowd. Everyone was sweating; at 85 degrees, it was the hottest morning in the history of San Francisco
“I’m not going to let you walk, you know,” Alex said, turning to me as we approached the registration table.
“You’ll be carrying me, then,” I replied, only half kidding.
Alex, whom I’d brought with me today for moral support, is frustratingly fit — a gazelle in yoga pants. She rolled her eyes and handed me my post-run drink ticket, which I pocketed grumpily.
We found a place beside one of the picnic tables to stand. I started to look for someone to interview. I found a man whose name I learned to be Nick — a tall, third-time participant from the Panhandle. I asked him what advice he had for a first-time runner.
“You know,” he said, with a finger on his chin, “some people might tell you to carb up. That’s bullshit. Don’t need to. Leads to dehydration and cramping. If you carb up, you’ll be puking by mile 2.”
I nodded.
“Hmm, yeah, that’s what I heard too.”
Just then the music cut off, and a CBR employee grabbed a microphone.
“Runners,” he said, “iiiiit’s time for the run. Follow your CBR reps to the park to warm up.”
My stomach dropped again, reminding me of the very real possibility that I might soon poop myself. We left the bar as a pack. We were herded over to Washington Square, where we were compelled to verbally accept liability for our own death, dismemberment, or disturbance, should we have incurred any of the like upon ourselves. I realized why this was necessary once we’d been briefed on the route, which wasn’t protected really in any way. We were expected to run along the sidewalk in a sort of meandering mob, left to dodge traffic and tourists and cable cars with nothing but our wits.
“Are you guys ready?” the City Beer Run rep asked.
Six or seven people said yes, and then, indeterminably, awkwardly, we all started running.
Mine were a bumbling, clumsy set of first steps. The beer from before sloshed around in my gut like water in a bucket.
“How you doing?” Alex asked, as we jogged down Columbus Street toward the water, assuming our place in the middle of the pack.
“Let’s find a Chipotle and hide till this is over,” I replied.
Alex ignored me, understandably. Left with no other option, I pressed on, accepting my fate. However, after a few blocks, I actually felt pretty good — the moist, bay-born breeze felt nice on my cheeks, and the bright, Tahoe-blue sky awakened within me an appreciation for how beautiful my city really is. Baristas and bartenders ventured out from their cafes to cheer us on. A faint urban scent of cannabis wafted over us from Joseph Conrad Square. The water glistened and lapped melodiously as we reached it.
When our pack started up the hill to Fort Mason, the beer in my stomach started sloshing more violently. Reminders of why I hate running returned passionately to my consciousness.
“Alex” I groaned, my face pinched. “We gotta stop.”
“We’re not even done with the first mile yet.”
I took a second to process this horrific news. I said nothing back. We turtled on, and eventually we reached the turnaround point on the Marina side of Fort Mason, where CBR employees directed us back toward Rogue.
When we got back to the top of Fort Mason, with the Golden Gate standing stoic and perpetual behind us, I stopped.
Alex turned around.
“What are you doing?”
“Alex,” I said, with my hands on my knees and head down, “go on without me, I think — ”
“No!” Alex said. She grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me back up. “Don’t be a bitch.”
Then she yanked my arm and started towing me down the path like Forrest Gump taking Lieutenant Dan out of the jungle. We plodded down the hill, trundled around the water, and jogged our way back to Columbus Street. The Trans America building emerged in the distance.
Block by block we got closer to Rogue. Alex didn’t relent; somehow with each step, she compelled us to run faster.
“Come on!” she screamed as we crossed Chestnut Street, windmilling her arm in the direction of the bar.
I clenched my teeth as we drew closer. Two blocks. One block. I dropped my head. The streets passed in a bruised, sepia-filtered blur of Muni buses and smart cars. I let out a roar as we crossed the finish line, then collapsed promptly on the pavement. Various members of our loyal herd stopped to help as they, too, crossed the finish line. They hoisted me to my feet. The first thing I saw was Alex’s face. I realized I’d never been more attracted to her than I was at that moment.
A few minutes later we were filing down through the beer garden and into the bar. Katy Perry had replaced Carly Rae Jepson. Nevertheless, inside the bar the mood was jovial. Conversations clinked. Faces glistened. Soon all the runners were back — runners whom I soon learned were not only runners but also account managers and artists and brewers of their own beer. San Franciscans.
Alex and I made some friends and traded a few high fives before we reached the bar. We gave the bartender our drink tickets and were handed two Dead Guy Ales. I finished mine in roughly 10 seconds. Alex, ditto. Suddenly, Nick appeared, smiling and drinking. We all ordered more beer and topped it off with a plate of fries, which Alex and I took to the garden, where watched the raffle. Alex won the organic oatmeal.
I get it now — why people do these things. I feel kind of shitty for not getting it before; my petulance has been replaced by pride. Also inspiration. It seems to me that in times like these — times of Google-anxious change — San Francisco needs events like CBR’s 5K beer run more than ever.
Later, after the raffle, as Alex and I sat reflecting and got ready to leave, we saw Maggie approaching from inside the bar.
“Glad to see you guys made it,” she said.
We laughed. Maggie said she had faith in us all along. Then she pulled out two drink tickets.
“My sister and I are on our way out. We’re not drinking, so I figured you might want these.”
She handed us the tickets. I didn’t know what to say back. In the moment it felt like the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me. As she walked away, I was filled with the oddly comforting feeling that I’d just met a long-lost aunt or something.
“Hey,” Alex said as we stood to retrieve our beers, “didn’t you need to go to the bathroom?”
I smiled and breathed in deep.
“Not anymore.”
