Chapter Seventeen
It’s All in the Timing
I arrived at the Palace of Fine Arts slightly before seven a.m., already crowded with people on foot and cars searching for a place to park. Frank had put a promised VIP sticker on my windshield sometime during the night. This opened streets for me otherwise closed to ordinary vehicles. Elegant homes, some unassuming, some screaming their wealth, were jammed into this small, upscale section of San Francisco near the waterfront. In this residential neighborhood, parking was difficult under normal circumstances, but now it was ridiculous.
Hidden by trees and buildings, I knew the Golden Gate Bridge loomed nearby like an orange-red skeleton of a gargantuan, mythical beast. After fifteen minutes of crawling from Lyon Street to Crook Street, I pulled into the VIP temporary parking lot set up on the side of the road. A barking attendant pointed me into a cramped space between two bushes barely wide enough to open the car door.
Once out on the street, I joined hundreds of people making their way to register for the race and pick up their bib. When last checked, the entries had numbered over three thousand. Comfortably cramming so many runners into this small neighborhood was next to impossible and didn’t include spectators and ‘bandits,’ or interlopers, the ones who ran along at the last minute, sans bib and entrance fee. There would probably be several hundred of them.
The sun was breaking through silvery clouds and loosening the cold’s grip on the night. All in all, it promised to
be a perfect day for running, the temperature languishing somewhere in the upper fifties, low sixties.
I love this part of San Francisco. Old world and slightly hidden away, it’s only a short walk to the Bay and a marina, housing boats from the St. Francis and Golden Gate Yacht Clubs. There’s also Crissy Field, a fabulous open park, with drop dead views of the San Francisco Bay. Families are out here all the time, kids flying colorful kites in the breezes off the water. Turn left, and it’s no more than a three-minute drive on Highway 101 to the Golden Gate Bridge, which takes you to Sausalito and beyond. Turn right, a short drive on Marina Boulevard takes you along the Embarcadero, passing the Ferry Building, Pier 39, and a myriad of other buildings, all fronting the Bay. In fact, it was in one of these warehouses where I found the body of Portor Wyler, one cold and wintry day, but it’s another story, and one which still gives me the shivers.
From that part of the Embarcadero, you can see the Bay Bridge straddling the Bay, linking San Francisco with Oakland and beyond.
Along with the throng, I scurried to Lundeen Street and toward the cement covered lawn in front of the curved Exploratorium Science Museum, where registration was taking place. This amazing, hands-on museum was founded in 1969 by a really neat physicist named Dr. Frank Oppenheimer. Built in a semi-circle around one side of the rotund Palace of Fine Arts, I can remember coming up here as a small child and seeing what made lightning. In fact, I got to make some. Once, I even got to pet a live starfish. You can’t make up those kinds of memories.
I glanced beyond the museum at the pinkish Palace of Fine Arts in a small garden alongside a manmade lake, complete with gliding swans. The Palace’s salmon-colored domed roof was warm and golden, reflecting the new day’s sun and looking almost alive. I guess if I could live anywhere in San Francisco, right here would be the place, maybe on one
of the park benches. Of course, the nights would be chilly, and I would probably be arrested for loitering, but what an incredible living diorama.
Turning my attention back to the upcoming race, I saw last minute registration and sign-ins were well underway. A light autumn wind ruffled a huge, off-white tent, temporarily set up to house supplies and personnel. Directly in front of the tent, long tables sat side by side. Wearing white skirts of large letters of the alphabet drawn on flimsy, eleven by fourteen cardboard, they boogied in the constant wind. I stepped aside, not joining the registrants as they fell into the fifteen or so lines, according to the beginning letter of their last name.
I studied the busy and upbeat crowd, some in groups, some loners, chatting, pinning on their bibs, or doing light stretches for the big event starting in about twenty minutes. I couldn’t see any of my men and was about to press the speed dial for Gurn’s number, when I heard his voice.
“Hi, sweetheart! I thought I’d find you here!” Gurn had come up from behind. He wheeled me around and planted a big kiss on my mouth. He broke free and went on, “I figured you’d be here eventually, so I’ve been hanging around waiting for you.” His eyes searched my face with concern. “You look tired. Anything happen? Or did worrying about me keep you up half the night?” Before I could answer, he continued in a rush, defending his position.
“Honey, I’ll be fine. Really, I’ve been in worse messes, and I’m surrounded by Frank’s men.” He stopped pushing his point of view and looked at me, large question marks zapping at me from his eyes.
That’s when it hit me; Gurn didn’t know about the previous night’s horror. Apparently, neither Richard nor Frank had told him yet. Jeesh, usually those two are the biggest gossips since Entertainment Tonight. I thought for sure one of them would have unloaded on him by now.
Driving all the way up, I’d been rehearsing what I’d say to counteract Gurn’s reaction. If he didn’t hit the roof, he’d
probably throw a blanket over my head, toss me across one shoulder, and carry me home with him.
Of course, the last part sounded pretty good, so I was tempted to spill about Flint being shot, Spaulding nearly killing me, and Tugger saving my life. But I hesitated, looking up into his gorgeous green-gray eyes, and a face wearing a million dollar smile. Gawd, I loved this man.
Even though I wanted to share everything with him, this wasn’t the time. If he was going to run this race, he needed a clear mind. But it didn’t stop me from making one more feeble attempt to dissuade him from doing so. Every serious relationship needs a certain amount of nagging.
“Gurn, I really wish you wouldn’t—” He stopped my words with another kiss.
“Lee, we’ve been all over this.” He said after, lowering his voice and looking around. He pulled me over to a roped-off Magnolia tree, still holding onto large, creamy-colored flowers despite the onset of fall.
“This is the best way to flush them out.”
“I know, but—”
“I’m being careful. I’ve got Frank, this new guy, Charlie, and even Richard’s keeping an eye on me. Although, I don’t know where he is right now.”
“I know, but—”
“No buts, Lee.” He looked at me with challenge in his eyes. “You’ve got a better plan?”
“It’s just that—”
“This is the only way, Lee.”
“If you interrupt me one more time,” I threatened, pointing a finger in his face for emphasis, “I’m going to have to smack you.”
Gurn burst out laughing and drew me to him in an embrace. I lost my intent and relaxed into his arms.
“Just promise me you’ll be careful,” I murmured into his neck.
“Of course, I will, darling, I promise,” he murmured back. He broke from our embrace and looked into my eyes. “I’ve got a long, full life planned with you. I’m not going to do anything to shorten it.”
I tried to smile reassuringly, thinking about how I’d come close to shortening our life together, myself. Sometimes life comes at you like a freight train or a bargain basement three-hour sale. Bottom line: you’d better be ready.
I felt his warm breath on my cheek and asked, “What corral are you in?”
In this particular race, the runners are organized into corrals. Corrals are designated starting areas for participants with similar, estimated finishing times, set up along certain streets. Each race has its own rules, and in this one, placement within a corral is determined by your running average. You could only be in the first ten corrals if you have impressive finishing times in previous races. For people with no average at all, like Frank and Richard, they were probably somewhere in the back forty.
“I’m in number one. That’s right over there.” He pointed to the corners of nearby Baker and Bay. “Charlie’s in number three, so he’ll be close by.”
“Wow. You’re right in there with the big boys.”
“And girls. There are twenty of us, fifteen men and five women.”
“Any of them from other countries?”
“You bet. Most of them are from Ethiopia or Kenya. I ran with one man from Eritrea three years ago. He came in first, and I came in fifth. I think it’s the run that did in my knee.”
He let out a laugh, warm and sweet, and I stored its memory for a later time. Gawd, I loved this man. Wait a minute. I said that.
“I need to stretch out a little and get over to my corral.” He looked at his watch. “Yup. Nearly time. We start in fifteen minutes. Want to help pin my bib to my shirt?”
He stripped off his windbreaker to reveal a yellow tank top, somewhat covering his rippling and well-defined muscles. The warm color of the shirt emphasized the green of his eyes and matched his cheery disposition. Gurn ripped open a small plastic bag given to each specific runner, containing his numbered bib and four steel safety pins. He dumped the pins into my upturned palm, pressed his bib to his chest, and stood erect.
“Try to pin it on straight, Lee.” He smiled down at me, and I knew he was looking for a truce, for me to cooperate and help make this work. “I don’t want to look like a slob.”
“As if,” I said, grinning back at him. A truce it was.
With care, I fiddled with the bib on his shirt and began to pin it in place. I got a little sloppy with the last pin, and stuck him with the sharp point.
“Ow! Careful, sweetie. If I wasn’t awake before, I am now.”
“Sorry. I didn’t realize these bibs were so thick. It’s hard to get the pin through. By the way, have you seen Richard or Frank?” I was still wondering why neither my brother nor godfather had spilled the beans about the night before.
“No, Richard called earlier, but we didn’t have a clear connection. He’s back somewhere.”
The runners were lined up along the length of Baker Street, block by block. Front runners were placed at the beginning, on Bay Street. At the start gun, all runners would take off at the same time, but from their different intersections.
As usual, the race would circle the Palace on Palace Drive, head west on Lundeen Street and continue through Crissy Field—just to further torture everybody—and then along Mason Street to the end of Marine Drive. The run heads for the underbelly of the Golden Gate Bridge but makes a u-turn at Fort Point. A few hundred yards of retracing their steps, and then there’s the climb up and through Sea Cliff onto the breathtaking Lands End Trail, with views to die for.
This group will take no time for sightseeing, however, only occasionally making a pit stop for water. Those still with us will hang a left at El Camino de Mar, where they start an even more arduous climb up to the Palace of the Legion of Honor, ending up on Thirty-Fourth Avenue and in the circular parking lot in front of this noble-looking museum.
In between both palaces are hills, bumpy pavement, dirt, wide paths, narrow lanes, rocks, and grass, and a lot of heavy panting. It isn’t so much the distance—just a little over seven miles—but the terrain. At least ninety percent of the run is uneven, uphill, and difficult. Some people drop out midway and head over to Greens, a great vegetarian restaurant in Ft. Mason, for a well-deserved breakfast. That would be my route.
Before all these people started running for whatever reasons possess people to do so, I would have driven overland to wait at the finish line. The problem seemed to be at the finish line, and I wanted to be there well ahead of time.
“Okay, sweetie, I gotta go,” Gurn said, blowing me a quick kiss.
“Wait!”
He dutifully turned around and waited for what I had to say, running in place.
“Don’t forget to look for me at the end of the race. I might need to tell you something. You never know. Keep a lookout for me,” I shouted.
He gave me the okay sign with thumb and forefinger formed in a small circle, spun around and ran to his corral.
Three short blasts from speakers scattered on posts and on trees, gave the warning the race was scheduled to start in fifteen minutes. Last minute entrants frantically tried to find the locations of their corrals. The easygoing atmosphere vanished and was replaced by a rushed excitement and tension. Before I left for the car, I whipped out my cellphone to call Richard.
He answered on the first ring. I had a much better connection than Gurn said he’d had.
“Hey, Lee. Got my blue tooth in and been waiting for your call. And by the way, Mom told me what happened. You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Couldn’t be better,” I lied.
“I’m still trying to take it in. Tugger earned his keep last night. Where are you?”
“I’m near the check-in at the palace. And thanks for not saying anything to Gurn. I appreciate it. Where are you?”
“Standing around with the other losers at Baker and Francisco. And I was going to tell him, but I thought it would be better coming from you. You’re going to shut the front door from now on when you get home, right?”