Hike SF

In the Tenderloin it’s not unusual for big groups of homeless folks and crack addicts to block the entire sidewalk. Shuffling, howling, hollering, sometimes even singing, they pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Bold passersby push through, timid ones go back the way they came, and Goldilocksen circumvent via the gutter.

After a few near misses with cars, I decided that stepping into the street was not a good way to approach the problem. For a while I tried writing in my book as I walked towards. Sometimes, thinking I was four four, they’d step aside, sometimes they wouldn’t. After that I tried holding my book vertically with hands folded, like a Jehovah’s Witness. That sometimes worked too, but drew angry barks just as often.

On Wednesday morning, Leavenworth taught me a cleverer trick. Crowds tend to congregate on the shady side of the street. So those willing to walk in the sun will never be bothered.

The dense patchwork of alleyways below Market between 1st and 3rd is generally quite nice. Ecker Plaza, for example, sports lush flora and a soothing fountain. Further down, a pristinely kept brick building houses, as Laurence predicted, and old law firm, wherein giant metal I-beams are used as desks.

As Laurence and I together discovered, Ambrose Bierce Street (formerly Aldrich) is a different story entirely. The 10-foot wide alley way, too narrow for cars, serves only one purpose: public toilet. Potholes are filled with puddles of urine, and the sidewalks are studded with fresh steaming piles. The street has not one pleasant feature, except for the exits.

As we made our way to DQ’s for the Portuguese wheel, Laurence and I wondered aloud: is the alley ever cleaned? Whose job might it be? Does Mike Rowe know about this? What did Ambrose Bierce do to deserve this dishonor?

Joy later shed light. Ambrose wrote the Devil’s Dictionary, and was a sardonic and bitter fellow. Aldrich Street was renamed in 1988, along with a dozen other streets, per request of City Lights Books. Makes one wonder: was CLB’s choice of this putrid alley intentional?

Often do I come across murals, but rarely am I more impressed than by this huge homage to Mac Dre. See for yourself at the intersection of Langton and Harrison, just above 7th. Rest in peace, indeed.

An unlucky walk through Potrero could easily remind one of the worst sorts of suburbs–vast oceans of homes devoid of parks or businesses. What Ellie and I found on Saturday was much more interesting.

On Kansas, a block long condo defies the neighborhood’s old rule: one home per structure, two if yer sneaky. Flat faces, plain windows and boring colors leave one thinking the architect had lost his will to live. Fortunately trees across the street cast a shadow on the west face, robbing its visage of monotony.

Rhode Island loves Gothic imagery, but fears commitment. Lions, dragons, gargoyles and assorted mythical hybrids guard doorways and gardens. The leafy monster above was growing up the side of an Inn. Farther up lions with gold mustaches shooed solicitors.

After winding around the beer mug shaped block, we found that the delineation of the projects was very sharp. Shitty cars with sparkling rims wove back and forth, a drunk (or crazy) old man howled and gesticulated wildly on a street corner, and crushed cans of OE littered the sidewalk. Not on hint of this was visible even 100 feet away, due in no small part, I assumed, to the nearby homeowners having popo on speed dial.

Hungrily we perused posted menus along 20th and 18th, settling on Goat Hill Pizza, wherein oldies chime from the radio, and even older pictures of the neighborhood decorate the walls. To work off cheap and tasty dinner, we chose the hilliest possible route home, and I bored Ellie with a half dozen walking stories.

A few weeks back, Laurence and I turned off Gough onto Colton to explore a hook shaped alley. The hook surrounds a parking lot, and is small enough not to have a street name sign (although it’s thickly lined with no parking signs). Even streets without sign posts usually have their names stamped in the sidewalk at intersections, but hook truly had no identifying marks. After we bumped into the end–a sloping driveway with entrenched truck–Laurence wondered aloud if the hook even had a name.

I explained my experience: all street-like objects in San Francisco have names, regardless of how small or inconsequential. Sure enough, this one was Colusa Place.

My notebook map omits more alleyways and side streets than I expected–half a dozen so far. But never before have I found a street not known to Google maps, at least until Ellie and I discovered Severn Street.

Severn is an unpaved alleyway between Church and Chattanooga extending north from 23rd. A strip of grass divides two dirt tire tracks, overgrown trees and bushes crowd on all sides, and plump raspberries cry, “eat me!” A grassy clearing near the end hides two large wicker chairs. That would be a good place to sit on a Sunday afternoon, I thought, drinking mint juleps and speaking in fake southern drawls.

On the pre-BART portion of my morning walk on Monday, I very nearly bumped into the Adam and Jamie from MythBusters. Surrounded by a cameraman, sound guy, what appeared to be a producer and a few other companions, they emerged from Sun Fat Seafood on Mission. On the BART I started wondering what seafood-related myth they were busting.

Can you cut hair with crab claws? Do fish not smell under water? Can you keep a fish alive on ice for two days? We’ll see next season, I suppose.

No, fan boys, Kari was not there. Although on the BART I did run into Nori’s friend Jaime, who is–if you’ll forgive me for saying–hotter than Kari by far

On the sidewalks of Laskie resides a small homeless camp around Bike Kitchen, which was closed, but I assume hosts hot meals daily. “What time is it?” the upright dweller asked.

Looking at my watch, “quarter to ten,” I responded. He looked at me so quizzically that I stopped. We stared at each other for a minute. Speaking slowly this time: “nine forty five.” “Oh! Thankee,” he said, and laid back down. I’d done this dance enough times to suspect a curious gap in vernacular comprehension of local homeless folks.

Shortly after, on Minna and 9th, a homeless man was winding up like a baseball pitcher. His ball was a small scrap of paper, which slowly fell to earth near the edge of the sidewalk. Somehow thinking it was a real ball, and somehow thinking it had fallen in the middle of the street, he started screaming, “timeout, timeout,” and ran into traffic. Brakes squealed and horns blared as drivers begrudgingly avoided hitting him. His imaginary ball had rolled under a car, so he got on hands and knees to reach underneath a light truck.

Near my shuttle stop, a hefty woman was perusing trinkets for sale on a blanket, and talking to herself. “He doesn’t ever take me out, say I don’t need to eat no more. I’ll buy myself something.” She was hovering over an assortment of half full hotel-sized bottles of lotion. “I know I’m a fat bitch, I don’t care, I’ll take his ass to dinner.”

Update: The Bike Kitchen is a bicycle repair coop, not a soup kitchen. I should do my research before posting, not after.

July 23rd was my hundredth day of the challenge–a fine time to take stock.

• number of walks: 64
• distance walked: 239.38 miles (385.25 km)
• average distance per walk: 3.74 miles (6.02 km)
• longest walk: 13.65 miles (21.96 km) on July 22
• shortest walk: 0.61 miles (0.99 km) on April 16

Typical walks are definitely getting longer. At first, hour long walks felt long, but now even a quick walk is an hour and a half, and weekend walks are usually at least three.