It's like this short story, "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge." A chaser runs after you, you know that it's over but, at the very last moment, you have this cunning idea that could work, you escape against all odds, you keep running, seemingly forever, farther and farther, across the Golden Gate Bridge, through Marin County and Oregon and Canada, your burning lungs, your aching legs, you don't feel the pain any longer and the world around you is full of smiling, cheering, and waving people - and then you feel a hand on your back and you're back in San Francisco, tagged.

This time my Owl Creek Bridge was between the first and the second checkpoint. I had safely made it to the bus stop at Folsom and 7th. Standing there was a bit like taking shelter from heavy rain. Just with chasers instead of rain. You stick your head out, you realize how heavy the rain still is, and you are awed into waiting for a few more minutes. Raindrops, however, normally don't yell "Friggin' safe zones!" at you while passing. And then you make the calamitous mistake that you always make in heavy rain and that England sometimes makes in soccer: You start bravely - but not very strategically - dashing forward, hoping for the best.

For a couple of seconds things actually went according to plan. I was running towards 6th and, halfway there, I was impossible to miss by an oncoming group of chasers. They started running, too, and I turned around in an attempt to make it back to the bus stop - which by then seemed too risky to reach. Another group of chasers was hanging out at the French deli truck next to the stop. Where had they come from? Desperate, I ran into a small side street and the unthinkable happened: the chasers lost interest. Unfortunately, they lost interest, because I was running into the arms of other chasers. I managed to stay ahead of them for a couple of yards. But my pounding head had started to feel as if an energetic couple was dancing polka in it whilst wearing ski boots. My lungs felt as if I had inhaled a little person with a sandblaster who was now merrily sandblasting away inside. My legs felt like the wooden utility posts in North Beach - nails and staples everywhere. I had my Owl Creek moment. England vs. Chasers - 0:1.

We sat down on the pavement, exhausted, and what followed would have made for a pretty good public service announcement for sportsmanship, only that it was real and genuine. We talked for a while about the anxious anticipation that we had felt back at the Ferry Building, the routes that we had taken to the first checkpoint, how the journey changed your perspective of places that you had seen a dozen times before, how the journey made you find and explore places that you had never seen before, how it made you spot details around you that would otherwise go unnoticed, and how the journey was a little bit like making love: physical, but the best part happened in your head.

Call me naive, but somehow the knowledge that there are people around who organize experiences like the journey helps me keep my belief in mankind.