Let the games begin!

All of these issues came together for me in a very personal, and weird, way when the Olympic torch relay came to San Francisco last spring.

San Francisco is a city that legendarily protests everything. There's a sizeable Tibetan community here, lots of progressives who are highly critical of China's government -- and also a huge, proud Chinese population. This added up to trouble. Everyone knew there were going to be big protests, and possibly major disturbances. Mayor Gavin Newsom had declared that he wanted to honor the torch but also allow protests. That was a reasonable policy, but the devil was in the logistics, and no one knew how he was going to handle the situation.

I had been in Sydney's Newtown in 2000 when the Olympic torch relay came through and protesters came out to give the torch the "brown eye," and I wasn't going to miss this. I wanted to celebrate the Olympic torch on its only stop in North America, but I also wanted to protest China's repression of Tibet. Both impulses seemed legitimate to me, and I didn't see anything contradictory about them.

I jumped on my mountain bike and headed down Nob Hill to downtown. The torch was supposed to go along the waterfront. When I got to the plaza near the Ferry Building at the foot of Market Street, thousands of people, at least half of them protesters, were milling about in the streets. Word came down that there had been some ugly scenes near the ballpark, where the torch run had started. No one knew where the torch was or if the whole thing had been canceled. The cops didn't know either.

My investigative instincts sharpened by years of exacting journalistic training, I called home. My wife told me that someone on TV had said that the torch had been put on a bus that was now on Van Ness, across town, heading north. By completely abandoning the original plan and moving the whole procession a mile or so west, Mayor Newsom had thrown a curve ball at the protesters, who were in the wrong place and wouldn't be able to catch up unless they were on bicycles. But he had also thrown a curve ball at all the people who wanted to cheer on the torch. I had two strikes on me and the game hadn't even started.

I had to get across town fast. I could see the news helicopters hovering over the convoy. I guessed they must be around Sutter Street. They were obviously moving very slowly, so I figured it would take them 10 minutes or so to go the nine blocks north to Broadway, on the western side of Russian Hill. So I barreled on my bike through the Financial District, skirting the old Barbary Coast, up to the border of North Beach and Chinatown and into the Broadway Tunnel. As I whizzed along I saw a few protesters on bikes who had gotten wind of the new plan and were also zooming west by different routes. I cracked up as I realized this was the first and most dubious event of the games: The Middle-Aged, Camel-Smoking, Tequila-Guzzling, Mountain-Bike-Riding Journalist Versus the Torch!

My home-field advantage paid off. I had timed it perfectly. As I emerged from the tunnel, three blocks from my house, I saw the torch convoy heading down Van Ness ahead of me, motorcycle cops and other jogging security personnel surrounding a runner who was holding the torch aloft. There were only a few dozen people on the streets, and hardly any protesters. Newsom's plan had worked to perfection. It was just me, a few other bicyclists and whoever happened to be at Broadway and Van Ness at that moment.

The torch passed at its 12-minute-mile pace. The convoy was nearing the end of Van Ness. Which way was it going to go? It headed left on Bay. The traffic was congested there. I took a shortcut, cutting through the edge of Aquatic Park, up the steep hill to the Fort Mason green, and down to the waterfront on the other side, near where the ships had embarked for the Pacific Theater in World War II. A few other bikers were working up the hill and we laughed. "This is great!" another middle-aged guy wheezed as we neared the top.

I caught up with the convoy as it neared the Marina Green. By now quite a few protesters on bikes, including one young guy in a wacky Dr. Seuss-like knit hat and a little megaphone who was intoning something about the evils of Communism, had caught up. "Hands off Tibet!" the protesters yelled. A few people were waving American flags. Mostly people were just gawking.

I had already decided to protest and cheer. "Free Tibet!" I yelled feebly. "Go Olympics!" I was probably the only torch-procession viewer in the entire world to settle on this ridiculous compromise.

I kept riding along next to the torch as the runners, working in relays, carried it along the Marina Green in the direction of the Golden Gate Bridge. Finally, I gave up on the Tibet chant, got off my bike and applauded as the torch went past. I rode through the Presidio, up the hill to near the entrance to the bridge and waited with a small group of riders for the motorcade to appear, but the cagey Newsom had one last trick up his sleeve: at some point the torch motorcade somehow reversed course. I don't know if they did a "Godfather" U-turn on the Brooklyn Bridge number or what, but instead of the bridge they headed for the airport.

After that madcap afternoon, when I recalled how much fun I'd had chasing the torch, it struck me that maybe when you get down to it, fun is what the Olympics are all about. They are games, after all. And if most of the countries of the world can come together peacefully every four years to play beach volleyball, that can't be a bad thing.

Let the games begin!