Half a mile from my new house is the real twistiest street in America. But the tourists don't flock to Vermont Street by the freeway, cracked concrete replacing adorable red brick along the curves. Where I am King of the Mountain.
Hit the liquor store at 23rd and go. Steep but gradual to a Kansas Street plateau, SF Gen to the west and racing cars below. Its far from serene, true urban racing. Totally runnable, my GAP dips towards four minutes as I bend left, catch my breath and ready for the climb.
I hit the stairs laboring, knowing that I have a few sets yet before the burning sets in. Maybe I'm not pushing it hard enough. But this is not a heavily trafficked route and if someone has run this faster than me, all the better and I'll get 'em next time.
I dragged Luchi out to Pier 70, weaving in and out of abandoned factories and warehouse where developers, neighbors and the city do battle over how one of the city's last wasted waterfronts will be transformed. A decade from now, I'll fight through crowds for the privilege of a glimpse of the water. But for now, I own these quiet streets, where the only thing filling the air are visions of the future, scraps of metal and broken windows evolving into glittering towers.