O.K. I took off this morning determined to continue my program of Intervals. I warmed up for a mile or so and then started sprinting along China Basin, recovered around the ball park and then charged up The Embarcadero, chugga-chugga-chugga.
When I got to the end I was again reminded of the World We Live In Now. Years ago I could go around the back of Fort Point and be almost under the bridge; no more.
I guess runners have always planted their hands at whatever was at The End, and I've been seeing some sort of hand prints for years, but it wasn't until Judy told me the story of Hopper's Hands (now with a formal metal plaque) that I knew there was a story behind them.
A bridge ironworker named Ken Hopper, who takes suicide calls, had the sign made after noticing the runners (and even a runner's dog) hit the fence at the turn-around. Scott Ostler wrote his, and the other ironworker's, very moving story in the Chronicle. Do read it.