By Dave Kim

OCEAN BREEZE FEELS especially good when you're riding a bike along the San Francisco coastline, piss drunk, out of cash, and perilously close to veering into the water. One spring afternoon, a friend and I made this discovery after deciding to hit every bar and tippler's lounge we saw along the waterfront, from Mission Bay to as far as our livers would go. This is quite possibly the stupidest thing we've ever done, not to mention that it's undeniably illegal, but the beer-consuming public must know what the city's waterfront has to offer. We felt tremendously obligated, honored even.

Pier 66, pint one

On the morning of our expedition, we lay down some strict ground rules: (1) at least one beer in each bar; (2) a different brand each time, for educational purposes; (3) no cocktails or shots unless that's all the bar serves, to give us at least a fighting chance of survival; and (4) no buses, no taxis, no hitchhiking, because that would be cheating. I'm hoping we'll make it to the Presidio; my buddy Carlos thinks we're going all the way around the damn peninsula. "We're in it to win it," he bellows in his best frat-boy voice, hopping on a borrowed Schwinn. The rear brakes are shot, but the idiot swears he'll be OK doing front-wheel stoppies. I predict he'll go over his handlebars at least twice.

Starting from an undisclosed location in Potrero Hill, we pedal across the flat industrial landscape toward the bay, fiercely determined, Togo's sandwiches resting precariously in our stomachs. It's a good day for a beachfront ride.

Our first pit stop is the Ramp (855 China Basin, S.F. 415-621-2378), a tiki-type lounge with a sunny wooden patio. The bar features live salsa music on the weekends, pulling in the sexy, ass-moving crowds for afternoon dancing. But we're here on a Wednesday morning, and the bikini-clad salsa fans turn out to be gruff, shit-talking old-timers in wrinkled suit jackets. They eat cheeseburgers, hurling insults at one another between bites. Locals and boat enthusiasts seem at home inside the bar, which boasts bait-shop decor and an enormous fishing rod bolted to the wall. Al, our bartender, tells us the Ramp is San Francisco's "best-kept secret: just 100,000 of our closest friends and us." We meet legendary trumpet player Joe Ellis (who preludes his long rants with "You wanna hear about some real shit? I'll tell you some real shit!"), talk city politics over a pint of Full Sail, then say our good-byes.

Just up the street is Kelly's Mission Rock (817 Terry François, S.F. 415-626-5355), swanky dance club by night, California bistro by day. We're too early for happy hour (daily, 4 p.m. to sunset), and it's fairly empty aside from the tables on the balcony, where diners can admire two colossal cruise ships basking in the water. Bartender John "Stout" pours us pints of Anchor Steam and tells us, half smiling and half irked, that he's deemed a jinx: business slows to a crawl each time he works a day shift. Kelly's is known for its nighttime gigs anyway, including hip-hop, dancehall, and reggae parties. The hangout has a pseudo-industrial feel, like a cargo warehouse cum modern-art museum, with just a touch of woodsiness.

It's a lengthy ride from Mission Rock to our next waterfront bar, so we down our beers fast and hit the road. Just past SBC Park on the Embarcadero, MoMo's (760 Second St., S.F. 415-227-8660) is a higher-end family place with a large patio facing the street. It's technically a restaurant, but we can't say no to the huge sports bar, a busy spot for Giants fans on game days. MoMo's is no fancy franchise joint, but aside from an old Candlestick Park road sign and some local college football helmets, it has the markings of one: noncommittal decor, servers in business casual attire, bridge 'n' tunnel crowds (according to the barkeep) – basically, a restaurant bar like you'd find in the classier part of an East Bay suburb. We down our $6 pints of Hefeweizen and return to our wheels.

The beer is sloshing in our stomachs as we make our way to Red's Java House (Pier 30 at Bryant, S.F. 415-777-5626), whose craptastic façade – yellow slats, landmark sign with faded red lettering – hasn't changed much over the decades. Refurbishment obviously isn't too high on the agenda here, though the management has recently installed a no-frills bar – two taps, two stools, and a tip jar – on the waterfront patio. Red's is basically a humble lunchroom with a liquor license, where Financial District cubiclers can pretend to be dockworkers while local tightwads uninterested in ambience can buy cheap suds by the armful. Domestic beer comes in plastic Dixie cups, anti-gourmet burgers and dogs feed the crowds, and there's plenty of 92-year-old nostalgia to go around. According to Tony, the burly, paint-splattered manager, Budweiser was the only beer on tap from 1956 to 2000. Which makes us feel compelled to take advantage of the new and improved selection – and extra-wimpy when our beer-heavy stomachs force us to order Sprites instead. It's not even 2 p.m., and we're already bending the rules. Our heads hang in shame.

But soon enough it's time to rally, because right next door is a brand-new lounge called the Hi Dive (Pier 28 1/2 at Bryant, S.F. 415-977-0170), a sleek replacement for the infamously feral Boondocks bar. Hipsters with a penchant for understated class occupy this formerly blue-collar watering hole, sipping Stella Artois at the emerald green bar or in cozy leather booths. Appropriately named, the Hi Dive combines the intimacy and retro appeal of a dive bar with the elegance (read: large plasma-screen TV) of a nouveau riche hotel lounge. A guy sitting next to us asks for a can of Pabst – poured in a chilled kriek glass, no foam, with a squeeze of lime. Standard hipster mafia procedure.

Pier 26, pint six

By this time, we've skipped at least four or five restaurant bars, dispirited by the realization that visiting every San Francisco waterfront establishment that serves alcohol in one day is an impossibility. We've seriously underestimated the scope of our venture. Carlos suggests we limit ourselves to places that look the most "barlike," though neither of us can come up with any specific requisites. We shrug and move on. The rules are now pretty much defunct.

Gordon Biersch Brewery (2 Harrison, S.F. 415-243-8246) is next, and good god, do its garlic fries taste heavenly with a few pints of home-brewed beer. We inhale a toothsome plateful and listen to a waiter rave about some poker game he played over the weekend. The decor doesn't have much flair, but whatever the brewery lacks in character, it more than compensates for with six freshly brewed beers and a cozy outdoor patio. Our server brings us free samples of Dunkles, Märzen, Blonde Bock, Pilsner, Golden Export, and Maibock, and we do the sniff-swirl-and-swig thing 'cause we're dorks like that. A note to the chemistry inclined: mixing all the samples isn't a worthwhile experiment; I end up chugging a half pint of something Carlos swears tastes like a Moroccan chicken-stuffed pie. He's drunk, and I'm less than convinced.

We linger a little too long but eventually make it next door to Palomino (345 Spear, S.F. 415-512-7400), a palatial bar inhabiting the top layer of the tippler's cake and patronized by hotshot professionals and patrician socialites on the prowl. Drinks range from $8 to a cool $130. Hand-rolled cigars and six kinds of mojitos get their own respective pages in the menu. We breeze past the outdoor seating to hunker down at the shiny marble-top bar, where we gulp pints of Guinness and feel conspicuously out of place in our T-shirts and bike helmets. Jeff, our bartender, informs us that plenty of famous folk have made an appearance here, including dubious stars like Martha Stewart's aunt and the Backstreet Boys. We're soooo coming back on a weekend.

Carlos and I veto a few more restaurant bars and arrive at the Ferry Building, now a sumptuous marketplace with organic mushroom vendors, gelato stands, and a fantastic cheese shop. But our next whistle-stop is MarketBar (1 Ferry Building, S.F. 415-434-1100), a classy after-work joint and one of the first businesses to open in the recently renovated plaza. Though the bar has been around less than a year, it's already built up a solid clientele of regulars who crowd the sidewalk patio on sunny days. There's an impressive selection of liquor, but we're in no condition to order 18-year-old Scotch and opt for a safe pint of Pilsner before exploring the rest of the Ferry Building.

Tucked away in the far corner is the lustrous scenester purlieu Slanted Door (1 Ferry Building, S.F. 415-861-8032), formerly of Valencia Street and now in possession of a hipper-than-thou cocktail lounge that screams urban chic, with a massive wall of layered glass behind the bar, Vietnamese fusion food, ambient trip-hop playing from a DJ booth, sleek concept furniture, servers in black T-shirts bearing tiny, minimalist print, and cocktails with names like Slanted Jasmine and Summer on the Danube. The bar's liquor comes from independent producers, and all the produce and juices are organic, which makes it harder to despise the place. I try an esoteric mixture harrowingly named the Phantasm ("house-infused lemongrass vodka with lime, falernum, served up with a sugared rim"), and it shames me to admit it's the best fucking cocktail I've had in a long time, even for a whopping $9. We're tempted to finish off the day here, but the pilgrim's progress must go on.

Pier 23*, pint 12

By the time Carlos and I get to Pier 23 Café (Pier 23 at Battery, S.F. 415-362-5125), we're both raging drunk and have accepted that we're never going to make it to the Presidio. I've already fallen off my bike, rammed into Carlos's rear wheel, and peed about seven times since we started – circling the entire peninsula would be suicide. Disappointed but resigned, we trudge into the dapper, lunchroom-style establishment and sit at the bar, where a group of rowdy locals shout their hellos. It's a mostly young crowd – sporty-looking natives, a smattering of tourists – and nearly everyone seems to know one another. Four nights a week live music brings in the salsa, jazz, rock, and reggae fans, while a gorgeous waterfront deck lures folks outdoors at lunchtime. But the trademarks of the bar are clearly two black-and-white photos hanging on the west wall: front and rear views, respectively, of a dozen or so nude women covered in the right places by a wooden corral fence. The rearview print takes pride of place on the backs of all the bartenders' T-shirts. We eat $8 nachos (expensive for a blanket of orange cheddar and beans, topped with a nubbin of guacamole) and head back out.

Carlos somehow convinces me to skip all the restaurants on Pier 39 and Fisherman's Wharf. I'm positive there are more "barlike" eateries in the area – like the one blaring loud jazz, with a series of neon beer ads and a lengthy line outside the door. But we keep riding, flying past tourists and silver robot men, crooning Frank Sinatra tunes we don't know the lyrics to. There seems to be a causal link between inebriation and the urge to break out in song.

And then suddenly we're at Hooters (353 Jefferson, S.F. 415-409-9464). Yes, Hooters. The shameless haven for socially acceptable male voyeurism. Hawker of the ultimate hedonist combo: T&A, beer, and grease-laden American eats. The spot thousands of men across the globe claim to frequent because dammit, it's got great chicken wings. We take note of the "delightfully tacky" adornments (a large "Caution: Blondes Thinking" sign hangs on the far wall, upside down. Get it? Ha!) and drink a few tasteless domestic beers.

After Hooters, we decide (regretfully) to make the next bar our last stop. Night has arrived, and neither of us can successfully operate a moving vehicle. By some insane stroke of fate, we end up at the mothership of all pubs: Jack's Bar (2801 Leavenworth, S.F. 415-567-3227), the beer aficionado's paradise of Fisherman's Wharf. This pub has an imposing 84 brews on tap, from Bud Light to Bitburger, their spigots lined up neatly along the lengthy bar. A sign behind us declares, "40 Beer Limit Strictly Enforced." Bill, the owner, estimates that nearly half of the patrons are from overseas, only 10 percent locals. "People just keep coming back every year," he brags. Live music plays on the patio weekend afternoons, and a reasonably priced American menu feeds the masses.

Leaving the bar brings a tear to my eye, and it's not just because Carlos has belted me in the face with his bike helmet. A gush of pride dilutes some of the beer in my system, though I'm painfully aware we didn't come close to succeeding. Call us wusses if you will, but we've soaked our proverbial whistles, and it's a long-ass ride back to BART. Carlos and I resolve to finish the journey another day. Until then, though, we highly recommend that you rediscover the tourist zoos and industrial watering holes of San Francisco's stunning waterfront.

And stay away from bicyclists.