Our reporters competed via bike, Lyft, car, Muni, scooter and their own feet — here's who got to the Warriors' new home first.

Getting to Chase Center for games will be a breeze, Warriors honchos promised again and again. Buses and street cars will whisk you there in a twinkling. Parking will be orderly. The streets will be friendly to pedestrians, scooters and bikes alike.

So now, as the Warriors get ready to open their first regular season at home Thursday, fans are asking: Really?

After all, long before this entertainment leviathan rose from the dirt, that part of Mission Bay was pretty empty and easy to get to. These days, negotiating the packed-together medical campuses and condo blocks can be intimidating to the uninitiated.

So what’s the best way to make the trip? The Chronicle had to find out.

Last Friday, we dispatched a team of reporters to race from downtown to Chase Center, using six modes of transit to see what works, what doesn’t and why.

The competitors were Megan Cassidy on a bicycle, Trisha Thadani on a rented scooter, Rachel Swan on Muni, Demian Bulwa in a Lyft, Kevin Fagan and navigator Greg Griffin in a private car and Steve “Rube” Rubenstein on foot.

As you’ll see, the result was as true a tortoise-and-hare tale as you can get without using the actual critters.

Two large lessons: You can get the arena in a number of ways, and reasonably quickly. But more importantly, don’t make the same mistakes we did. Plan ahead.

We started our race at 6:15 p.m. at the Powell Street cable car turnaround on Market Street, figuring it was a popular crossroads for a lot of folks. There was a Warriors preseason game at 7:30 that night at Chase — which was only 1.7 miles away by the most direct street route.

With a little better luck, and a lot more skill, many of us would have arrived sooner. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Come roll and stroll with us as we tell you how it went down:

6:15 P.M.

Rube : “Three, two, one GO,” comes the call, and in less than a minute, I’ve turned the corner and am walking south on Fourth Street. The scooter person’s looking for a scooter. The light-rail person’s descending into the Powell platform purgatory. The ride-hail person’s headed into a thatch of rush-hour traffic. Suckers. Feet rule.

Demian : I figure I’m the Phoenix Suns of the Race to Chase. My disadvantage is immediate: I need to order up a ride-share in downtown San Francisco at the height of the Friday evening commute.

Megan : I’m using my own bike and not a docked one, so I have an immediate lead. While others are power-walking to their vehicles, I’m cooking up witty tweets. This one is in the bag.

Rachel : Knowing Muni’s T-Third train — famous for shambling down the Embarcadero with long stops for no apparent reason — I’m expecting to be one of the last stragglers in this race. Which is why I’m in no hurry to get to Powell Station. Hot dogs are sizzling on a grill near the cable car turnaround, Larry “The Bucketman” is pounding his drums at Fifth and Market. A balmy dusk is setting in. I saunter.

Trisha : Obviously, I’m going to win this. I’m the young Millennial riding the scooter — this is my domain. I’ll be more nimble than the bike or car, and surely faster than Muni and the walker. So what if the first time I ever rode one of these silly electric scooters was last night? I’m a natural.

Kevin : I have a sinking feeling. Tortured memories of trying to find parking in that morass of buildings and cars by Chase while it was being built cram my head. As Greg and I head toward the Fifth and Mission streets garage, where I’ve stowed my car, we look at each other with pained eyes resembling rabbits about to be turned into stew.

6:18 P.M.

Demian : Is that my Lyft pulling up already? Score! I reach for the door just as the real rider hops in. Denied by some random tech bro! The app says car is still 8 minutes away.

6:21 P.M.

Trisha : I toggle between three complicated scooter apps and give up — why hasn’t someone created an app to integrate all of this? So I just start walking. I find the closest scooter, but it needs maintenance and isn’t working. Next scooter, dead battery. Finally, on Natoma Street, I spot a scooter surrounded by trash. Of course. I put on my helmet.

6:23 P.M.

Megan : There’s no shooting down Fifth Street. It’s terrifying. Middle and far-right lanes purport to be bike-friendly but everyone in a car hates me. Finally, I crank a right on Townsend and there’s a green bike lane — Freeeeedom! I’m cruising now.

6:31 P.M.

Trisha : I’m having identity issues. Am I allowed to scoot on the street next to the cars or do I need to stay in bike lanes? I’m too scared to negotiate Fifth Street — cars are too fast — so I head to Fourth and stick to sidewalks. It’s the least scary option, since I keep watching cars weave in and out of the bike lanes. I’d rather be the one weaving in and out of pedestrians.

Megan : I blow past Seventh and Townsend streets pretty sure I’m in the lead, so I post a happy tweet to gloat. Then come a few errors: I can’t decide how to make a left from Seventh to 16th. Get a call from our photographer and miss a light. Wait forever for the crossing guard at 16th and Third to let us go. This is costing me.

Demian : My ride comes and I’m finally headed south on Fifth Street, but I’m running way behind after a huge tactical snafu. I should’ve walked farther south before ordering the car. My Lyft driver, Rodrigo, picks me up on the wrong side of the street and we have to slog north and do a time-gobbling loop through the Tenderloin before we roll in the right direction. I ask him to do something creative and illegal but Rodrigo is a real play-by-the-rules type, more Klay than Draymond.

Kevin : After bailing the car out of the garage, the trip’s a breeze. We charge down Fifth Street at a full 25-mph clip. Maybe this won’t be a disaster after all. We blow past the Caltrain Station onto Fourth Street and over the Mission Creek Bridge — and now, as we plunge past Gus’s Community Market, we are tempted to rush in and grab a hot Wild West sandwich of slow roasted pulled pork and spicy coleslaw with maybe a fancy ... no, we’re on a mission here.

6:34 P.M.

Rachel : Fortune had smiled when the T-Third arrived in a shockingly fast 1 minute, standing-room only. So I am cruising toward victory after all, I can feel it. I clue in a fellow passenger on our race and ask: Are we going to beat the person driving? “100%,” says Omaya Shanti, heading to the game with husband Aryeah Mohasses. The scooter? “I think that person is selfish,” Mohasses says. “It’s not public transit.” The guy walking? He has “no chance,” Shanti says.

Kevin : We cut left on 16th, and there’s the stadium! Greg suggests I run in while he parks. We laugh. Gotta play fair. Cocky now about our chances, we look to our right, and there is Megan on her bike. “Hey, you got a flat tire there, ma’am,” Greg calls out. She looks over nonchalantly. She’s got her game face on. Pedals toward Chase.

Megan : I see the stadium! Wasted precious time snapping selfies, but the real time-suck was next, asking people how to find the bike valet. Gotta stash this thing safely to win the race.

6:35 P.M.

Rube : Fourth Street, while not Yosemite’s Mirror Lake Trail, is pleasant enough for walking. Folks are bustling home or into watering holes. I’ve passed a real merry-go-round and a real train station, two noble institutions. Left foot, right foot. No credit card required. I cross Peter Maloney Bridge over Mission Creek and figure I have time to grab a snack at Gus’s market. I duck inside, but the line’s too long, so I fish out the apple I have in my pocket and eat that instead. Good fuel.

6:38 P.M.

Trisha : OK, after being on the sidewalk for a while I’ve settled into a friendly looking bike lane on Fourth Street heading toward the Caltrain Station, and I’m finally feeling confident. I look up and see a gas station — $4.99 per gallon! Ha! Good thing I’m not driving.

Rachel : Most T-Third riders know the drama of the Fourth and King intersection, a frustrating tangle of traffic where the train heaves to a stop. That’s now. A minute passes. Then another. My heart sinks. Wasn’t Muni planning to sync these traffic signals?

6:41 P.M.

Megan : In bike valet line. Oops, wrong line! This one’s for bags. I push over to the right one.

Kevin : Ahoy! Parking lot looms — with open spaces! Oh no! It’s hospital-only parking, complete with a giant entrance sign reading, “No Chase Center Event Parking.” Doh! Up we go on Owens Street, back east on 16th, up Third ... we’re on the hunt. Wandering.

6:44 P.M.

Rube : Twenty-nine minutes after setting off, apple in belly, I cross the finish line at Third Street and Warriors Way. Megan rolled in a few minutes earlier, but stashing her wheels with the bike valet cost her. The moral: Always bet on the tortoise. Never drive when you can walk, especially during rush hour in this cozy little town.

6:45 P.M.

Demian : Big tip for Rodrigo! Though he seems blissfully unaware he can make right turns on red, our route from downtown to Highway 280 to the Mariposa Street exit is a winner, and we arrive in an unimpressive but not outright shameful half hour. Take away my earlier bonehead move that cost me that loop through the Tenderloin and I would have tasted sweet victory.

6:47 P.M.

Rachel : We pull up right outside the arena to the giant new Muni platform — built to accommodate 700 fans spilling out at once — and I march down the steps to the sweeping plaza. To my shock, I see Rube. The pedestrian? C’mon!

6:48 P.M.

Megan : Bike safely stowed, I’m on my feet and running to the meeting point. Woo hoo! I’ve won! But wait ... what? The walker, the Lyft jockey and the Muni rider are waiting to humiliate me.

Trisha : Things have gotten much less stressful as I enter Mission Bay at last, still on Fourth Street. It feels like this part of the city was actually crafted with pedestrians and bikers (and now scooters!) in mind. I’ve been following a father and two sons — also on scooters — for the past half-mile. Power in numbers.

Kevin : We are in parking hell. One lot advertising “Chase Pkg” accepts only people who reserve in advance, a spot on Terry Francois Boulevard turns out to have a red stripe hard to see in the dark. Vexed, we rev our engine toward Oracle Park, where a giant parking lot sprawls like the Land of Oz.

6:51 P.M.

Trisha : I feel like I’ve been on this scooter for a really long time, but I still trust I’m in first place. There’s no way anyone is faster than me. OMG is that the Chase Center? I don’t see anyone else! I can’t believe I won!

Kevin : Giants parking lot in front of Pier 48. $40, the sign says. Out comes the wallet. We’re in.

6:55 P.M.

Trisha : I can’t believe how slow everyone else is. Let me scooter around to the other side of the stadium and take another selfie while I wait for everyone else. I used to judge the scooters so hard, but now I totally get the hype! I love the scooters!

6:58 P.M.

Kevin : OK, we’re parked — but several blocks from the arena. Now what? Says Greg: A pedicab, that’s what. Jo Bee and her whimsical rig with a lighted lavender archway over the seats is our pedal-smith, and with Sade cooing, “Why do you play these games?” on the boom box, off we go back down Terry Francois Boulevard. Sade’s the best for pedaling to, Jo says: “It’s calming.” Ah, if only. We turn right on Warriors Way.

7:01 P.M.

Trisha : I pull up to the meeting spot. Wait. Why do I see most of my colleagues here already? They’ve been waiting for at least 10 minutes. I hate scooters.

7:08 P.M.

Kevin : We pull to a stop at Third Street. Everyone — I mean everyone — else is here. Jo has a little trouble with her payment app. I say hey, here’s the cash, just write me a receipt. $20 plus a $10 tip for going an extra block beyond her usual route. We are officially the hapless rabbit to the happy tortoise.

And as a reward for being the slowest, we paid the most cash, 70 bucks, not including gas. Rube’s cost for winning? Zip.