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A Race Like No Other
26.2 Miles Through the Streets of New York
By Liz Robbins HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. Copyright © 2008 Liz Robbins
All right reserved. ISBN: 9780061373138
Chapter One
Huddled Masses
The Start, Fort Wadsworth, Staten Island
One hundred and forty buses line Midtown Manhattan in the hazy darkness before dawn, idling for a mass evacuation to Staten Island.
As streams of sleepy runners shuffle through the unblinking glare of headlights, they follow instructions spit from the megaphones of men and women wearing orange jackets. This apocalyptic activity might seem unusual—even for New York—were it not the first Sunday in November.
The thirty-eighth running of the New York City Marathon will start in five hours, and Pam Rickard is anxious, holding her husband Tom's hand as she prepares to board her bus. Tom has faithfully accompanied his wife of 21 years from the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains to the steps of the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street. The caravan awaits her. When they approach the door to one of the buses, a man lowers his megaphone and looks at Tom.
"This is where you kiss her good-bye," he says sternly. "You're not going any farther."
A lump catches in Pam's throat. She heard those exact words in September 2006 when she walked into the Roanoke County jail to complete her 90-day sentence for driving under the influence ofalcohol, the punishment for her third offense in two years.
Fourteen months later, she is going to run her eighth marathon. It is her first in New York and the first since she became sober. Pam is 45 years old, a 5-foot-6 mother of three daughters with wavy black hair and a perfectly toned runner's body. But the faint wrinkles around her eyes reveal the hard living she fought so long to hide and the new life she is fighting even harder to maintain. Her jaw is taut in determination.
Last year on this very Sunday, she was collecting trash by the side of Virginia Route 581, wearing an orange jumpsuit and hoping no one would recognize her. Today, she wears an orange bib with the number F5079 and revels in her anonymity.
When Pam learned she had won a number from the New York City Marathon lottery back in June, she was humbled by the odds she had beaten. Of the 43,989 U.S. residents who had applied, she was one of 8,157 accepted. She does not want to forsake her second chance.
In New York Harbor, the patron of second chances stands guard, welcoming the world to her shores. As the sun rises in ribbons of rose, gold and orange, marathoners peering out of buses or ferry windows easily spot the Statue of Liberty and her torch, forever lit. A mile away, on the northern tip of Staten Island, the masses of runners are beginning to huddle.
They emerge from an alphabet of origins, from Andorra to Venezuela and from Lake Michigan to Zoo Lake. New York may have been the destination for millions over the centuries, but the city represents only the beginning of a newcomer's journey. Simply arriving is not enough; achieving here is what matters. The soaring skyscrapers, majestic bridges and millions of people lining expansive (and expensive) avenues demand an effort of an equally epic scale.
Today will be no Sunday morning jog.
"Good morning! Welcome to Staten Island! Have a great race!" Mike Poirier shouts from his lawn chair on the concrete stoop of his small Bay Street house. Somnambulant figures step from the shuttle buses that had collected them at the Staten Island Ferry terminal and traipse past him.
When Poirier bought his house nine years ago, the real estate agent neglected to tell him that the biggest event in the city's calendar would pass by his front door every November. Unshaven and wearing his U.S. Army Retired baseball cap, Poirier happily sips the coffee his wife hands him and shouts out the same greetings to waves of runners.
Poirier's house is just outside the grounds of Fort Wadsworth, which sits at the base of the soaring Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. The fort is one of the longest operating military defense strongholds in the country, protecting New York Harbor for nearly 200 years. Officially completed in 1865, it originally housed troops from the Army and then from the Navy until 1994, when the Coast Guard moved into the barracks. Men went off to World War II after training at Fort Wadsworth, and Nike missiles were stocked in hidden batteries throughout its grounds during the Cuban Missile Crisis. Today, the fort will host people going off to a different kind of battle.
For the better part of five hours, the grounds will turn into a self-sustaining village of approximately 50,000 people—an intricately planned operational marvel populated not only by the runners, but also volunteers, New York Road Runners staff, members of the media, entertainers and law enforcement officials from national and local agencies responsible for the safety and security of the event.
A New York Police Department patrol car escorts the bus that carries Harrie Bakst and his older brother, Rich, from Manhattan to Staten Island. They are part of the caravan of 12 buses carrying Fred's Team members, all running for the charity founded by Fred Lebow, the late founder of the New York City Marathon. Lebow established this team with the Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center in 1991, when he was being treated at the hospital for brain cancer. When Harrie was younger, he never thought he would run a marathon, much less be treated for cancer at Memorial Sloan-Kettering.
Harrie is 22 on race day, but he has always seemed to be an older soul, possessing a seriousness offset by his optimism. Cancer recently inscribed a story on his neck, leaving a violet, 4-inch scar just below the right side of his jaw.
Continues...
Excerpted from A Race Like No Other by Liz Robbins Copyright © 2008 by Liz Robbins. Excerpted by permission.
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