The area was abuzz with activity: conversation, stretching, snacking, resting, meditation, running in place. Long lines had formed at the portable bathrooms. Lotions and gels were being applied to sensitive areas. One joker was dressed as Superman. The participants were of various ages.
Vinnie sat off by himself, back to a fence. He hoped he wouldn't recognize or be recognized by anyone. He wanted to run alone, at his own pace.
Soon everyone was summoned to the starting area. He removed the old warm up suit he was wearing and put it in a trash barrel. He shivered in the cool air, goosebumps rising on his flesh. A mass of humanity gathered at the toll booths of the Verrazano Bridge. He stood at the rear of the pack, approximately a quarter-mile from the starting line. Nearby, a woman was holding a placard that read: "6 Hours." He despaired at the thought that it might take him that long to finish. To his surprise, he was only mildly nervous. He'd always been near tears before the opening kickoff in high school, even occasionally while coaching.
Suddenly a cannon boomed and those in the Brooklyn bound lanes, to his right, burst forth, trailing a flatbed truck filled with photographers snapping pictures. Vinnie marveled at the sight and wondered how, at such a pace, the leaders would finish. He assumed the elite were in that group, which had a much longer straightaway with which to work. His own pack had yet to move. He wondered if there were separate starting times for each group. He anticipated a second cannon shot. None came. Suddenly he realized the race had begun for all. It was just that the side he was on was so congested as to be nearly motionless. He inched along as if exiting a sold-out ballpark. By the time he reached the starting line, he was able to jog, although the going was still very slow. One man solved the problem of crowding by running along the concrete divider that separated the upper lanes of the bridge.
In plotting the course, envisioning the most difficult stretches, he'd feared the upward slope of the bridge would drain him. To his surprise, it was not nearly as steep as it appeared in driving across it. He resisted the urge to look back, fearful that he was last and that he might increase speed in order to save face. He had to pace himself, conserve strength for the long haul.
The crest of the bridge afforded a splendid perspective of both the event and the surrounding area. Runners were funneling into Brooklyn like sand in an hourglass. Some had already reached 4th Avenue, which seemed incredible, despite the speed at which the leaders had been traveling. The view was breathtaking - all those people, a sea of colors vivid and brilliant, and all in an orderly, peaceful procession. He was reminded of the Vietnam moratorium, when thousands marched to protest the war. There were times when human beings seemed great after all. Coney Island, Bensonhurst, Bath Beach, Bay Ridge, Gravesend Bay, the ocean, the Statue of Liberty, the Manhattan skyline, were all in view beneath the low cloud cover.
As for the floating book shop, there was no sense in going to Park Slope, as streets would have been closed off to protect the runners, and I may not have been able to get to my Sunday nook. On Bay Parkway, where business was stellar yesterday, it was a marathon of waiting for customers who didn't show. My thanks to the gentleman who bought the non-fiction work Call Girl, and to the other who purchased a DVD of Michael Clayton (2007).
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