Speedy Petie Masullo Pleases Fans at NYC Marathon

November 5, 2000

It started out as a normal marathon. You know, 33,000 nervous runners jostling you around at the start. There was the usual plethora of Elvis impersonators, a couple of guys dressed as Superman, a couple of Spidermen, Batman, and a few Vikings. There was even an asshole (literally) wearing nothing but a jock strap. Thankfully, he was pretty fast, so I didn’t have to witness this ungodly sight for too long. However, for the first time in NYC Marathon history, there were no “Gumbies.” I thought the most interesting and original costume was worn by “ Math Man. ” He had mathematical equations and symbols printed in black on his white costume and white cape.

I went dressed as myself. Just another mid-pack runner, incognito in the midst of the crowd. This was the reason for my surprise when I reached mile 3 in Brooklyn . Among a throng of spectators on an overpass I could hear someone shout, “Go Petie! Go Petie!” I smiled and waved. It’s great when someone you know encourages you during a race. I didn’t know who it was, but I figured I’d find out later.

The encouragement intensified over the next few miles. It seemed as if everyone was cheering for me. “Lookin’ good, Petie!” “Way to go, Petie!” I continued smiling and waving. I never knew I had so many friends in Brooklyn . I tried wiping the sweat out of my eyes, but I still couldn’t recognize a familiar face in the crowd.

I was expecting to see my brother at mile 8. It’s an annual ritual that I thought we had down pat. Right after the turn by the clock, a few steps past the Brooklyn Academy of Music, I looked up to the left at the usual spot, but my brother wasn’t there. My disappointment was short-lived because of all the other enthusiastic fans that were calling me by name.

This time it was more of a chant. It seemed as if all of Brooklyn was calling my name in unison. “Go Petie! Go Petie! Go Petie!” was the only sound I could hear. That’s when it dawned on me. My exuberance turned into confusion then back to disappointment as I slowly figured out what was going on. There must be another guy named Pete right behind me with his name printed conspicuously on his shirt. To think, all these miles I looked like a jerk waving to his fans. I’d suffered enough embarrassment, so I decided to slow down and let the other Petie get a good lead on me on the way up the Pulaski Bridge . It didn’t work! Same chant in Queens ! That other Pete was still right behind me.

Despite all this distraction I was still feeling pretty good at mile 14. I concluded if I kept my mind on my pace instead of the crowd I might be able to lose the other Peter on the downhill part of the 59^th Street Bridge. I ran my best mile of the race across that bridge, but when we got into Manhattan the cheers were louder than ever. No matter what, I just couldn’t shake Petie.

I hit the wall right on schedule; just after the 20 mile marker. Thus, I plodded along for mile 21 in the Bronx in a semi-comatose state. Maybe you’ve been there before? I can’t remember anything about it. I do remember waking up to the sound of someone calling my name when we got back into Manhattan . This time the other Petie was right in front of me.

At mile 22 I began to ponder the odds of us 2 guys named Pete running the exact same pace for the entire race. Did he take as much time at the water stops as I did? Why did he take a bathroom break at the exact same time as I did? I have to admit that my math was a little “fuzzy” at that point. I couldn’t even figure out how many miles until the end of the race, and I’m an accountant. Where was “Math Man” when I needed him? Dazed and confused, this was the slowest mile of the race for me. Likewise for the other Petie.

The last 3 miles of the race are run on what I consider “home turf.” Unlike more respectable runners like Mr. Vincent and Mr. Hopkins, who spent their time blazing trails, I spent much of my youth on a “Magical Mystery Tour” of the escarpments in Central Park . I don’t remember too much about that period. Pretty much the same as mile 21. However, I’ve run a few races there in recent years, so I know the park like the back of my hand.

Being in familiar territory made me feel better. I knew if I could make it to mile 24 in one piece I’d be OK. From there I get to run down “Cat Hill” to mile 25. Then it’s just a stroll in the park (I should say around the park) to get my medal.

“Cat Hill” is nothing like the hills in the Catskills. Nonetheless, I’ve died more then nine times running up this beast. We usually have to run up “the Cat” because most races in Central Park are run in the opposite direction of the Marathon . This time, I was really looking forward to running down. The hill gets its name from the life-like bronze statue of a panther that greets you half way through. It lurks on top of a large rock, ready to pounce down upon the unwary. “The Cat” plays with you by giving you a small stretch of level ground before letting you die on the other half of the hill.

        I can’t describe the utter sense of joy that I experienced running down this hill. I was in a “zone.” A more accomplished runner might call this “cruise control.” A more apt description for me would have been “snooze control.” For the first time all day I felt like I was racing. For a while, I even forgot about the other Pete. But then at the bottom of  “Cat Hill” I began to hear his name again.

        I wasn’t going to let this guy bother me now. I tried my utmost to block that nagging SOB out of my mind. My strategy worked and I was able to concentrate on racing all the way down to 72^nd Street . Then I heard someone shout, “Dad! Dad!” I thought to myself, “Not this time! There must be 10,000 Dads out here today!” I continued on without missing a step. Then, a familiar whistle. Then, a loud shriek erupted from the crowd, “Peeeterrrr!” That was the unmistakable voice of my sister-in-law. Alas, my brother and his wife, accompanied by one of my daughters, had finally caught up with me. I turned around and raised my arm to salute my real fans. That’s when I finally got a glance at the other Peter.

        Yes, he was still right there behind me. Also, there was another Petie right in front of me. This was not a symptom of extreme exhaustion and dehydration. Nor was it a flashback from my younger days in “Strawberry Fields.”

        You see, the race organizers enlist the assistance of “ New York ’s Finest” to keep the crowds in line at the start. Several hundred policemen and women run the entire Marathon . They all wore the same gold shirt with the initials of the police department printed in front. Perhaps it was wishful thinking when I heard them chant, “Go Petie!” What they were really saying was, “Go P.D.!”