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Home > What's New > Thanksgiving Day and the Turkey Trot
Thanksgiving Day and the Turkey Trot
Posted: Monday, December 01, 2003
By Michael S. Marsh There are no alarms on Thanksgiving morning and there is no such thing as sleeping in, even if a lack of Zs or a hangover demands it. By 7 a.m., my parents' house is alive with energy and excitement, and it's near impossible not to rise for the occasion. The festivities and traditions surrounding the holiday are in full swing and it will soon be time to take to the streets to revel in them.
But it's not just my family that takes to the streets, it's literally the entire town of Manchester, Connecticut. In this, my hometown, Thanksgiving is the holiday of holidays. Sure we celebrate the day like everybody else, with family, food and football, but it's the Manchester Road Race that brings real meaning to the idea of Thanksgiving tradition. It's the race that turns Thanksgiving into a block party of gargantuan proportions.
It began 67 years ago in this suburb of Hartford and has grown into one of the most famous road races in the country. Each year there are more than 11,000 entrants from all over the world and another 30,000 lining the 4.78-mile course to cheer them on.
This year was no different. We'd been looking forward to it since last year and when I woke up at the stroke of seven bells, the bird was already basting in the oven. The smell of strong coffee and pies baking permeated the house, and the beer and Champagne was on ice. In the living room, my 3-year-old niece was reciting Tom Turkey poems, while my 16-month-old nephew was as happy as could be fending off three 80-pound black Labs with a rawhide bone and a miniature football.
By 8 o'clock, we were ready to go, and friends and family began arriving. Shortly thereafter, we all made our way to Highland Park Market, a little grocery store at the 2-mile marker, at the top of a mile-long hill and toughest part of the course, where we've watched the race for the past 20 years. We arrived just before 9 a.m., and even though the race didn't begin until 10, everywhere the Bloody Marys were flowing, the Champagne corks were popping, and the Manchester Drum and Bagpipe Corp. was unleashing a piercing rendition of "Scotland the Brave."
As the race began, the drinks were going down easy and great plumes of cigar smoke were rising into the air. A few minutes later, the wheelchair entrants came into view and an eruption of cheers filled the air. Five minutes after that, the lead pack came around the corner -- the serious runners -- vying for a win. They were gone in a flash.
From there it was a sea of runners, and all you could do was shout out to those you saw before they passed you by. The first woman runner. The first old guy. The first person in a gorilla suit. The Blues Brothers, the Pilgrims and the first guy dressed as a woman. Friends Doc Lombardi, Pat Sweeney and Steve Carlson. My high school English teacher, an ex-girlfriend and a group of high school kids in straw skirts and bras made out of coconuts. My cousin Laura, an ex-bandmate and a troop of local Army reservists dressed in their fatigues and flying the flag with pride. Santa Claus, reindeers, the Monkey Man and on and on and on.
Believe it or not, there was a time when I used to experience the race as a runner. I'm older and wiser now. So when my friends ask me why I no longer run, the answer is simple -- because it's a lot easier to stand on the sidelines with a Padrón in one hand and a Long Trail Hibernator in the other.
The world needs spectators, too, right? Besides, not everyone needs to run five miles to work up an appetite for Thanksgiving dinner. I certainly don't. Also in Cigar News:
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