Before sunrise, before the runners, a guerrilla cycling marathon

It was well before dawn on Sunday when the cyclists first began to gather: first a handful, then a few dozen, then hundreds.

Not far away, the white lights of the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge – the iconic starting point of the New York City Marathon – glittered like a constellation in the dark sky. But these athletes liked to bask in the fluorescent glow of a lowly 24-hour Dunkin’ Donuts in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn.

Over the past twenty years, the store’s parking lot has become itself an iconic starting point for a growing number of cyclists for an irresistible annual challenge: riding the marathon course in no time after the roads are closed to traffic and before official races begin.

“No traffic lights, no stop signs, no cars,” said Keith Taylor, 60, a cyclist who left his home in Hoboken, New Jersey, in the middle of the night to tackle the marathon route around 6:30. when the sun started to rise.

Under such dreamlike conditions, more and more riders take part in this morning escapade each year, lured by a sense of adventure, an affection for their city and a philosophy widely shared among cyclists that no good stretch of open road should be taken for granted.

“It’s become one of the things on the New York bucket list,” says Chris Jones, 52, ride leader for Cycling club Rapha, which brought nearly 150 members to the Dunkin’ Donuts. “You can do the marathon, but you don’t have to run the marathon.”

There was no official organizer, so cyclists went out when they wanted. For the next few hours, they moved through the streets in small groups, catching glimpses of a city that came alive on one of the most exuberant days of the year. It wasn’t a race, but they were essentially racing against the clock, trying to reach Central Park before the first wheelchair racers left Staten Island at 8 a.m.

All along the marathon route, volunteers milled around curbside tables. Tow trucks towed the cars away. Musicians camped on street corners and warmed up for the merriment to come.

“It’s a very New York thing, taking advantage of a little space in a hectic city,” said Mike Schnapp, 61, also known as DJ Mike, who ate yogurt and nodded appreciatively to cyclists as he set up his gear in Bay Ridge. .

Part of the excitement each year comes from the feeling that the event, despite its growing size, still feels something like a secret. Information about the ride spreads largely by word of mouth and all participants understand that they could be kicked off the course at any time.

At the same time, the runners said, police officers and marathon workers are generally accommodating, directing traffic and sometimes even encouraging them.

“It’s one of those things where you’re asking for forgiveness, not permission,” said Basil Ashmore, 68, who has completed the ride a half-dozen times.

Clubs from all over the city rode in groups, wearing Lycra shirts in their striking colours, with racing bikes with drop handlebars. But other modes of transportation were also represented, including inline skates, scooters and electric skateboards.

Kaushik Srinivasan and John Spanos – roommates in Hell’s Kitchen, both 25, who both looked like they had just rolled out of bed – rode the entire course on electric Citi Bikes.

“We don’t have any bikes,” Srinivasan said, somewhat sheepishly, as they cycled through Park Slope. “But we do a lot of Citi Bike.”

Tara Pham, 34, of Crown Heights, stood out from the rest on a Dutch-style cruiser, with raised handlebars and a milk crate above her rear fender.

“Some high school students were harassing me,” she said as she biked to Fort Greene. “It’s okay, I’m over it.”

The presence of the riders inevitably caused some headaches along the way. A volunteer, Jasmine Hines, 50, of Canarsie, laughed as she played a life-size game of Frogger and tried to carry supplies down Bedford Avenue in South Williamsburg.

“It was just hard because we didn’t want to get run over,” she said. At that moment, a cyclist in a red jersey swerved across her path. “See what I mean?”

Later, in Greenpoint, a herd of riders was forced to stop behind two workers in reflective vests who were setting up a milestone near the base of the Pulaski Bridge. As the riders tapped their feet impatiently, one of the workers glared back.

“We’re working,” she said. “We’re working, and you’re in our way.”

Although the origins of cycling’s tradition are somewhat obscured by the mists of time, riders tend to cite the same milestones and characters when telling its history.

In the 1990s, a local cyclist named Richard Rosenthal began volunteering as an unofficial escort for wheelchair racers, clearing the road of careless cars and pedestrians. (Escort cyclists became an official part of the marathon in the early 2000s.)

Soon after, cyclists realized they could take advantage of the open roads before the wheelchair competitors left. One of them was Peter O’Reilly, 53, who recalled being virtually alone on the street when he completed the route in 1999 with a few of his friends.

O’Reilly chose the Dunkin’ Donuts as the meeting point at the time because it was close to where his wife once lived. The following year he organized the New York Cycle Club’s first pre-marathon ride. He said the number of participants – as well as unaffiliated riders who came alone – seemed to double every year.

“I always encouraged people to slow down: ‘You’re going too fast. Enjoy the sights a bit!’ said O’Reilly, who now lives in Sandy Hook, N.J. and no longer participates in the marathon day.

But many do go fast: to record strong times on their Strava profiles, to practice racing maneuvers on wide open roads, to get to roads before they are closed by the police.

Around 8 a.m., police herded participants away from a stretch of First Avenue, where some cyclists reported seeing a pedestrian receiving medical attention after apparently being hit by a cyclist.

Given the gray area in which the event exists, riders fear – and perhaps accept – that someone could try to shut down the event at some point.

Jones, the leader of the Rapha rides, recalled seeing a huge increase in participants in 2021, a rise he attributed in part to the increase in bike sales during the pandemic, and that he felt a momentary sense of dread felt.

“I thought, this is the last year we’ll be doing this,” he said.

Alfredo Garcia, 65, a New York Cycle Club ride leader who first rode the course in 2003, understands that negative attention could mean an end to the tradition and tells groups the same thing every year: “No matter what the police say, work with them, no ifs, ands, or buts.”

As you’d expect from a guerrilla-style ride, this one doesn’t have a triumphant finish. Instead, people look around, wonder if it’s possible to continue driving, and eventually—usually around 59th Street and Fifth Avenue—conclude that it isn’t.

On Sunday some went to brunch. Others withdrew to continue riding elsewhere.

Zoé Albert, 32, an artist from Brooklyn Heights, lingered on her inline skates, puffing on a vape, reveling in the fact that she had stolen a glimpse of what it might be like for a runner to complete a marathon: the camaraderie, the good atmosphere. She was excited to continue with it.

“I’m going to take the subway to Coney Island and get on there,” she said. “Why not? It’s already an extreme day. Why not take a cold dip?”