The Great Potatohampton Scare of 1978

Today, the East End hosts half a dozen smooth-running races every year. You lace up for a 5K or 10K, raise money for breast cancer, animal rescue, or the environment, and the cops keep traffic at bay. The Shelter Island Run draws more than 1,500 runners annually — polished, professional, and safe.

But back in 1978? We had none of that.

That Memorial Day at the first running race ever held in the Hamptons, nearly 500 runners charged straight into moving traffic while trying to cross Montauk Highway at Hayground Road — no stoplight, no safety net. The whole thing teetered on the edge of disaster. Why? Because the guy who was supposed to inform the police gave them the wrong details.

Sometimes the thought of this and the dangerous situation it created wakes me up at night to this day. The reason? I was the director of that race and it was my fault.

The Hamptons was a very different place back in the 1970s. We were not then a summer paradise for the rich and famous. We were a small local summer resort hoping to bang the pot loud enough to get city folks to notice us and come out here instead of going to the Jersey Shore, Cape Cod, or the Catskills.

A friend recommended I host a race. He’d run in the newly established New York City Marathon. There should be a run in the Hamptons.

I went to see Town Supervisor Marty Lang and he thought it was a great idea. He also said I should see the town police chief. They’d have to be on hand.

I nodded. Of course.

So I created the Dan’s Papers 10K Potatohampton Minithon, and I planned it the only way I knew how: by winging it.

What could possibly go wrong?

A 10K? I drove the course with my eye on the car’s odometer. It should run past every local landmark: the museum, the old jail, up Lumber Lane and down Scuttlehole through the potato fields, then across Montauk Highway at Hayground, down Mecox Road, across the bridge, past the Sagaponack General Store, the two-room schoolhouse, and finally, the finish line at the Berwind Windmill, where the winner would get a trophy, and every participant a raw potato, from a big sack on the back of a local farmer’s potato truck.

I drew a map of the course. Made 150 copies.

We put posters in windows. Ads in the paper.

“Come to Dan’s Papers in Bridgehampton at 9 a.m.  Race at 10:30 a.m.

Two days before the race, I realized I had overlooked a problem. The run would need to cross not only Montauk Highway at Hayground, but also the railroad tracks north of the highway there.

I called the railroad. They had two trains a day. None are coming through Bridgehampton at 10:50 a.m, right?

No, it’s 10:55.

Gulp. Could you delay the train?

Nope.

We discussed it further. They’d come through slow and honk loud.

Best they could do.

I hand wrote a note on all 150 maps. If a train comes, stop and march in place until it’s gone.

Well. Fixed that.

On race day morning, over 500 people showed up at Dan’s Papers. The numbers pinned to shirts only went up to 150. Maps also 150. And after we ran out of forms and tickets, people started getting mad. But my office manager took control. Standing up, she gathered everything on her table and threw it into the air, so it came down like confetti.

“Let’s start the race!” she shouted.

Out on Main Street, the police took their places. They stopped traffic, both ways. Unrolled yellow tape across the road, jockeyed the motorcycles into position, and urged the runners to jog out as a tight-fit clump.

I stood next to Southampton Town Supervisor Marty Lang, who raised his pistol to fire. But before he could pull the trigger, someone in the crowd yelled something — and the whole pack surged forward.

Lang just tucked the pistol back into his belt.

I jumped in my car and rushed to Hayground. That’s where the real chaos would hit. No traffic light. Just hope, the runners, and the cops.

But as it happened, that’s when everything went to hell.

Everyone saw them — three runners in the lead, men, coming toward us from way up Hayground. Behind them was nobody.

Hey! A sergeant shouted. There’s supposed to be 500 runners. Where are they?

With that, up on Hayground, bells clanged, the railroad gates came down, and a train sounded its horn and motored slowly through. After awhile, it cleared. Still only those three guys. They stood there, confused but happy, doing little dance steps in place, per my brilliant instructions.

I then realized it would take an hour getting all 500 of them across the highway.

How long could the cops stay?

So now, the runners began coming down in bits and pieces: a few here, a dozen there. The cops tried to control it, stopping traffic again and again as the runners trickled through in scattered clumps. Cars backed up for miles. Horns blared. Drivers screamed. Fifteen minutes passed.

Then, the order came in.

“We’re being pulled,” the sergeant said.

And just like that, the police packed up. And now, the runners, desperate, were mixing freely with the cars  — a disaster waiting to happen. I froze. Someone could get killed.

The minutes that followed are what still disturb me to this day.  But after 10 minutes, a miracle happened.

The cops came back.

“It’s another order,” the sergeant said, sternly.

When it was over, everybody agreed it was wonderful. The cops had been fantastic, heroic. They held up the traffic for half an hour. They saved lives.

But we should have had water stops, people on the course with signage at the turns, and, of course, a professional timer. Our winner — the trophy winner — was Marcel Philippe, a member of the French Olympic Team. He ran the race in 29 minutes 56 seconds.

“I am not that fast,” he said.

He pointed to me.

“He did this on his car’s speedometer. He needs professional help.”

And he wasn’t wrong.

After that, the Potatohampton, fixed, was held annually for the next half century. What a time it was. What fun. We expanded to include pets. At another run people came in costume. I recall three entrants dressed as French-fried potatoes hopping along.

But then the serious fundraiser races arrived. So we ended the Potatohampton in 2013.

And now there are memories.