Spuds and Strides

The first one to the turn is making strides. A few others are close behind, but no runner likely will pass the leader of the race.

I am standing at the corner of Ocean Road and Paul’s Lane — making sure that no entrant goes off course. This is exceedingly unlikely to happen, since pretty much everyone on the 5K loop is a familiar resident of the neighborhood. But, being a potato farmer, when I was asked to volunteer, it did seem like I was symbolically obligated to stand on the corner, because they are resurrecting the original Hamptons footrace, the Potatohampton 5K, and I have a deep connection to potatoes.

Before the race began, I had about 30 minutes to contemplate the Potatohampton and how it fits into the recent history of this place.

Originally, the race was fun, organized by a local newspaperman, the rural rendition of a big-city marathon. It was almost a parody, or it was a parody depending on perspective. Since both sides of the roads throughout the race would have been potato fields — it was the 1970s — and since runners would see only this expansive green landscape for the entirety of their struggle, naming the event the Potatohampton was both inevitable and genius.

But, I’ll admit, from a potato farmer’s (daughter’s) perspective, it hurt a little. You wondered if people were making fun of potatoes, and the seeming “nothingness” of the countryside as a joke.

I can remember watching from a tractor as runners streamed by. Colorful outfits, hundreds of them dotting the horizon as they ran the length of Highland Terrance when there were no houses. A jostling horizon of participants, some running, many half-running. Others dragging themselves forward. Being “in shape” was not yet a concept, much less a requirement, when it came to participatory, open-to-the-public athletic events.

As the race grew in popularity, so did the Hamptons — and both would be transformed.

Then, the potato fields were gone. Serious and sleek runners came. They blew families in sweatpants off the course. It got serious and crowded. A great Hamptons tradition had peaked.

Then, like its namesake, it slipped into a nostalgic past. Until this morning — when the footrace has been resurrected by the Bridgehampton Museum.

I explain all this, in detail, to the somewhat bored traffic control officer. His radio clicks and buzzes, and someone tells him, and then he tells me, that the final group is almost to our turn. “Three people walking, and one has a dog in their backpack.”

While it is impossible to recreate the original course, those who organized the Potatohampton were able to recreate the original spirit: fun.