Last time for the next time: The Marathon Chief of New York City takes a long journey


From Brooklyn's Brooklyn bicycle, Peter Ciaccia found out that he had only one experience with his experience, and more than his point of view.

A logger needed to move from the 94th Street in Bay Ridge. The signs "not car parked" were still unnoticed and he was surprised when they wanted.

It was just two weeks before New York City Marathon, and it was Mr. Ciaccia was finally the competition director. It was the yearly check-up of 26.2-mile.

Underwear to combat winds and temperatures for the 40-yard below, increased by 10 people consisting of workers from New York Road Runners Roadmap for any problems that may need to be resolved before no more than 50,000 steering assistants.

"It is a little perfect," he said. "We are going to all people, if you have them all, they are collapsed with each other, it would be a lot of cars."

For Mr. Ciaccia (called CHA-cha), was his latest dance in details. After 18 years in New York Road Runners, the last four marathon director, Mr. Ciaccia, aged 65, appeared in his demonstration as he watched for a few steps and restoring the roads.

He was an annual 10th overseer who also served as an informal concert, without any help from his time. At the end of the day, he estimated it would be 12 stand at the favorite stores.

But even with stronger lunches along the road, and cycling to walk the course, finding a simple task.

Just a mile, he saw the bridge and led it to the marathon marina. "I think the wind will face our face as we are going to Queensboro Bridge, the world's poorest places," he said. "The course is complicated, and there are always things to do to ride the bike."

Mike Collins, a retired police officer in the city, caught the Irish flag at the right hand as he called on the club. He moved to the storm site due to the ongoing construction of a refurbished subway system N and R. It stretched from 52nd Street to 58th Street, from Irish Haven, on the Fourth Avenue.

"I do not know what you are doing here," he said. Collins, "but that does not always like it.

A "SLOW" symbol is placed on a closed loop.

"We are working with D.O.T," said Ciaccia. "He will stay here, but I'll come back. It will reduce people and enter your site. "

"Many people use the toilet, they have a fast exercise, um, Guinness," he said. Collins. "Maureen will be cooking soda soda, too."

"When are you opening up?" Mr. Ciaccia said.

"We open before we can open it," he answered. Collins.

"Technically, 8 hours," said Mr Collins, his wife Maureen.

"In my culture, lower the pieces of those syrups," he said. Ciaccia. "You know, I would jump to Guinness when I followed the course." This is not the day!

There were many benefits: The marathoner challenges never met ever before with the streets. There were carriers in the door and the car doors opened. The city's eight ditches crossed the Fourth Avenue and the Flatbush Avenue because of Q's decline in repair. Mr. Ciaccia looked at the clock at the Williamsburgh Savings Bank Tower. He used to learn his life.

"This shows the way to the sky," he said. "There has been a lot of changes here."

That's why. It is It was always an important place like a runway outside the barracks before turning to Lafayette Avenue, where trees are tied to two asphalt and brownstones. The boat carries "Electric Slide"; Loughlin High School at Gonna Fly Now, "Rocky."

Mr. Ciaccia has called the favorite part of the courses as he loved the yellow colors of the autumn, and decorated with Halloween's appearance. He has photos of fans to lock windows to track the track.

"Type like Kentucky Derby," said Ciaccia. "It happens to us here."

He has already learned that every neighborhood does not want to noise. Williamsburg Hasidic Society, Run Runners Street, has not intentionally recorded music or clubs.

"It's nothing," he said. "We are very respectful."

It can be nostalgic, too. On Bedford Avenue, he knew the closure.

"I can not believe they have arrested New York Muffins," he said. "That was a go." & # 39;

Wounds St Anthony-St. The Alphonsus Church came from the Manhattan Avenue with the group entitled to the Greenpoint Avenue at McGuinness Boulevard. It is called a deceptive act for disabled wheelchairs, who are collapsed in trying to negotiate.

Ted Metellus, Director of Road Development for the first year of the Road Runners, has already emerged, and has been tracking traffic lights directly from where he left. On the day of nationality, the green peppers are kept to protect the knee. However, today no one was drawn.

"You are in a wet cloth!" Mr. Ciaccia yelled and shook his head. "Rookie is wrong."

They continued the Pulaski Bridge. He stopped pulling, like the stairs on the floor, opposite the cement clamping 13.1 mile and spray paint paint in the wall of the year.

"Graffiti art has really come a long way," said Mr. Ciaccia. "When I was young, the length of the text was not considered for the art, the destruction!"

Vintage was always nice. Ciaccia. The next stay was Sweet Leaf, which he called the "Rock Clothes," of Long Island City. Customers are bent over the collection of vinyl doors in the room. He has restored the music days when he holds CBS Records and Sony Music Entertainment positions. One of the judges struck at the center of his command.

"Get rid of the tricks," Mr. Ciaccia said. "Now you know the bike gang."

Mr. Ciaccia, the son of South Italy, grew up in West 233rd Street and Broadway in Bronx. He went to Lehman College, which means Van Cortland Park, as "Vanny" and refers to D.J. Kool Herc to capture the stage of some events. He does what he can do in his district, but also knows he has one mile course in Bronx.

Every year, Rubén Díaz Jr., president of the district, asked Mr Ciaccia to give Bronx the big part of the road. Mr. Ciaccia insisted that it was limited competition, but when the city built Mile 8 in Brooklyn, Mr Ciaccia restored a distance to Bronx, giving it a "far-reach" neighborhood.

"I said, 'The only way we can do is to finish the Yankee Stadium, you have allowed me to finish at the Yankee Stadium,' he said. Ciaccia. "Maybe one year, and not at this moment."

The Willis Avenue Bridge went on, crossing the Harlem River in Bronx. They marked the cheap glasses that broke down in the middle of the Rider Avenue. When Mr Ciaccia and Jim Heim, the technical director of Ciaccia's work, reached the vicinity of the Orange Tree, they stopped and raised. They saw that it was used as a cord to open the road.

"It seems like the beginning of the cave," said Mr. Heim.

Mr. Ciaccia has fallen.

"This will all be cleared," said Mr. Ciaccia.

On the mountain and the tree, Mr. Ciaccia accompanied his staff to Fifth Avenue. Skateboarders have moved to him as he spoke at the end of the line.

"There is a cheap price to explore the world," he said, looking at his retirement. "I can go to the film three times a day for five days."

He has embraced several of the next steps. Shortly after he finished his flight, he will fly with a plane to New Zealand and Australia. Until that time, he left the clock. When he used his bike last time, he was at Gatesers' motor, where the marathoners enter the garden.

"It will be very bad, in fact, a little true," he said. "Now it's like, & # 39; my God, the horn."

It was more than seven hours of course. Mr Ciaccia won the award – not a betting competition, but a vendor vendor – and he appeared to be one of Fred Lebow's paintings, the marble founder. Lebo, his eyes have tapped his helmet, representing Saadoqo. Mr. Ciaccia knew that several sheets covered her face. He added another one on his list.

"We really need to cut this tree," he said.