By 8:05 a.m. the volunteers at Mile Five near the entrance to Robinson’s Farm are prepared.

    Up-tempo music blares from speakers on the lawn of a Shore Road home.

    A morning haze begins to burn off. The only thing
left to do is wait for the more than 10,000 feet participating in
Saturday’s Beach to Beacon 10K road race to thunder past toward the
fog-shrouded finish line a little more than a mile away.

    The first wave of cheers begins around the bend to
the south and precedes the appearance of the first racers – athletes in
wheelchairs, arms pumping as they negotiate an incline. Hot on their
wheels a group of elite runners blow past the volunteers, and their
cups of water, up to the crest of the hill and out of sight.

    Next to come around the bend are the merely
extraordinarily fast, including Cape Elizabeth’s Ayalew Taye, 19, who
will be heading to Georgetown in the fall. Taye will be the first
Mainer to finish the race (with a time of 30:46) – three minutes behind
race winner Duncan Kibet of Kenya (27:52). The quickest pass by in
sparse clumps– pairs and groups of four and five, with enough time
between each for a spectator to leisurely cross the road.

But soon the clumps grow and become packs and the packs become the pack
– the road chokes with a streaming mass of red-faced and sweating
humanity in various states of undress.

    In this last mile, the race takes it toll on many of
the runners, but there are others who seem to be just getting started –
hair still neat, shirts still tucked – a few seemly have not broken a
sweat. There are children and some who even qualify as elderly. Some
are dressed as superheroes.

    The cheering roadside spectators who minutes before
could stand on the shoulder are forced to the grass and stone
embankments– or risk collision with those who have the right of way.
Some runners stop, others slow to a walk, joining the growing ranks of
spectators migrating leisurely to the finish line.

    As the pack enters Fort Williams, the path narrows and the crowd increases. Now spectators outnumber runners.

Applause, whoops, cheers, noisemakers grow constant. The runners
disappear once more around a curve and into the thick fog still
clinging to the cliffs, obscuring the finish line.

    Once across the finish line those who gave their all
to get there learn still more is demanded of them. In order to avoid a
backup, the pack must keep moving like ghosts through fog and up one
final hill as a man on a bullhorn beckons them with water, medals and
chastisement for those who idle. Once atop the hill there is room to
stop, stretch or collapse.

    Family members and well-wishers mingle as they
search for their favorite athlete. The line between racers and
spectators grow as blurred as the view. Backs are slapped.

    Less than two hours after the race began, 4,839 runners have crossed the finish line.

    The race is over.

    The recovery begins.

    The fun begins.

    It is 10 a.m.