At Mile 7, an older woman read the shirts as they sped past.
“Go Juan! Go Michael! Go David! Go Julio! Go…Peru!”
Two blocks south, a stout policewoman stood atop the raised median of Fourth Avenue, her uniform a blue-black silhouette against a brown Best Western wall.
Her hands swayed from waist- to chest-level as she issued a slow and steady clap for the droves streaming past on either side.