cylindrical shape. This
would be a cable. Each cable—there would be four cables on the Verrazano— would be a yard thick, 7,205 feet long, and would
contain 36,000 miles of pencil-thin wire. The four cables, collectively, would weigh 38,290 tons. From each cable would later
be hung, vertically, 262 suspender ropes—some ropes as long as 447 feet—and they would hold the deck more than two hundred
feet above the water, holding it high enough so that no matter how hot and limp the cables got in summer the deck would always
be high enough for the Queen Mary to easily pass beneath.
From the very first day that the wheels began to roll— March 7, 1963—there was fierce competition between the two gangs working
alongside one another on the two catwalks. This rivalry existed both between the gangs on the early-morning shift as well
as the gangs on the late-afternoon shift. The goal of each gang, of course, was to get its two wheels back and forth across
the bridge more times than the other gang's wheels. The result was that the cable-spinning operation turned into a kind of
horse race or, better yet, a dog race. The catwalks became a noisy arena lined with screaming, fist-waving men, all of them
looking up and shouting at their wheels—wheels that became mechanical rabbits.
"Com'on, you mother, move your ass," they yelled as their wheel skimmed overhead, grinding away and carrying the wire to the
other end. "Move it, com'on, move it!" And from the other catwalk, there came the same desperate urgings, the same wild-eyed
competition and anger when their wheel—their star, their hope— would drag behind the other gang's wheel.
The men from one end of the catwalk to the other were all in rhythm with their wheels, all quick at pulling down the wire,
all glancing sideways to study the relative position of the other gang's wheels, all hoping that the diesel engines propelling
their wheels would not conk out, all very angry if their men standing on the anchorages were too slow at reloading their wheel
once it had completed the journey across. It was in such competition as this that Benny Olson had excelled in his younger
days. He used to stand on the catwalk in front of an anchorage inspiring his gang, screaming insults at those too slow at
pulling down the wire, or too sluggish at reloading the wheel, or too casual about the competition. Olson was like a deck
master hovering over a shipload of slave oarsmen.
On Wednesday, June 19, to the astonishment of the engineers who kept the "score" in Hard Nose Murphy's office, one gang had
moved its wheels back and forth across the bridge fifty times. Then, on June 26, a second gang also registered fifty trips.
Two days later, in the heat of battle, one of the wheels suddenly broke loose from its moorings and came bouncing down onto
the catwalk, skipping toward a bridgeman named John Newberry. He froze with fright. If it hit him, it might knock him off
the bridge; if he jumped out of its path too far, he might lose his balance and fall off himself. So he held his position,
waiting to see how it jumped. Fortunately, the wheel skimmed by him, he turned slightly like a matador making a pass, and
then it stopped dead a few yards down the catwalk. He breathed relief, but his gang was angry because now their daily total
was ruined. The other gang would win.
On July 16, one gang got the wheels back and forth fifty-one times, and on July 22, another gang duplicated it. A few days
later, the gang under Bob Anderson, the boomer who had been so irresistible to women back on the Mackinac Bridge, was moving
along with such flawless precision that with an hour to go of working time it had already registered forty-seven trips. If
all went well in the remaining hour, six more trips could be added—meaning a record total of fifty-three.
"Okay, let's move it," Anderson yelled down the line to his gang, all of them focusing on what they hoped
would be a cable. Each cable—there would be four cables on the Verrazano— would be a yard thick, 7,205 feet long, and would
contain 36,000 miles of pencil-thin wire. The four cables, collectively, would weigh 38,290 tons. From each cable would later
be hung, vertically, 262 suspender ropes—some ropes as long as 447 feet—and they would hold the deck more than two hundred
feet above the water, holding it high enough so that no matter how hot and limp the cables got in summer the deck would always
be high enough for the Queen Mary to easily pass beneath.
From the very first day that the wheels began to roll— March 7, 1963—there was fierce competition between the two gangs working
alongside one another on the two catwalks. This rivalry existed both between the gangs on the early-morning shift as well
as the gangs on the late-afternoon shift. The goal of each gang, of course, was to get its two wheels back and forth across
the bridge more times than the other gang's wheels. The result was that the cable-spinning operation turned into a kind of
horse race or, better yet, a dog race. The catwalks became a noisy arena lined with screaming, fist-waving men, all of them
looking up and shouting at their wheels—wheels that became mechanical rabbits.
"Com'on, you mother, move your ass," they yelled as their wheel skimmed overhead, grinding away and carrying the wire to the
other end. "Move it, com'on, move it!" And from the other catwalk, there came the same desperate urgings, the same wild-eyed
competition and anger when their wheel—their star, their hope— would drag behind the other gang's wheel.
The men from one end of the catwalk to the other were all in rhythm with their wheels, all quick at pulling down the wire,
all glancing sideways to study the relative position of the other gang's wheels, all hoping that the diesel engines propelling
their wheels would not conk out, all very angry if their men standing on the anchorages were too slow at reloading their wheel
once it had completed the journey across. It was in such competition as this that Benny Olson had excelled in his younger
days. He used to stand on the catwalk in front of an anchorage inspiring his gang, screaming insults at those too slow at
pulling down the wire, or too sluggish at reloading the wheel, or too casual about the competition. Olson was like a deck
master hovering over a shipload of slave oarsmen.
On Wednesday, June 19, to the astonishment of the engineers who kept the "score" in Hard Nose Murphy's office, one gang had
moved its wheels back and forth across the bridge fifty times. Then, on June 26, a second gang also registered fifty trips.
Two days later, in the heat of battle, one of the wheels suddenly broke loose from its moorings and came bouncing down onto
the catwalk, skipping toward a bridgeman named John Newberry. He froze with fright. If it hit him, it might knock him off
the bridge; if he jumped out of its path too far, he might lose his balance and fall off himself. So he held his position,
waiting to see how it jumped. Fortunately, the wheel skimmed by him, he turned slightly like a matador making a pass, and
then it stopped dead a few yards down the catwalk. He breathed relief, but his gang was angry because now their daily total
was ruined. The other gang would win.
On July 16, one gang got the wheels back and forth fifty-one times, and on July 22, another gang duplicated it. A few days
later, the gang under Bob Anderson, the boomer who had been so irresistible to women back on the Mackinac Bridge, was moving
along with such flawless precision that with an hour to go of working time it had already registered forty-seven trips. If
all went well in the remaining hour, six more trips could be added—meaning a record total of fifty-three.
"Okay, let's move it," Anderson yelled down the line to his gang, all of them focusing on what they hoped
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