There is a particular sound a Boeing 737 makes when twenty people get it moving. It is not the roar of engines or the whine of hydraulics. It is the low, grinding complaint of tens of thousands of pounds of aluminum and steel surrendering, inch by inch, to a rope and a crowd of amateurs in sneakers. That sound is the whole point of the Plane Pull, an annual fundraiser for Special Olympics New Jersey that turns a stretch of Newark Liberty International Airport tarmac into the most improbable athletic contest in the state.
The premise is almost absurd on its face. Gather a team of up to twenty people. Stand on the apron of one of the busiest airports in the country. Take hold of a thick rope attached to a United Airlines jet. Then pull — hard enough and fast enough to drag the aircraft twelve feet. Teams compete in three ways: the fastest pull, the pull that moves the plane with the lowest combined team weight, and the highest fundraising total. There are first-, second-, and third-place prizes in each category, plus individual and team fundraising awards. To even step onto the tarmac, a team must raise at least $1,200.
The event is scheduled for Saturday, October 3, 2026, at Newark Liberty International Airport, with the competition running through the morning and early afternoon. It is organized by Special Olympics New Jersey, the state chapter of the global movement that provides year-round sports training and athletic competition to children and adults with intellectual disabilities. The Plane Pull is one of the organization's signature fall fundraisers, and the money it raises goes directly toward keeping those programs free — athletes train and compete at no cost, with certified coaches, thanks in part to events like this one.
The tug-of-war against a jet is not unique to New Jersey. Plane pulls have become a signature Special Olympics fundraising format across the country, with major events at Chicago's O'Hare International Airport and elsewhere. At O'Hare's 18th annual Plane Pull, more than 110 teams turned out to haul a United Airlines 737 — also twelve feet — and raised money for Special Olympics Illinois. Organizers there describe the same essentials that define the New Jersey version: strategy, communication, and teamwork, with teams taking turns at the rope throughout the day. "You want to have the rope ready to go," one United Airlines executive who participated told reporters. "But really, it's communication, working together, talking to each other and being out here to have some fun together."
New Jersey's version has its own history and its own scale. The event has been running for well over two decades — recent editions have been billed as the 23rd annual and beyond — and it has grown into something closer to a festival than a simple competition. One recent running drew an estimated 10,000 people to Newark Liberty for what organizers call Airport Day, a full slate of fun and games built around the pull itself. The event is closely tied to the Law Enforcement Torch Run, the police-led fundraising arm of Special Olympics, whose officers help organize and run the day. In a state where the Special Olympics New Jersey program serves more than 26,000 children and adults, the pull has become one of the most visible dates on the calendar.
The mechanics of the competition are what make it genuinely strange to watch. Teams are capped at twenty people, and the aircraft is a full-size commercial jet — in recent years, a United Airlines Boeing 737-900. Each team typically gets two attempts: one for the fastest pull, and one for the lowest combined weight, in which the goal is to move the plane twelve feet with as little total human mass as possible. That second category is the great equalizer. A team of twenty linebackers might win the speed contest, but a lighter, well-coordinated group can take the weight title if it can get the jet rolling and keep it rolling before the clock runs out. The result is a competition that rewards technique and timing as much as raw strength — a lesson every team seems to learn the moment the rope goes taut and nothing happens.
For spectators, the appeal is partly the spectacle: a commercial airliner, parked on a working airport's apron, being hauled by hand like a stubborn shopping cart. But the deeper draw is the cause. Special Olympics athletes and their families consistently describe the program as a community first and a competition second — a place where friendships and belonging matter as much as medals. Fundraisers like the Plane Pull are what keep that community running, covering the cost of coaching, facilities, and competition for thousands of athletes across New Jersey.
That is the quiet arithmetic behind the shouting. A team raises $1,200 to qualify. Multiply that across dozens of teams, add individual donations and corporate sponsorships, and the day's take funds a year of training and competition for athletes who might otherwise never get the chance. The plane moves twelve feet. The impact travels much further.
For anyone thinking about entering, the barriers are low and the requirements clear: assemble up to twenty people, raise at least $1,200 as a team, and show up ready to pull. There are additional fundraising incentives for teams that go beyond the minimum, and prizes for the top fundraisers on both the team and individual level. Spectators are welcome too — the event is a public fundraiser, and the sight of a 737 inching across the tarmac is not something you see every day. Parking and access run through the airport's designated lots and the AirTrain, with signage directing visitors toward the Airport Day and Plane Pull area.
What makes the New Jersey Plane Pull worth marking on a calendar is not just that it is unusual. It is that the unusual thing is also the useful thing. The rope, the jet, the shouting, the stopwatch — all of it exists to pay for something far less dramatic: a season of practices, a trip to a competition, a coach who knows every athlete by name. On the first Saturday of October, a few hundred people will lean back on a rope and pull a commercial airliner twelve feet. Somewhere in New Jersey, thousands of athletes will get to keep playing because of it.