DON'T FORGET TO PICK UP YOUR 'JOGGER'S LICENSE!'

Please don't think I'm repeating myself, but for your amusement, I feel compelled to share another installment of 'Thunder/Enlightning' with you.

 

This is a daily feature of our local newspaper, The Republican Herald, in which people call in, anonymously of course, and offer their opinions on a wide range of topics. Lately, runners, or "joggers," (can you believe people still use that term?) seem ...to be a hot topic.

Here is yesterday's letter from a local Mensa member.

 "Sometimes I think you are an idiot (referring to the commentator) because joggers are a hazard. Joggers do not belong on the road. They do not purchase a license to jog on the roads. The Mar Lin road is not a place for joggers. There is no place for them to go around a turn, no matter how careful the driver is. They seem to think they own the road. There are jogging paths. There are sidewalks. Please utilize them. You must be a jogger, one of the defiant ones."

Commentator's Response: Joggers, bicyclists, roller bladers, or just plain walkers, are not a hazard, and have all the rights you have and more. They follow the rules of the road just as you hopefully do, except they're in much better shape.

Thanks to the commentator for the excellent response.

 

Before the haters began to memorialize their disdain for us in print, I addressed the feelings of the non-running public towards us in Mile (Chapter) 13, of my book, "Running Shorts," www.runningshortsbook.com. The chapter is entitled, "Why Do They Hate Us So Much?"

 

Here's an excerpt.

 

"They hate us out of jealousy. They hate us because they may see something in us they may want to be or something they once were. They hate us because, by our visibility, we threaten them. They hate us because we are able to manage our time, doing all the things they do and more. They hate us because, every day, in their faces, they see men and women of all ages, many who don't necessarily "look" like runners, on the road, in all types of weather, enjoying themselves, and staying fit. They hate us because we are somewhat obsessive-compulsive. We enjoy competition, even if the competition is us; running farther, faster, beating last year's mileage and times."

 

Buy my book this month and I'll give you a small women's T-shirt, with the slogan, "Each Day is My

 

Personal Best," absolutely free.

 

I hope you'll buy my book. I guarantee you'll enjoy it. The stories will make you laugh. The advice will make you a better runner.

 

In the meantime, however, go out and purchase your "jogging license," and be careful, because, they really DO hate us!

 

 

 

117 BOSTON MARATHONS...AND GETTING BETTER!

One tends to move slowly after a marathon, and the crimson, watermark stains on my racing shoes, symbols of blisters gone bad, encouraged me to urge my wife to, rather than travel the extra block to Boyleston Street, take a shortcut into the Lord and Taylor mall, where we could grab some lunch and a cold beverage.

Two very gracious women at a jewelry kiosk pointed us in the direction of the Atlantic Seafood Company. We found a table, I ordered an adult milkshake, otherwise known as a Guinness, and a pleasant waitress brought us our menus. After two delicious sips, my wife decided to take a picture of the foam-laced drink, which I asked her to caption, "A great day in Boston." It was electronically sent to Facebook and Twitter.

The waitress returned to take our orders, when the sound, like a muffled cannon, shook the building. "Was that thunder?" The young lady asked. "No, it's clear outside," I responded.

Hell had visited the world's oldest marathon.

The tragedy, carnage, and sorrow was unspeakable, but runners and those who support us have bonded together in an unprecedented manner since the tragedy of April 15. Physical and mental scars will remain for a long time, but the Boston Marathon will rebound, because the runners, spectators, and all associated with this iconic event will not allow a cowardly act of terrorism to spoil many future "great days" in Boston.

On Saturday, we hopped on the Green Line in Needham and headed to the Hynes Convention Center. The Expo was elbow-to-elbow, more crowded than I can remember in all of my previous fifteen Boston appearances.

Competitors were issued a "Runner's Passport," attached to a lanyard, which hung from the neck. This small amenity identified each runner, and did, indeed, serve as a 'passport,' which entitled all participants to VIP treatment from just about every resident of Beantown.

At Tia's, on the waterfront, we dined on sumptuous two-pound lobsters, and proceed to  Boston's second oldest tavern, in Faneuil Hall, before going back to our hotel in Needham.

Sunday was cool and breezy, while Marathon Monday's forecast was shaping up to be near-perfect: Temperatures in the 50s, sunny, little wind. We took many finish line pictures, including a picture near the finish line of the flags of other nations. We then met up with friends, Mike Carriglitto, Kathleen and Samantha Snukis, at McGreevy's, America's oldest sports bar, on Boyleston Street. Kathleen would go on to post a personal best time of 3:45 on Monday. More importantly, however, was, after frantically texting them late on Monday afternoon, they assured us they were safe.

After a terrific pasta dinner in the North End on Sunday evening, we turned in early in preparation of tomorrow's race.

For the first time in all of my Boston appearances, my wife drove me to the athletes' village at Hopkinton, avoiding the long bus lines. It was so deserted upon my arrival, I christened a brand new port-o-potty, found a sunny spot along the wall of the Hopkinton Middle School, and listened to music until it was time to go to the start.

The thrill of the Boston Marathon never diminishes. The crowds seemed to be larger and louder than ever. I don't think there was ever more than a 100-yard stretch in which one COULDN'T score a hand slap.

It was a rare day in which the weather conditions were pleasant for runners and spectators alike. In some areas, folks knew my name, calling out, "Go Joe," but for most of the race, my Oregon Track Club singlet invoked cheers of "GO OR-E-GONE!"

At Boston College, where the crowds were particularly rowdy, despite a pair of sore post-Heartbreak Hill legs, I pumped  my fist and screamed, "Go Jesuits," referring to the Catholic Order of priests who teach at the school, as well as the Order of the new Pope. My unique invocation drew raucous cheers.

Commonwealth Avenue was a sea of humanity, and as I loped down Boyleston Street toward the finish line, I was unable to find my wife, but was able to kiss my biceps to the roar of the crowd.

In true Boston Marathon style, a race official seated in a chair, high above the finished line, greeted us with, "Welcome to Boston. What took you so long?"

Through the long gauntlet toward the baggage busses, volunteers continued the hospitality runners experienced throughout the weekend. Medals, space blankets, food and drinks were distributed to the conquering heroes with reverence.

I met my wife under the "M" sign. She congratulated me on my time of 3:04:13.

We went for lunch.

The rest is history.

Go runners!

Go Boston!

I'M READY TO TALK NOW

Sadness, anger, revulsion, empathy, pride, anxiety, post-traumatic stress. I'm not sure how I can capture this array of feelings in a few paragraphs

April 15, 2013 will sadly rank among the infamous dates of December 7, 1941, and September 11, 2001. There's one personal difference, however. On April 15, 2013, I was there.

I've been there on the third Monday of April sixteen times, dating back to 1978. A suburban Boston businessman once put a group of us up at his home, AND gave us complimentary Red Sox tickets. As a member of the Eastern Airlines Racing team, I stayed at the swanky Copley Plaza Hotel. Randy Haas and I, having both finished in the top 100 back in 1987, were treated to brews at the Boston Beer Works. I've lodged in the seaport town of Newburyport. I was presented a lucky coin by a skinhead on the MBTA, and have been honored by waitresses, firemen and members of Boston's Finest.

The sign reading, "It All Begins Here," in Hopkinton, the emptying of the towns of Ashland and Framingham, as seemingly every resident is drawn to the race course. The piercing screams of the girls at Wellesley, the support, needed by every participant, at the Newton Hills. Boston College, Commonwealth Avenue, and the Citgo sign, with one mile to go.

A right on Hereford and a left on Boyleston.

Then runners come out of the tunnel onto the floor of the stadium. There are 50,000 people who line the 600-yard stretch to the finish line. Over the years, I have blown kisses, posed, Hulk Hogan style, pointed to my wife and children, and invoked the crowd to get loud.

They have never let me down. I get goosebumps, I hyperventilate, and I as I cross the finish line, I vow to return, and barring injuries, I usually do.

Boston is the world's oldest continuous marathon. It is steeped in tradition, the course is legendary, the battles among the elite have been epic, but, for me, Boston is about the people. Not about the runners, but about the spectators, and the people of the marathon. The people, who, on marathon weekend, treat each and every runner like a rock star. The people, who stake out their spot early and leave late, usually after all the runners have passed them. The people who party. The people who, in last year's blast-furnace heat, stacked cases of bottled water on their lawns, for runners they do not know.

On that stretch of Boyleston Street, my wife and my children have stood. This year, my wife met a family from Kentucky. Some spectators near the finish line have friends and relatives in the race, but others do not.

On April 15, when evil from the depths of hell descended on Boyleston Street, it was the spectators who, in an instant, were impacted the most. The spectators who, for 117 years have selflessly cheered the runners, were killed and maimed, in a senseless act, perpetrated by men who came to America, took advantage of our good will, and turned it into cowardly hatred.

On April 15, amid the carnage, the bond between runners and spectators was cemented.

As the blasts shredded bodies, runners, having run for four hours, stripped off shirts and used them as tourniquets, and surely saved lives. Blisters and heat exhaustion became like hangnails, as runners vacated the medical area, giving way to those wounded in the blasts. Runners assisted to the wounded. Iraq and Afghanistan war veterans used their skills to tend to shrapnel wounds. By nightfall, Boston hospitals announced that no more blood was needed. Runners had given enough of theirs to provide a surplus.

Exactly one week after the tragedy, a local race promoter near my home in Reading, Pennsylvania, hastily organized a race. It attracted over 800 runners, and over $17,000 was raised for the One Boston Fund, which will aid victims of the terrorist act, and their families. All over the country, runners have had similar events, and at this writing, over $9 million has been raised for the One Boston Fund.

The terrorists are cowards. They underestimate Americans. They don't understand runners and those who support runners. My daughter, Kelly ran Philadelphia's Broad Street Run over the weekend. She reported that there were a record number of participants, and the crowd support was magnificent.

In 2014, the Boston Marathon will be bigger and better than ever. I know I'll be there. I also know that the crowds will be tremendous. They always have, and always will be.

Thank you Boston!

God bless you, and God bless America!