HERO

On Thursday, I met up with a gentleman who I haven't seen in years. He asked me if my dad was still alive.

I responded that, sadly, I lost my dad, at the age of 88, back in May 2007.

Born to an Irish-Catholic family, in the anthracite coal region of Pennsylvania, my father joined the U.S. Army Air Corps after graduating from high school, where he earned the rank of Master Sergeant, and served in London during the German blitz of World War II.

In 1945, he married my mother, and their marriage lasted 63 years, until his death. He raised my brother and I, he was always our greatest fan and supporter. He never missed any of my sporting events, and he attended as many of my races as he could. Olympic champions were no match for his son...in his eyes, at least.

After working for 40 years in the office at a local business that repaired giant motors that powered equipment for coal mine operations, he retired, and was hopelessly bored. It was around that time that I opened an athletic footwear store. My dad was the manager, and he was in his glory. A passionate sports fan, he especially enjoyed local sports. Every customer was treated to several of my dad's stories, most of which contained an Irish flair. In addition, he had an amazing ability to recall statistics, records, and accomplishments of almost every athlete who entered the store. For example, a runner would be complimented with, "I see you ran a great 800-Meter race the other day. Second place, huh?" After a basketball game, the young man who came into the store would hear, "Twelve points, and 5 assists. The Tigers have a good team. Good job!"

The gentleman I met on Thursday, in his mid-40s, recounted similar stories, declaring, "I'll never forget your dad. He was a great guy."

My mother and father went for 2 to 3 mile walks, several times a week, until he was 85. Dementia, however, gripped my dad for his final three years.

He loved to talk. He loved to tell stories. On the day he died, I went to his room in the nursing home at 3:00 a.m., and left at 7:00 a.m. Lapsing in and out of consciousness, and not really knowing I was there, my dad filibustered, recalling events that occurred back in the 1930s.

It was a fitting, peaceful ending, to a terrific life.

I dedicated my book, www.runningshorts.com, to my dad. It was my intent to make him proud.

I am proud to have called him my dad.

Happy Father's Day.

CONFESSIONS OF RAGE

I just returned from a 2-mile run. My time was 17:45. It was one of the most painful, frustrating experiences of my life.

This blog/rant is dedicated to all runners. Please don't think I am diminishing anyone's pace, ability, or dedication as I write this. Rather, I am attempting to relate my frustrations to you, in a manner I'm sure most of you have experienced, whether your daily training pace i 6, 7, 8, 9, or 10 minutes a mile.

My usual training pace lies around 7:10-7:15 a mile these days, and I average about 40 miles a week when I'm training for shorter races; 50 or so a week when I'm training for a marathon. Two months ago, at the Boston Marathon, I averaged about a 7:02 pace.

Two torn hamstrings in May shredded my training like it shredded the back of my leg. Despite aggressive physical therapy, and the declaration from my orthopedic surgeon that he'd ok my return to running after he sees my on July 3, I concluded that the only way I could strengthen my hamstring again was by a initiating a slow return to some light running.

Remember everyone, this is the chronicle from someone who is addicted to running like some folks are addicted to crack, so this is by no means sound advice!

Last Sunday I began by jogging for a half mile. It is Friday. I can actually run 2 miles without stopping. Clearly, however, I WOULD stop if there were even a sign of hamstring pain. There is not.

There is, however, pain everywhere else!

From my lower back, to my quads, even down to shinsplints. That's right, shinsplints!!! I've been running for 36 years, for God's sake, and now I develop shinsplints. My breathing makes my feel like I'm glad I gave up that 2-pack-a-day habit. (exaggeration for effect, I've never smoked a day in my life) When I finish the run I feel like my entire body is ready to explode.

For the past five and a half weeks, since my injury, I have stretched more than ever. I have done upper body lifting three times a week. I have ridden the bike, gone crazy on the elliptical, and have tried my best to not become sedentary. I have gained only 3 pounds, and still I feel like an out of shape couch potato.

So, given the difficulty of mounting a comeback (at least as quickly as I desire), I am filled with rage.
I have confined my rehab runs to the secluded mountain behind my house. There, in quiet solitude, among the sounds of gentle breezes and chirping birds, one can hear the growling sounds of my expletives, as I attempt to sooth myself above the tunes bursting from the ear buds of my iPod.

Eventually, I will get back to running on the streets, where drivers will delight themselves by laying on their horns, shout the pleasant admonitions of "Get off the roads," along with chants that challenge my manhood.

So, here's my confession.

In my current state of frustration, I WILL freak out!!!

The offender will absorb the wrath of 155 pounds worth of rage. And I better not read one of those spineless coward, call-in losers opinions in the local newspaper. You know, the person who, several weeks ago, suggested we all need a "Jogger's License." That person will receive a written b--ch slap from me.

Well, thanks for reading my rant and hearing my confession.

I love this sport. I will beat myself up in order to be able to return to full training and racing again. Thanks to so many of you who have offered kind words since my setback. For those of you who are injured or returning from an injury, I feel your pain, both literally and figuratively. And, to all of you, this guarantee: I'll see you on the roads...soon.

CLASS ACT!

Ten years ago or so, I was watching the Imus in the Morning show. It was around St. Patrick's Day, and they featured a little-known, rough around the edges band from Boston, called Dropkick Murphys.

Over the years, the band became more popular. They played at Boston Red Sox and Bruins games, and their music was part of the film, The Departed."

I purchased their albums, and their songs became prominent on my iPod playlist. No music could inspire me more to take down my pace on a training run than the driving, punk sounds of this band.

The weekend before St. Paddy's Day this year, we went to see Dropkick Murphys live, at a concert in Philadelphia. They play small venues, and they seem to become part of the crowd when they perform. A Dropkick Murphys concert is very interactive. Hundreds of fans, mostly women, invade the stage for the finale, and actually sing with the band.

Their concert in Philadelphia was terrific, and we vowed we would see them again.

Days after the Boston Marathon bombings, Dropkick Murphys began selling "For Boston" T-Shirts. 100% of the proceeds went to the Boston One Fund, established to aid the victims and their families. To date, thanks to this one Irish punk band from Boston, over $150,000 has been donated to the fund.

When my wife and I purchased our For Boston T-Shirts, I noticed that the band was scheduled to play in the tiny college town of Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania, nestled in the beautiful Pocono Mountains, an hour and a half east of us. Stroudsburg is the finishing point for the Run for the Red Marathon, a local point to point race, held each May. The course is scenic, shady, and fast.

 I quickly booked the tickets for last night's concert.

The venue was the Sherman Theater, a 1920s style building, complete with the marquee in front. Many fans wore their For Boston T-Shirts. I decided to wear my yellow and blue 2013 Boston Marathon long-sleeve race shirt.

After two excellent warm up bands, The Mahones, and Old Man Markley, we anxiously awaited the headliners.

Lights went on, and the house erupted to the smashing sounds of "For Boston." In light of recent events, it was a spine-chilling opener. Then, they went right into the song, "The Boys Are Back," from their latest album, "Signed and Sealed in Blood."

From the time the band walks on stage, their performance could be compared to getting behind the wheel of a car, punching the accelerator to 100 miles per hour, and never letting up on the gas for an hour and a half.

My wife and I were 30 feet from the stage. the sounds were deafening, the moshers were wild, but peaceful, and as the band prepared to end the show, with the song, fittingly, "The End of the Night," I encouraged my wife to, "go up on stage." Moments after she disappeared into a sea of bodies, my next glimpse of her was being horizontally body surfed above the crowd. Sadly, security guards cut the crowd participation on the stage moments before she arrived.

She returned, disappointed, but proud to have checked 'concert body surfing' from her bucket list.

The crowd roared as the band played its final chords, and began to exit the stage, but not behind the curtains. Band members went to the front, in one last effort to interact with the crowd

By this time, I had positioned myself a few feet from the stage. Ken Casey, the charismatic leader of the band approached, slapping hands and waving. He spotted my shirt, asked, "Did you run the race?" I replied in the affirmative. He clasped my hand, then hugged me and said, "Way to go, man. Glad you're safe."

Amazed, I experienced something that, those who know me will attest, rarely happens. I became a bit tongue-tied. I told him his band was great, and that I tweet about them frequently.

Chalk that up to MY bucket list.

What a band.

A group of people who really DO care about their city, and the runners who make the pilgrimage there each Patriot's Day.

Dropkick Murphys has teamed up with Bruce Springsteen for their song, for an Extended Play album.
The EP, Rose Tattoo: For Boston Charity, is out now on iTunes for $1.29, with all proceeds going to bombing victims through the Dropkick Murphys' Claddagh Fund, a registered non-profit the band established to "serve the most vulnerable in our communities." 
"Innocent people being hurt by terrorists fits the core of that mission, and we're proud to be able to help," the band said in a statement on their website. The group has already raised more than $65,000 for victims of the bombings.

These guys are the real deal, and are, truly a class act.

Go runners!

Go Boston!

                                                        JOE MEETS KEN CASEY

32

I ran a mile yesterday!

That would be somewhat laughable, given the fact that, less than two months ago, I turned in a time of 3:04 and change at the Boston Marathon.

On May 7, however, that all changed, when, during a training run, I tripped and tore two hamstring tendons.

For a month I accepted my fate. I walked my dogs, tended to my vegetable garden, trimmed trees and hedges, lifted weights frequently, attended physical therapy, and performed my stretching and isometric exercises religiously.

Late last week, as I was stretching my injured leg, I reached back and grasped the hamstring of my good leg. The muscle was firm. My heart nearly stopped, however, when I grabbed the injured hamstring to find that the muscle had all but disappeared! It had been reduced to jelly, and it had happened in a mere four weeks.

My whining, by now, had reached Jerry Seinfeld levels. Of course, my wife, Crissy, bore the brunt of my self-pity. The hamstring was healing, the pain now reduced to soreness. Physical therapy was helpful, but not very challenging. How could I bring the dead hamstring back to life?

Crissy, who is usually more cautious about my health than I, announced on Saturday evening, "Why don't you test out your leg tomorrow? Try running on it a little bit."

That was the endorsement I needed. So, on Sunday morning, 32 days after I experienced the most blinding pain of my entire life, I ran a mile.

A short quarter mile from my house is a vast expanse of forest-covered anthracite coal called Sharp Mountain. It is populated by deer, turkeys, squirrels, and an occasional bear. Four-wheelers utilize the wooded paths, and cyclists pedals up and down the steep slopes. A flat, open stretch of the road bisects the mountain. It is a smooth, hard-packed clay service. After a brisk walk, I arrived at the path, blessed myself, pointed upstairs to the Big Guy for guidance, and took off, at what could best be described as a slow trot.

There was no pain. Had there been, I would have shut it down immediately. Instead, I felt like a physical schizophrenic. My right side was fine, but my left, the injured side, from the waist down, took on the physical composition of one who had not run in years. It was extremely weak and I felt as though I was dragging it along in order to keep up with my "good" side.

I made it to the half mile mark in a time too slow to report. I then walked for a minute and completed another half mile, 10 seconds faster than the first. The workout was an initial 'baby step.'

Today, I ran 3/4 of a mile, faster than yesterday, walked for a minute, and ran the final quarter mile. I felt a little stronger, and slightly less weak.

Later in the afternoon I visited my physical therapist, who observed, "You're getting some tone back in your leg." For many reasons, I couldn't tell him why.

My recovery is going to be slow, but it IS going.

 I have set goals. That's what we do in this sport. It is all about redefining our goals. Sometimes, we ratchet them up, but often we have to simply take what our bodies will give us.

Right now, for me, that's not too much, but it IS a mile.

Now, for the commercial.

 I have a chapter in my book, www.runningshortsbook.com, entitled, 'Run 'til it Hurts.' It is all about injuries and their prevention. It is also about what to do when we get them. Check it out. I'm offering a free gift (while supplies last) if you buy the book on my site. It's a great gift for dad, and a great book to take to the beach.

PURGATORY

It may not be hell, but it sure is purgatory.

The last time I blogged was on May 12. There is a reason for that.

On May 7, a gorgeous day for a run, ended in disaster, at least from this runners standpoint.

Randy Haas, a 2:17 marathoner, and Olympic Trials participant, subject of the chapter, 'The Best,' in my book, Running Shorts, www.runningshortsbook.com, and I were about a mile into what was to be a six-mile training run. As we talked, joked, and covered a plethora of topics, my toe caught a raised sidewalk. Knowing I was on a collision course with the cement pavement, my body tensed, hands extended into a Superman-like position, and my left leg, a little stiff from the Boston Marathon, which I had run three weeks earlier, contorted in an odd manner. The sensation of pain, centered directly in the middle of my hamstring, was blinding. My hands struck the sidewalk, blood oozing from the abrasions, and I rolled onto a front lawn, writhing in agony. Prophetically, as Randy attempted to assist me, I yelled, over and over, "I'm done," I'm done."

In 2001, on a 7-mile workout, I felt a pain in my left foot. It was the type of soreness one feels when one's shoe is tied too tightly. I stopped, loosened the laces, and slowly, painfully, completed the last mile and a half of the workout. The next day, it looked like I was wearing a rubber foot, as it had swelled to twice its normal size. A metatarsal was broken, and I was casted for six weeks.

That pain was Little League. The pain I felt on the afternoon of May 7 was World Series Major League.

I was unable to stand. Unable to move my leg from the 90-degree angle in which it was locked. A neighbor, a man in his late 70s, emerged from his home with an ice bag in his hand. His name is John D.W. Reiley, the current mayor of my city, Pottsville, Pennsylvania. From 1990 to 1998, I served as the mayor of Pottsville. Mayor Reiley and I belong to different political parties. In my agony that day, the mayor displayed gracious political bipartisanship seldom seen in places like our nation's capital these days.

A friend drove by, volunteered to fetch my wife, (my home is only a half mile from the site of my collision with the sidewalk), and she and Randy scooped me into my car, my house, and into the bed, where, for several hours, I lie, wallowing the worst pain I can recall in my entire life.

Eventually, I was able to hobble, and early the next morning I sat in the office of a young, respected local orthopedic surgeon, who bore unconfirmed bad news: I did not pull or strain my hamstring, rather, I tore it. Swelling, ugly black and blue marks, and my inability to resist with any pressure as the doctor pushed on my heel as I lie on my stomach, leg raised at the knee, helped him arrive at his preliminary diagnosis. Only an MRI, however, would confirm his suspicion.

That afternoon I was inserted into the futuristic tube to receive my scan, and early in the evening my doctor called with the news. Of the three tendons that attach the hamstring, I tore two of them, in what is called a proximal hamstring tear. The hamstring tore away from the Ischium bone, so in addition to my inability to run, it is, literally a pain in the butt when I sit.

A follow up visit with the doctor was grim. Surgery was an option, but a 4 to 6 month recovery period was a little more than I could endure, so we opted for the conservative approach of rest and physical therapy. Within the next week or so, I may try an interesting new treatment, called Autologous Conditioned Plasma therapy. A vial of blood will be drawn from my arm, It will be placed into a centrifuge, where it will be rapidly spun, separating the plasma-rich platelets. That refined blood will be injected into the site of the injury. In baseball pitchers and other athletes, the procedure has helped speed up the healing process.

It has been four weeks since the injury. I have not run a step, and it has not been fun. My physical therapist is excellent. He knows me, my running addiction, and I believe, with his help, we will be able to accelerate the healing process. We are working on my flexibility, which is laughable. Most of us know that a "flexible long distance runner" is the ultimate oxymoron. I am on the elliptical, and I am riding a bike. Oh, how I hate riding a bike. I feel like Pee Wee Herman in "Pee Wee's Big Adventure." Other therapies have included: a lot of upper body weightlifting, planting, tilling, and weeding my garden at a frenetic pace, and frequent walks in the mountain with my dogs.

Thus far, my wife has not banished me to the shed in the back yard, although, given my irritability, she has every reason to do so.

On Monday, I visited my orthopedic surgeon, who informed me my rehab was way ahead of schedule. After a lengthy discussion about the severity of the injury, I asked him the inevitable question: "When can I run again" His reply was, "I'll see you on July 3, and I should be able to give you the OK then."

JULY 3!!! I don't think so.

That afternoon I issued my physical therapist a direct order: 'Beat me up." Enough of this sissy therapy, it's time for big-boy stuff. After a two-hour session, I felt good, with no strain on the injured areas. Of course, I do additional exercises at home

I'm going to behave for another couple of weeks, but I hope to take some running baby steps around the middle of June.

My injury is not life-threatening. There are many people in the world who are dealing with medical conditions that are truly serious. We are runners, however, and for us, a debilitating setback like this, in our world, seems like it's a life or death situation. I will slowly come back. I will chart my progress. I will pass along my successes and failures to my readers in an effort to guide all of you when you, as avid runners, are stricken with an injury.

Until then, I will serve my sentence in purgatory.
How much would you like a toothbrush?

                                                                   MY THERAPISTS