BOGO BOOK EXCERPT

Memorial Day weekend, the unofficial kickoff of the summer season has passed, and now it's time to train, race, and relax in a big way.

If you're heading to the beach, the mountains, or to your favorite vacation spot, you could probably use some good reading material.

In a few weeks we'll celebrate Father's Day. Not sure what to get for dad?

Well, I have just begun the biggest sale and savings ever on my two books, Personal Best, and Running Shorts.

Go to: www.muldowneyrunning.com where you can buy one of the books, and receive the other ABSOLUTELY FREE. That's right. You can buy one for you and give the other to dad. Or keep both for yourself. Give one to the person who inspired you to begin training. Give one to your spouse, your son or daughter...well, you get the picture.

My first book, Running Shorts: A Collection of Stories and Advice for Anyone Who Has Ever Laced Up a Pair of Running Shoes, published in 2011, is a compilation of my experiences as competitive runner for 39 years, but many of these tales reflect experiences YOU have had during your years as a runner. As one of the Amazon reviewers stated, "It will make you laugh and it will make you cry." amazon.com/author/joemuldowney, A KIndle version of Personal Best is available on Amazon at the low price of $1.99.

Following is an excerpt from the opening chapter of Personal Best.

It is my account of the chilling events, as I witnessed them, at the tragic 2013 Boston Marathon.

WAS THAT THUNDER?

     A good day to run a marathon is usually a bad day to watch a marathon.

     That was not the case on April 15, 2013.

     The day broke with a deep blue sky; a chilly wind fluttered from the west, the air was arid.

     An endless procession of yellow school busses departed from the Boston Common to begin the journey along the Mass Pike to the village of Hopkinton, the center of the running world on Patriot’s Day.

     My morning began in an unusual manner. Preparing to run the Boston for the sixteenth time, my wife and I decided that, rather than deal with the crowds at the bus loading area, she would transport me to the athletes’ village, drive back to the train station in Needham, later assuming her spot near the finish line on Boylston Street.

     At the toll plaza, busses were lined up like yellow jackets at the hive, and despite some congestion, we reached the quaint, “Welcome to Hopkinton, Incorporated in 1715” sign by 7:30 a.m. In the forested area on the edge of town, placards nailed to the trees, bore the warning, “No Stopping Monday.” Between the words, “Stopping,” and “Monday,” was the image of a runner breaking the finish line tape.

     Within three blocks of the athletes’ village, all roads were barricaded, and as my wife and I exchanged farewells, an aching, empty feeling of loneliness enveloped me, even as I approached a small city of over 23,000 runners. I stood, motionless, for a few moments, as her car faded to a silver dot. On a magnificent mid-April morning, something didn’t feel quite right to me.