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!

IT'S BOSTON, MAN!

The air will be thick with the sweet smell of Icy Hot and port-a-potties. Runners of all ages display a rainbow of colorful clothing. Some sport the latest, most expensive running gear; while others are clad in a plain, black trash bags. Music blares, folks are strewn across the athletic fields of Hopkinton High School, police attempt to rid the woods of people who seek to avoid the long bathroom lines.

Some things haven't changed since I ran my first Boston in 1978.

Yellow school busses still transport runners on a bouncy, not-so-comfortable journey along the Mass Pike.

Folks converge on Hopkinton, as the sleepy New England town becomes, for several hours, the center of the sports world. The sign still reads, "It all starts here."

Since 1978, however, the Boston Marathon has changed. Everything has changed.

The sheer numbers, the fact that one must register for the race before the narrow window closes, hotel issues, large entry fees, difficult restaurant reservations, makes this old-timer yearn for the good old days of Boston.

But no, this is Boston, man, it IS the Granddaddy. At Boston, they do what they want. Heck, the race is run on a Monday, and, it wasn't that long ago that the race began at noon, because that's the way it's always been.

Last year, on their pristine lawns, families stacked cases of bottled water for dehydrated runners, as temperatures soared into the high 80s.

Crowd noise and crowd support simply does not begin and end during the race. It exists the entire weekend. Walk into a restaurant or bar wearing your finisher medal and you'll see what I mean.

So, you have to qualify for this race?

Hell yeah! It's Boston! You SHOULD have to qualify.

I can't wait for my rides on the MBTA. Can't wait for the lady in the hotel to ask me about paaking my caa. And the frown on my wife's face when I say, "In the Haavaad Yaad!"

Seafood on Saturday in the South End; a pasta dinner in the North End on Sunday night.

The incredible start, the frat houses with music blaring. The towns of Ashland, Framingham, and Natick. The girls of Wellesley, the Newton Hills. Cresting Heartbreak at 20.5 miles, the endless stretch of Commonwealth Avenue. The Citgo sign. Right on Boyleston, left on Coplay Avenue.

I've logged more marathon miles on the Boston marathon course than other. I recorded my PR of 2:22:54 there in 1983. I ran in the world's largest marathon, the 100th anniversary race. I've dropped out of only two of my 54 marathons: both at Boston. I have enjoyed every race in a different way. The people of New England, the course, the heritage, the folklore.

It's Boston, man!

A BLOG OF NOTE!

Father Christopher Zelonis is a Roman Catholic priest, a runner and a blogger.

If you ask me, that's a pretty good trifecta!

On Saturday, I was humbled and honored to read his blog, which I have featured below.

 http://shipwrackharvest.blogspot.com/2013/04/running-shorts-worth-wear.html

Father Chris' blog truly captured the essence of my book, www.runningshortsbook.com. It makes me happy that he, and many other runners, have provided positive feedback about the book. In my 36-year running career, I have been fortunate to achieve some success, but my greatest pleasure has been the friends I have made along the way. Today, through my writing, coaching, and motivational speaking appearances, I thoroughly enjoy offering advice to others in order to assist them in achieving their running goals.

If you haven't read my book, I hope you will. It is available on my site, at Amazon, Barnes and Noble.com, as well as at Lulu.com, and in many fine running stores.

Also, please take some time to read Father Chris Zelonis' blogs. They are beautifully written, and are quite inspiring.

As I prepare for my 16th Boston Marathon appearance next Monday, I ask for Father Chris' prayers. I am hoping that his request for Divine Intervention will assist me in dragging this old body up Heartbreak Hill and across the finish line in Coplay Square.

IN THE BANK

The 2013 Boston Marathon is twelve days away, and for the 16th time I will toe the starting line in the village of Hopkinton, for the beginning of the world's oldest continuous marathon.

Since my first Boston Marathon appearance in 1978, Boston Marathon training has become somewhat of a rite of winter for me. Back in the days when I could record times in the 2:20s, I would turn in 100-mile weeks, sprinkling 8 or 9 20-milers in the mix, from the beginning of my training period in January.

These days I'm logging 50 miles a week, and 20-miles are less frequent, but, with less than two weeks until race day, it is always time to assess and to hope that the "money's in the bank."

Fortunately, my speaking schedule and book tour promotion, www.runningshortsbook.com, has enabled me to run good quality half marathons at Louisiana and Miami, and a full, training pace marathon at the Yuengling Shamrock Marathon.

On January 5, I ran a 15-miler, followed by a 16-miler a month later. On March 3, I logged my first 20-miler, on a nasty, windy day. I managed a 7:25 pace. Then, planning to run only 20 miles of the Yuengling Shamrock race, I maintained pace, running the entire 26.2 in 3:10:18, a 7:15 pace. Last Saturday, I ran my third and final 20-miler in 2:28:00, another 7:25 pace.

Speedwork during the marathon training period has consisted of mainly mile intervals. I hope to do a 4x1 mile interval workout tomorrow.

A ten mile run over the weekend, and the money will be in the bank. Next week the goal is to remain healthy and relaxed, and pray for good weather.

48 of my 54 lifetime marathons have fallen under the 3-hour mark, and I sure would like to add number 49 to that on April 15. My only two DNF's have been at Boston, however, and last year, a sinus infection, coupled with searing temperatures in the high 80s, cut me down at the 18-mile aid station.

Needless to say, I feel the need to avenge last year's disappointment at this year's race.

I love the Boston Marathon.

The tradition, the city, the spectators, are simply spectacular. Every runner in the race is a superstar. From the time you arrive until the moment you depart, you are as revered as the Sox or the Bruins.

Ice, snow, darkness, and incessant winds have been present since late November. The sun seems to appear, on average, about once a week. Nuisance snows, complete with rivers of slush, have added to the unpleasantness of training here in the northeast.

If conditions are right. If the aches and pains are gone. If the flu germs have found another host, and if all the ingredients have been mixed properly in the training recipe, there is nothing in the running world like crossing the finish line in Coplay Square on Patriot's Day.

SKINNY LEGS

St. Patrick's Day in Virginia Beach this year was not the perfect beach day!

At the start of the Yuengling Shamrock Marathon, temperatures hovered in the low 40s, and an icy wind, coming from the north, aided runners at the start of the race, but smashed us, like the slap of an invisible wave, as we turned back into it.

Near the starting line, around the 12-mile mark of the race, my wife waited, shivering, as the wind swept through the tunnel of Atlantic Avenue. Crowds were thick, mostly friends and family of the over 3,000 competitors.

A young lady, in her 20s, passed by. She was NOT associated with any runner. Tipping the scale at over two-hundred pounds, she was clad in skinny jeans, and an undersized sweatshirt, that struggled, unsuccessfully, to cover her ample belly. The sight of a sea of fit, lithe athletes in motion was simply too much for her to bear. In earshot of my wife, she exclaimed, "Ewww, look how skinny they're legs are!"

My wife, both appalled and amused, gave the overweight observer a look that probably scared the bacon and eggs right out of her.

Statistically, we are living in the most obese country in the history of the world. As I write, over 34% of America's adult population is obese. By the year 2030, given the current trend, nearly half of the population of adults in the U.S. will be considered obese.

At the same time, however, more Americans are running and entering races than ever. Most major U.S. races are filled to capacity, sometimes days, or even hours after registration opens.

Sadly, as most of us have experienced, most of the population views us as freaks. We are insane for running in all kinds of weather, watching our diets, and caring about the only body we're ever going to get. We are not bogging down the health care system. We are not wasting money on cigarettes, or in fast-food joints. If we sustain an injury, the soft, overweight among us thoroughly enjoy saying, "I told you so."

In my book, Running Shorts, www.runningshortsbook.com, a member of the 'Cast of Characters' is one of my oldest running partners, Brian Tonitis.

Three and a half years ago, Brian, in his early 50s, had just completed a local triathlon. He placed fourth, winning his age division. As he attempted to recover after the race, his chest tightened, and this man, a physical specimen, suffered a heart attack.

Brian and I see the same physician, Dr. George Heffner, a 4-hour marathoner. As Brian recovered in a local hospital, I called Dr. Heffner for a report. I lamented, "Doc, I go to Wal Mart, and I see these morbidly obese people in their 40s, riding around the store. I just don't understand how someone like Brian can suffer a heart attack. Is all the training we do really worth it?"

His answer was nothing short of brilliant, as well as tremendously inspiring.

He replied, "Joe, after a hard workout or a race, we may feel bad for a day or two. I think that obese people feel bad every day."

Brian Tonitis not only made a full recovery, but this winter, at age 56, dropped his 10K time down to 39:30. Had it not been for his superior physical conditioning, he may not have survived the "widowmaker" he suffered.

Yeah, I'll take our skinny legs anytime!