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

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!