Personal Best

By Joe Muldowney

Personal Best is Joe Muldowney's second book about running, racing, and training. The book begins with Joe's personal account of the events surrounding the tragic 2013 Boston Marathon, his 16th running of the iconic race. Personal Best is a recipe book for running success. Muldowney, a veteran of 38 years of running with a personal best marathon time of 2:22:54, offers his methods for becoming a successful runner at every level. Beginners will benefit from his advice on how to train for an initial 5K race. "Muldowney Sevens" will take you from being a runner to being an award winning runner, and the chapter, 2:22:54, will offer what it takes to run a sub three hour marathon. Finally, the book tells the extraordinary stories of three inspirational runners, who have utilized their running to achieve their own personal bests. If you are a runner, or if you want to begin a running regimen, Personal Best is a must read for you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312557284

Book preview

Personal Best

Personal Best

Joe Muldowney

Copyright ©2014, Joe Muldowney

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

Cover Photographs by Johnathon Paroby

Editing by: Reverend Christopher Zelonis

Cover: Jason Burgess

ISBN: 978-1-312-55728-4

Your best running days lie ahead

Your best running days lie ahead

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Running may be a solitary effort, but writing a book is not.

Without the patience, understanding, wisdom and collaboration of others, most books assume the form of unfinished manuscripts, yellowing inside a desk drawer.

As in all the endeavors of my life, my wife Christina serves as my chief adviser. Her keen insight into people and life guides me and allows me to step back and look at things from a clearer perspective. No one could be more supportive and patient. She can be brutally honest in the most charming manner. This work has changed directions many times since its inception. Thanks to her, for the better, I believe.

I am fortunate to have a terrific family.

My dad, who passed in 2007, is with me in spirit and inspires me every day. He often said What’s worth having is worth working for. I have tried to follow his advice throughout my life.

At age 93, my mother Mary is the unofficial mayor of the nursing home in which she resides. She remains gritty, determined, and sharp of mind. She is quick to remind me that she Takes her exercises every day. Macular degeneration has robbed her of her eyesight, but she can still take on all-comers in a race with her walker.

The Muldowney’s are a 21st century Blended Family. My children, Kelly, Megan, and Logan, and my stepsons, Jake and Evan, make us proud every day. I write we attend races; they take care of the house and watch the dogs, tasks which have also contributed to the writing of this book. A special shout out to Evan who rescued some of this work after I lost my flash drive containing several chapters.

Thanks to Scott Thomas for his technical assistance in the conveyance of the paper and computer version of the book to the publisher.

My gratitude goes to Felix Shipp and Dr. Jen Burgess for sharing their amazing stories with me. Both are outstanding individuals and accomplished runners. Special thanks to Jen for loaning her husband Jason to us for the cover of the book. Jason is a respected chiropractor, runner and coach.

Running has introduced me to many exceptional people over the years. Father Christopher Zelonis is one of them.

Occasionally in life we have the fortune of interacting with a good spirit. Chris is a good spirit

My thanks go out to him for his assistance in editing this book and for much more. My wife and I will never forget his kindness and compassion. His words carry a sense of spirituality in a modern way. I am privileged to assist him on his running journey, and I am grateful for the manner in which he has helped me on mine.

Finally, thanks to the finest community on the planet. From Niagara Falls to Baton Rouge; from Salt Lake City to Miami, and through the miracle of the Internet, to runners around the globe, the stories of your running lives inspire me.

I hope the coming pages will guide you on the road to your personal best.

Joe

PREFACE

August 1, 2014

On September 12, 2012, I began writing Personal Best.

My intent was to offer a road map to runners of all abilities, based on my experience, in an effort to guide readers of the book toward achieving their personal bests. I hope the rest of the book meets that objective.

On April 15, 2013, though, everything changed.

My wife and I were witnesses to terror. We experienced evil in its most vile form as it manifested itself during one of the world’s purest sporting events.

Before the pages of this book celebrate what we do on a daily basis, I feel compelled to share the events of that tragic day with you the readers.

Therefore, I have positioned the chapter, ‘Was That Thunder,’ in its rightful place, at the beginning of the book.

All runners from everywhere on the globe have been touched by the events of that April day. The celebration of joy and the deep bond that exists between the Boston Marathon runners and the Boston Marathon spectators was, for a few tragic seconds, shattered on Boylston Street.

As quickly as the terrorists had completed their despicable acts, the bond between runners and those wonderful Boston Marathon spectators coalesced. All joined to assist the victims. All cooperated to bring the perpetrators to justice.

In the weeks and months that followed, runners in races around the country did their best to assist the wounded spectators who have always done their best to assist the runners.

My first chapter is my personal, on the scene account of the events.

This book is dedicated to my soul mate, my wife Christina. On the streets of Boston on that April afternoon, I recognized how short and fragile life can be, and how much I need her in my life.

In that light I also dedicate this book to the people of Boston, who have embraced the runners of the Boston Marathon for 118 years.

Thanks to you we have all become Boston Strong.

Finish Line-2013

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 dry.

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 Marathon 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 at Riverside, and later assume her place 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 on narrow country roads, we reached the quaint Welcome to Hopkinton, Incorporated in 1715 road 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 achy, empty feeling of loneliness enveloped me, even as I approached a small city of more than 23,000 runners. I stood, motionless, for a few moments, as her car faded to a small silver dot. On a magnificent mid-April morning, something didn’t feel quite right to me.

The marathon is my favorite road race distance, and Boston is my favorite marathon. Since November of 2011, however, the marathon has haunted me with morbid thoughts of pending mortality.

In the autumn of 2011, a knee injury had forced me to run the half marathon, rather than the marathon, at Philadelphia. My training partner, Eric Anchorstar, ran the marathon, so, after my finish, I changed, met up with my wife, and waited near the finish line along with Eric’s wife, Diedre. Eric was hoping to run a time of 3:15, or better, so as the digital clock clicked toward the 3-hour mark, we anxiously awaited his finish. As competitors rounded a curve, sprinting to finish in the 2:59s, a runner collapsed to the ground. A cramp, or possibly dehydration had stricken him. A steady stream of runners split around him, as he lay motionless on the road. Finally, a woman stopped, attempted to administer CPR, but it was to no avail. Paramedics transported him to the hospital, where he lost his battle.

In his early 40s, and in excellent shape, the man, within sight of a sub-3-hour marathon, died. There was no explanation, no reason that we, as runners, can comprehend.

On a sleepy Hopkinton Street, early on Marathon Monday, I knew I was properly trained, I felt strong and rested, but I didn’t feel comfortable.

My overstuffed, banana-colored Boston Marathon gear bag served as a pillow, as I stretched out on the soggy grass, relaxed and listened to the brash, Irish-punk sounds of Dropkick Murphys on my iPod. As the sun climbed in the eastern sky, the morning chill lifted. From my spot, carved out along the wall of the Hopkinton Middle School, I relaxed, took a few bites from a dry, cinnamon-raisin bagel, hydrated, and prepared to run from Hopkinton to Boston for the sixteenth time.

Feet greased, nipples covered, shoes cinched tightly, I hoisted my bag to one of the young volunteers manning the sea of school busses that would precede us into the city, and proceeded to jog slowly toward the starting line.

Helicopters hovered noisily overhead, the whirring sounds of their blades smashing the air as the National Anthem played. A steady stream of announcements blared from the loudspeakers, the countdown commenced, followed by a cannon blast, and the 117th Boston Marathon was underway.

A downhill start that would ordinarily spell disaster for enthusiastic runners who tend to let the Genie out of the bottle, by charging out too fast and paying the price later, is tempered by the congestion of runners who blanket rural Route 135. Indeed, the first mile of the Boston Marathon is the steepest downhill on the course, with an elevation drop of 130 feet.

By Mile 5, near the Framingham Train Station, the ocean of runners has stretched out like a Slinky, and one can begin to appreciate the crowd support, which seems to swell as the race goes on.

Participants enjoy crowds as they pass through Natick, which serves as a prelude to one of the most scintillating experiences in road racing:  the Screech Tunnel at Wellesley College.

After passing the 12-mile marker, runners enter a corridor of cheering, screaming coeds from Wellesley College, in what can be compared to a grainy, black and white television image of an early New York City Beatles concert. Students treat each runner like a rock star. Young women offer kisses and hugs to their passing heroes and many male runners take advantage of the offer.

The euphoria of Wellesley soon fades, however, as weary-legged competitors suffer through the Newton Hills, a series of inclines, that culminate with Heartbreak Hill, near Mile-21, where by this point, crowds are larger, as they seem to honor those who have, thus far, been able to conquer the unforgiving course.

On the downhill stretch through Chestnut Hill, students from Boston College were particularly noisy and supportive in the 2013 race. Having survived Heartbreak Hill with relatively little damage, I was feeling good, ready to enter the city, buoyed by the cheers of the collegiate supporters. Owing to my Irish Catholic heritage, in honor of the newly-elected Pope, and conscious of the religious order that founded Boston College, I turned to the crowd, pumped my fist, and yelled, Go Jesuits. A deafening cry of approval