Muldowney – Joe

My Boston #16: Calmly, the waitress asked, “Was that thunder?” – Joe Muldowney (April 15, 2013)

Posted on Apr 14, 2015 in 2013, M 55 - 59, Muldowney - Joe, Pennsylvania

My Boston #16: Calmly, the waitress asked, “Was that thunder?” – Joe Muldowney (April 15, 2013)

After a bounce-back effort that erased the previous year’s “epic failure” in the heat plagued race of 2012, and posted a satisfying 3:04:13, Joe Muldowney and his wife settled into the nearby Legal Sea Foods restaurant for a celebratory meal. Here the Veteran Boston Marathoner reflects on how a senseless, heinous act ruined a “great day in Boston,” and how good will always triumph over evil, how determined human beings will always defeat adversity.

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A continuous clap and a constant roar – Joe Muldowney (April 15, 1996)

Posted on Mar 1, 2015 in 1996, M 40 - 44, Muldowney - Joe, Pennsylvania

A continuous clap and a constant roar – Joe Muldowney (April 15, 1996)

On April 15, 1996, the world’s oldest marathon was about to become the world’s largest marathon. But it wasn’t going to be easy. The northeastern United States had experienced its snowiest winter on record, and simply because the calendar read “April” meant little to Mother Nature, who pursued her relentless polar assault into the middle of the month. On April 10th, fifteen inches of snow fell on Hopkinton. Heavy rains continued for the remainder of the week, turning the grounds around the Hopkinton Middle School into a soupy quagmire. Ever resourceful, the Boston Athletic...

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Someone steals my thunder. – Joe Muldowney (April 18, 1983)

Posted on Apr 19, 1983 in 1983, M 18 - 34, Muldowney - Joe, Pennsylvania

Someone steals my thunder. – Joe Muldowney (April 18, 1983)

The Fenway Hotel was about a mile from the finish line, but it may as well have been a thousand miles away. On blistered feet, space blanket covering my body, which was caked with dried sweat, I shuffled back to the hotel, spent and exhausted having completed my first Boston Marathon. The unicorn medal, bearing the number ‘82,’ signifying the number of annual Boston Marathon races, hung from my neck. It was the third Monday of April, 1978. With sunken eyes, and a salt-covered face, I entered the small lobby, where a pleasant desk clerk smiled at me. She gazed with pity at the decrepit...

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