A properly-hyped sporting event can bring some of society's finest derelicts and unbalanced headcases into close proximity for a few hours of inebriated cheering, chanting and cussing--often culminating in fistfights, or if you're lucky, a fullscale riot.

The aforementioned all takes place in the stands, of course, away from the field or the diamond. The erratic, seemingly batty behavior of these patrons isn't mirrored on the gridiron. The athletes have their heads on straight.

They are down to earth.

They want nothing to do with their foaming-at-the-mouth-fans.

They are composed.

They are sane.

That is unless they are marathon runners--because the marathon runner is a breed of human that has truly and completely gone mad. Lemmings, they are.

A professional diver has calm nerves, full concentration and a steady heartbeat. An NBA basketball player shooting a feethrow down by one with only seconds on the clock keeps a steady hand and a focused mind. A football quarterback remains poised and confident, oblivious to the thousands of cheering friends and booing enemies surrounding him--he can thread a needle from 30 yards away, even with lineman advancing.

These athletes are who the Greeks had in mind when they were carving the Discobolis. These are the perfect competitors they were sculpting from marble.

The marathon runner, though, is not one of them. He is insane.

He trots along, at his own pace, up and down hills as the sun beats upon his bare back. He plods along, oblivious like the quarterback; not because he's concentrating, but because at mile 24 his mind has left him nothing to think about--it is as empty as that of a newborn child.

He's been running for 4 hours, his shorts are soaked, his feet are calloused, and his nipples are bleeding.

Oh, and he loves every minute of it.

The marathoner will travel to participate in the knee-busting, ACL damaging event. Hundreds of miles she will drive, and internationally she will fly, simply to run. For hours and hours on end.

The marathoner will pack her best running gear: her favorite Texas flag shorts (if she's from Texas, of course), her near-and-dear sombrero, her his daughters stroller (to be pushed for all 26.2 miles, of course. Daughter included).

There is no fighting, and usually no beer drinking during the event. There are no riots. But the marathon runner has even the rowdiest drunken Packer's fan beaten.

The marathoner doesn't have a team that wins or loses. The marathoner himself doesn't win or lose. He simply runs. He may get a medal at the end of his ordeal, if he's lucky. He may get a cotton t-shirt. But his heaving carcass also gets stares from passers-by who ogle beathless five-mile-per-hour dash to nowhere.

The marathoner doesn't care.

The marathoner doesn't mind being ogled.

The marathoner doesn't care that his orange striped lyrcra shorts are riding up into the sweaty abyss between his buttocks. He doesn't care about the sunburn. He is so indifferent to the opinion of onlookers, that he has let his taken his shirt off, exposing his leathery epidermis, complete with grey backhair. He doesn't care that he's old. He knows.

This is the marathoner.

A dehydrated trainwreck. An eccentric loon. But the marathoner is also happy, she's beaming. It radiates from every pore.

When she crosses the finish line, she may appear in a state of dementia, but make no mistake: her mental faculties are working fine, and she is as close to pure euphoria as possible for a living, breathing person...

...Though that breathing may be a little bit hard and heavy.