First of all, let's be clear about one thing. Runners are nuts, God love 'em. And marathoners are even nuttier than the rest. This is not controversial. It's a well-known fact. If you do not know this, it's because you (a) don't know any marathoners (I am a marathoner-magnet myself), or (b) are one.

Be assured, running marathons is neither reasonable nor healthy. And that's why we've seen in recent years the proliferation of causes marathoners claim to be running for (indeed, they are running for their causes, but really the cause is a cover for the craziness). Many of the causes they run for seem a perfect fit for marathoning—cancer, for example, lends itself nicely to marathoning: often a long, painful slog requiring superhuman endurance.

Aside from being good for the cause, whatever it may be, the narrative of the marathon—one of endurance and overcoming, of triumph over adversity (the weather, the course, inner demons, fill-in-the-blank)—is necessary for those of us who are not marathoners and want to make sense of what would otherwise be mostly a bewildering public display of gratuitous self-flagellation. Not that there's anything wrong with those. The marathon may be our secular version, in fact.

None of this applies to the Kenyans, by the way, who don't need a narrative—it would only slow them down, and they have places to be.

But for the rest of us, there is something a little self-helpy about it all these days, isn't there? As I walked around Back Bay early in the afternoon, from the finish line all the way to Tremont Street, I sensed this strange mood of self-righteousness.

As the rabble trickled in, there were scenes like this: a man I saw about a block beyond the finish line castigating the crowd (such as it was) for not clapping and cheering for him (we dutifully indulged him, of course). But, let me get this straight: you want us to applaud you for enduring the pain you've inflicted on yourself? I'll bet you're a real treat to be in a relationship with.

He seemed to be saying, "if you're going to stand and gawk, at least make your miserable, lazy selves useful." But I'm still not sure he was due any applause for what he had accomplished, as personally gratifying as it may have been. I mean, physical endurance is admirable enough, but on its own it's not the measure of the man. If enduring the hardships we've created for ourselves was applause-worthy, we'd all get a standing ovation at the end of the day, wouldn't we?

You ran a marathon, which is what you signed up to do. You finished what you started. Here's your bottle of Aquafina, your tin-foil cape, and your bright-orange goodie bag. Have a great day!

I don't want to generalize on this point, because there were many marathoners who behaved themselves in the end with admirable restraint, and despite their madness seemed to have some working concept of reality beyond the finish line. But I do think the narrative of endurance and overcoming lends itself to a not-so flattering flipside of suffering and self-righteousness. (Again, not among the Kenyans.)

I'll admit that while I have known and loved many marathoners (among them my sister), I have never fully understood the need they have to run marathons. This has stopped me neither from knowing nor loving them. I support them with what I feel is the same healthy skepticism I would support a loved one who tours the country competing in hotdog-eating contests. I'll be there for them when they've thrown it all up and are ready to sit down and talk about counseling options.