Pity us runners

After running from Marathon to Athens to report a Greek military win, Pheidippides, the legend says, collapsed and died, giving us not only the marathon but also the myth of the marathon runner. You know it; it’s why 500,000 of us spectators turn out and clog the streets on Patriots Day.

Marathon runners, the myth goes, are worthy of awe and respect. Twenty-six miles! Sometimes in rain! And they pass multiple Dunkin’ Donuts without stopping!

Andy Warhol said we would all get 15 minutes of fame, but Marathon runners get two to six hours. Nobly, they strut the course of adulation from Hopkinton to Copley Square, where they are honored with free food and massages. To further bolster their sense of superiority – no self-esteem issues here – finishers even get a shiny, Superman-like cape to wear while accepting our congratulations. The message that we, their groupies, send is that running a marathon is an act of heroism that cannot be performed by mere mortals.

That’s the myth. Here’s the truth: Runners are a pitiable lot who do not need glory, but sympathy and a 12-step program. In fact, by standing on the Marathon route, cheering them on, we’re enabling their destructive behavior.

Science has shown that running is addictive, and it seems the longer and farther one runs, the greater the compulsion. In her book Ultimate Fitness, Gina Kolata explores obsessive exercising and quotes research by Virginia Grant, a psychologist at Canada’s Memorial University of Newfoundland. Grant took two groups of rats and gave them food for only one hour a day. Sedentary rats adapted and survived. But not rats that were given a running wheel. These rats ran so much – up to 12 miles a day, nearly half a marathon – that they starved themselves to death. They couldn’t take in enough calories to stay alive and nearly all died within two weeks. Runnicide.

But those are rats, you say; we are human. Well, consider the typical marathon training program, which goes something like this: Run. Run more. Run more and more and more. Rest a few days. Run a distance that killed a man, and even if you throw up and your toenails fall off, keep going.

Seriously. Here is a commonly used checklist for addiction, taken from helpguide.org. Plug in “running” instead of “drugs” or “Facebook,” and you’ll see what I mean.

You’re neglecting responsibilities at school, work, or home because of your [running]. (Really, what’s more important, my 20-mile training run, or the baby’s first steps? He’ll take more.)

You’re [running] under dangerous conditions or taking risks while [running]. (Route 135, through downtown Framingham, at 8:45 in the morning? While listening to an iPod?)

Your [running] is causing problems in your relationships, such as fights with your partner. (You paid how much for those Sauconys?)

You’ve built up a [running] tolerance. You need to use more of [running] to experience the same effects you used to with smaller amounts. (Next, I’ll do the ultra-marathon!)

Your life revolves around [running], figuring out [when to run more], and recovering from [running’s] effects. (I’m fine, really; I will be able to walk without limping in a week or two.)

See? Running or OxyContin . . . not a whole lot of difference; you just don’t need a prescription to lace up and sneak out the back door.

Runners like me, who find it easy to achieve the rhapsodic runner’s high even if we don’t do marathons, become listless and irritable when sidelined, and sometimes we cut off our ankles. Last year, a South Carolina man had his lower right leg amputated because chronic arthritis kept him from running. He’s now racing again, metal and mettle from the shin down. He told a reporter, “I couldn’t see a downside” to the medically unnecessary amputation. That, folks, is the mind-set we’re dealing with here.

So, if you succumb to awe on Patriots Day as you watch the throng go by, if you decide that you, too, will become a runner and trot these storied streets one day, take it slow, take it easy, and limit your time on the wheel. Don’t drink the Gatorade. Rats like us, baby, we were born to run.

Jennifer Graham writes and runs in the suburbs of Boston. Send comments to magazine@globe.com.