It hurts.

First, the runners line up from slowest to fastest.

There’s a cheer when the timer starts, followed by a lot of mumbling and shuffling of feet as 20,000 people try to find space to jog.

The first seven to eight miles are a dream. Marathons usually start in a scenic location so there’s plenty to keep the brain off anything that might hurt — because whatever hurts now doesn’t get better after running for four hours.

And something starts to hurt around miles 10 to 13. An ankle or a back begins to nag. It doesn’t matter. Thirst and hunger are bigger issues. Some stooges hand out water, that becomes more necessary with every mile. First one cup, then two. Eventually, it’s eight or nine.

A major cramp is about a mile away, but it’s only in the stomach (from the water) and is ignored easily.

Boredom is the bigger problem. Organizers, short on good landmarks, take runners on a tour of housing projects and abandoned factories. Depression soon becomes an obstacle.

Starting around mile 22, the route starts to get prettier. Not that the runners care. A cramp begins to ascend both calves, plus those oranges handed out two miles ago are working their way back up. Quickly.

Then, the race is over. Blacking-out for the last four miles helps. Stretch, vomit, drink eight pounds of water and life is back to normal.

But one finish-line feeling always remains:

Why do I do this to myself? nyou