Marathon madness setting in

'Nice sport, Mom," my oldest son observed wryly as I gingerly lowered myself onto a kitchen chair and began peeling off sodden athletic socks.

I smelled like a goat and looked like I had been hit by a truck.

For my son's amusement, I began ticking off other "joys" of marathon running:

The ring of salt crusted on my cheeks and chin.

The black toenail I discovered under my polish.

And the lovely chafing marks that occur wherever a shirt rubs ever-so-slightly against skin. Over 20-plus miles, these turn into angry sores that reveal themselves (with a howl of pain) in the first moments of my 3-minute drought-approved shower.

"Hard to believe I paid $70 for this, eh?" I said.

"You pay money to do this?!?" he said, incredulous.

Smart kid.

There is a special sort of insanity involved with marathon running. And I'm afraid I haven't yet found the cure.

I'm not one of those gazelles (aka nutballs) who has run a marathon on every continent, or every week for a year. But I have completed four marathons, and on Sunday, barring a freak injury, I'll trot along the route of the City of Oaks marathon.

Or stagger. We'll see.

When I told my husband three months ago that I was beginning to train again, he sighed.

"Just do me a favor this time," he said. "Don't tell me it's the last one you'll ever do."

I guess that refrain grew a little tiresome, coming as it did after the first, and the second, and the fourth ...

That I want to give it up every time I compete might tell you how "fun" this sport is.

It also tells you how addictive it can be.

This is a mental game, emphasis on mental.

What do I mean by that?

Barring a creaky knee or other physical disability, anyone can complete a marathon. It's a matter of wrapping your brain around it.

The rising popularity of the sport bears this out.

In fact, so many people run marathons, the sport has lost a bit of its luster.

These days you have to do an Ironman competition -- swimming 2.4 miles, biking 112 and running 26.2 -- to generate respect. I'm not that mental.

But I'm thrilled that a marathon has returned to Raleigh after a five-year hiatus. I'm happy the new organizers took advice from me and every other past participant by reconfiguring the route and moving the race date from December to November.

So despite the normal pre-race dread (have you seen the hills on this route?) I'm going to drag my semi-trained, aging carcass out to the RBC Center on Sunday.

I'm going to slather Vaseline on those, ahem, likely-to-chafe places.

I'm going to wear bigger shoes to avoid black toe. I'm going to walk as much as I darn well please.

And I'm going to console myself with the fact that in the months ahead, the only ring of salt I need encounter will be attached to the rim of a margarita glass.

Also, no matter what I told my husband, if I manage to hobble over the finish line, I will vow this is my last marathon ever.

Absolutely.

Probably.

For now.