You know what I really hate about the Boston Marathon? The runners get all the glory.

Granted, they're the ones who have to schlep the 26.2 miles from Hopkinton to Boston, but hey, it's not so easy for the rest of us, either.

Does anyone think fighting your way through the marathon crowd to get into the Boylston Street Starbucks is a walk in the park? Or sneaking out of work to watch the race? Or properly pacing your beer consumption?

And watching all those cellulite-free thighs speeding by isn't so pleasant. Nor is reading about how many calories runners burn, or how much pasta they get to eat, when the rest of us aren't even allowed to so much as look at a carb these days.

And as if all that weren't bad enough, this year there's a big Adidas promotion showcasing different runners. You've probably seen the ads on taxi tops and billboards. I was particularly depressed to notice one at the Park Street T station as I was ascending on the escalator.

``The Seven Stages of Marathon'' read the ad, like all others in the campaign. It featured a high-quality photo of a runner doing something admirable. Maybe the athlete was looking sweaty but exhilarated, or enjoying a solitary jog, or triumphantly crossing the finish line. It made me feel so bad about myself that I repressed the particulars.

Anyway, what I do recall is this: The idea is that the marathoner is in one of Adidas' seven stages (I'm not sure whether Elizabeth Kubler-Ross gets royalties or not): ritual, shock, denial, isolation, despair, affirmation and renewal.

Next year I'm going to try to find a sponsor - Dunkin' Donuts, perhaps, or a bowling alley - that will similarly venerate those who do no exercise at all.

``The Seven Stages of Not Running the Marathon'' or ``The Seven Stages of Spectating'' will show Bostonians in various poses - giving another motorist the bird on the Mass Pike, maybe, or putting out a traffic cone to save a parking space, or booing Roger Clemens when he pitched at Fenway as a Yankee and a Blue Jay.

On its Web site, the Boston Athletic Association solicited stories from the running public. ``We'd love to hear your extreme tales from each of the marathon's stages,'' the text read.

Next year I'm also going to ask for extreme tales from those who watch the marathon. Just like the B.A.A. and the Adidas team, I too am interested in seven stages:

Ritual: Is there a lucky number of cigarettes you like to smoke on race day? Or a place where you always buy Fritos in bulk? E-mail us, please!

Shock: Are you surprised to find you can't even climb a flight of stairs without becoming winded, or that no running shorts, not even the extra larges, fit you?

Denial: Do you refuse to accept that your blood pressure is through the roof, and blame the high number on nervousness at the doctor's office?

Isolation: Do you feel alone on Marathon Day, when the strict traffic regulations prevent you from driving your SUV down to Back Bay?

Despair: Are you despondent when you realize all of the restaurants will be packed on Monday night?

Affirmation: You can share uplifting stories of conversations you've had with other non-runners about how bad the sport is for your knees?

Renewal: We'd love to hear your pledge that next year is going to be different. You really are going to run the race!