This happened in 2004. I was running my one and only marathon.
First, no matter how well you train, you can still have a bad day. The more of a long-distance rookie you are, the better chance of having a bad day. I had a very bad day. Ten miles in, I felt like I had run twenty. I knew I was in trouble. I was gassed beyond belief by the 15 mile mark. It was the kind of deal where you have to think of creative ways to re-convince yourself to continue running about every few minutes.
By the 22 or 23 mile mark, I'm in brand-new territory, redefining for myself what exhaustion means. I began getting paranoid, truly believing that someone was moving the mile markers further away. Right around there, a few different people alongside the road were holding out cups, "Would you like a cup of beer, son? How about a beer?"
My disjointed thoughts were something like, "Beer? Am I actually hallucinating now? This can't be. Nah. On a marathon course? Are they serious? Do they know something that I don't? Nah, they couldn't. Maybe. Someone should tell these well-meaning souls* that alcohol is a diuretic and pretty much the last thing to be drinking after twenty-some miles and still four or five from the finish line."
But they really were handing out beer. And that was funny.
*I used different, less-kind words at the time