"There's a pleasure in being mad that only the madman knows." So said Jamaican John Leiba, reclaiming his gear from me Oct. 12 after finishing the LaSalle Bank Chicago Marathon.

I lost my marathon virginity in Chicago in 1995. I love going back there. This year it wasn't to run, but to volunteer.

Madness is one way to describe the Chicago Marathon, which has grown so big that race numbers can be expressed in scientific notation. It takes method -- an amazing amount -- to make order where there could be chaos.

I received a STAFF t-shirt and reported to packet pickup Oct. 11. Packets were packed in boxes inside rooms big enough to handle the 40,000-plus registered runners. That organization allowed us, with only a few minutes' training, to quickly move entrants through our area on to the expo hall to get t-shirts.

As the night wound down, we combined unclaimed packets into a few boxes, broke down the empties and stacked them in the hallway. Before packet pickup ended, cleanup had been done.

At 6:30 a.m. race day, I checked in and received my orange windbreaker and hat. This identified me as part of the team whose task was to make the marathon experience as enjoyable as possible for the runners.

I spent my next three hours in the gear-check tent. Access from both sides allowed quick drop-offs for runners anxious to reach the start line. Again boxes were lined up and numbered, each bag deposited in the appropriate box. As the race started, we double-checked to be sure bags were in the right place. Free breakfast awaited us at the hospitality tent when we finished.

An hour after the race started, while still-fresh runners were between four and 12 miles, I walked through the finish area. There, lines marked the pavement: Mylar, Medals, Chips, Gatorade.

Orange-jacketed volunteers separated flat stacks of Mylar into fluffy piles of silver. People in red jackets readied medical supplies. Medals came out of packages to be hung on pegs, soon to move to necks of proud finishers.

Long tables strained under cups of Gatorade and water, stacked four layers high. There were billions and billions of bagels and bananas, plus Michelob Ultra for those inclined. Photographers set up platforms on which to pose.

In 2:05:50 winner Evans Rutto crossed the finish line: a sight that marathoners of my speed rarely see. The stream of finishers -- at first a trickle, soon a flood -- was met by an army of volunteers. Medals were presented, shoulders wrapped in space blankets, first aid administered, chips removed.

Back at gear check, we watched tired runners, many limping, as they approached. If we spotted someone wearing a bib number from our area, we raced to have their bag waiting when they reached us. When the race clock clicked 5:30, we started breaking down boxes and lining up bags for remaining finishers.

Six hours and thirty minutes into the race, I ceased working and stood by the finish line. I watched jubilant finishers -- some crying, some laughing, some calling mom on their cell phones -- celebrating their accomplishment.

Two friends crossed the line together, and, still standing on the timing mat, one hugged and thanked the other over and over, tears running down her face. There were lots of tears at that moment; some were mine.

Marathons help people test their limits, learn more about themselves, and have a real experience in setting and achieving big goals. Volunteers hold their dreams together, supporting, encouraging and just being there when needed.

But volunteering is most rewarding to the volunteer. Give it a try!

Writer Don Kern has completed marathons at the North and South poles, in 49 states and Washington, D.C., and on seven continents and two planets. (The latter includes Northville's Martian Marathon.) MR