From start to finish, a heckuva day.

Byline: Bob Welch The Register-Guard

Nervous but raring to go, my running shoes tied tight, I arrived at the starting line of the Eugene Marathon early Sunday. I'd never done this before.

"Hi," I told a woman who looked like she knew what she was doing. "I'm a volunteer. I was told to see William, a tall guy in a baseball hat."

She had other plans for me. In a verbal sprint - the race started in 65 minutes - she explained how hundreds of registered racers hadn't picked up their bib numbers or computer-chip timers at the Hilton Eugene as they were instructed to. "But we've got the stuff here for them," she said.

It was my job to see they got it. She handed me lists with type smaller than the fine print of the Lunesta drug ads in Newsweek. I squinted. It was 5:55 a.m., still dark. I wanted to say: No, no, no, you see I just want to put up tents or position garbage cans. I left my reading glasses at home and you really don't want some runner who got in late from D.C. depending on me. I'll choke.

She handed me the lists and gave me more instructions that caromed around my brain like pinballs. That's when Frank, my marathon guardian angel, showed up. He offered to help.

We ran off to the information center, a spot near Hayward Field that was like Fort Clatsop with port-a-potties. It soon became crowded with runners who had full bladders, nervous stomachs and, above all, questions. My volunteer shirt suggested I had answers.

"Do you have a course map?" "How often will we get water?" "I left my chip in my hotel room. Do you have a cell phone?"

We managed to match the lists for the three different races with three boxes of bibs and chips. OK, now I started seeing how this would work. Runners started showing up, some desperate runners without bibs and chips.

"Thank you, thank you," one latecomer said, getting his.

"Other races don't do this," said a woman whose race had been saved by Eugene Marathon grace.

What could I say? "This is Eugene, the running capital of the world."

A half-hour before the 7 a.m. marathon start, the corral was potty-to-potty in people. Stretching. Asking questions. Wondering why the potty-goers couldn't go faster.

"Do you have sunscreen?" "Is it too late to register?" "Is my computer chip activated?"

We helped a few dozen last-minute stragglers get their bibs and chips, one of whom secured hers at 7:03 a.m., just as the race was starting. But there was no time to relax. It was off to Autzen Stadium to help with the finish.

One moment you're a bib-and-chip guy, the next minute a banana guy.

Some might think it's appealing work, but it's actually a slicing work: each banana, cut in half. At first, I separated the eight to 10 bananas from the bunch and cut each one. Then realized I could whack 10 at a time. The runners were coming; I must be ready.

In 490 B.C., after Pheidippides ran from Marathon, Greece, to Athens, nobody had a banana for him and the dude died on the spot. Not on my watch. Not today.

Soon, spent runners were wobbily making their way through the refreshment zone, wolfing down food and drink like wedding crashers at a Beverly Hills reception. After what they'd been through, they deserved nothing less.

No, I wasn't Jared Fogle, the Subway spokesman standing just down from me, signing autographs and posing for photos because he'd lost 245 pounds. Nobody sticks a microphone in the face of the banana guy. But like the 800 other volunteers who made this race happen, most of whom did far more than prep fruit, I felt like part of Team Eugene. It was a rare and good feeling.

Nicki Wright of Rogue River, who finished in 3:27:40, tossed her peel in the garbage.

"How was your banana?" I said.

"Best I've ever eaten."

I smiled inside. Other runners spoke highly of the race, the course, the people. Indeed, for Eugene, Sunday was a day to remember.

Any way you slice it.