JERRY DAVICH: Aquí está lo que aprendí al correr el Maratón de Chicago: Todo valió la pena.

I looked around and realized I was already in last place. What did I have to lose, I figured.

My only hope was to finish the 26.2-mile race regardless of how long it took. As the sun slowly rose over Lake Michigan, I wasn’t convinced I could do it, even after a few months of half-hearted training runs that totaled less than 100 miles. If I could attempt to run a complete marathon, other non-runners could too, I say.

I’ve never considered myself a “runner.” I’m simply a guy who wanted to spend more time with my wife. So when she got into running in 2010, I followed behind her like a lost puppy.

Leading up to that marathon, I followed her through a few 5K runs and the 13.1-mile Indy Mini race the same year. Before that event, which I've since run a few more times, the longest I had ever run in my life was 6 miles. I was petrified of failing. Or dying.

“I’ve done this race eight times and, trust me, it’s a blast,” one runner told me in a hotel elevator on the night before the race.

I didn’t believe him. Running is hard. Especially for someone with “the feet of a middle-aged accountant,” as my podiatrist once told me.

The next morning I joined 35,000 other participants to run from downtown Indy to the historically grueling Indianapolis Motor Speedway, which is 2.5 miles of the race route. Some runners kiss the famous bricks at its start-finish line. I couldn’t bend over to attempt such a gesture. But I finished the race.

Five months later, I joined 40,000 participants at Grant Park in Chicago for the marathon that year. It’s the same number of runners who will be in this year’s Bank of America Chicago Marathon on Sunday.

In its 44th year, the race has produced five world records, several national records, and countless personal bests. It welcomes participants from more than 100 countries and all 50 states, including a world-class elite field, top regional and masters runners, race veterans, debut marathoners, and charity participants.

Its best attribute, to me, is the iconic course through 29 distinct neighborhoods, mapping out a cultural and architectural tour of Chicago.

“Welcome to Greektown — oompah!” a lady yelled from a stage.

“Run, don’t WOK,” someone joked in Chinatown.

“Boystown loves runners!” screamed a drag queen from a rooftop.

Along the route, thousands of strangers urged me to push on with homemade signs, such as, “DID YOU THINK IT WAS ‘RUM’ FOR 26 MILES?” and “WORST PARADE EVER” and “YOU RUN BETTER THAN OUR GOVERNMENT!”

By the 1-mile mark, my wife and I realized that these spectators would carry us through every step, every mile, and every excuse to quit.

“Way to go, Karen!” they yelled repeatedly after seeing my wife’s first name on the front of her shirt. (I instantly regretted not having my name on my shirt.)

At the 6-mile mark, I started feeling a sharp pain on the bottom of my right foot, like I was stepping on a small rock with every step. Only 20 more miles to go, I told myself with a laugh.

At the 8-mile mark, I stopped at a medical tent to assess the two-inch-long bubble blister on the sole of my foot. A nurse suggested I lather it with Vaseline and hope for the best, so I did.

At times, I felt downright giddy just to be a part of something I never dreamed of doing. At some point, I learned that only 1% of the U.S. population has completed a marathon. It would be the first time I’d be considered a member of the 1% club of anything.

The most poignant scene was passing an assisted living facility and seeing older residents waving from behind closed windows. We waved back with smiles, thankful to be able to do what we were doing. By the time we hit the halfway mark at 13.1 miles, we had already passed hundreds of other runners-turned-joggers-turned-walkers who started before us.

No street cleaners in sight.

At the 16-mile mark, I had to stop at another medical tent to treat my blister with more Vaseline. “Lace ‘em up and good luck,” a medic told me, so again that’s what I did.

Along the route, we waved to frat boys playing loud rock music. We high-fived small kids standing on the street curb. We thanked volunteers who shouted support at every turn, even after doing so to 30,000 other runners before us.

With less than 3 miles to go, we spotted this sign: “DID YOU THINK THE RACE WAS 2.62 MILES?” Every sign helped. Every shout distracted us from exhaustion.

At the 20-mile mark, I didn’t feel any more pain. I just wanted to finally finish. These signs motivated us through humor: “WHO NEEDS TOENAILS ANYWAY?” and “REMEMBER YOU PAID TO DO THIS!”

How could you not chuckle?

At the finish line, a public speaker announced our names. It felt amazing. We felt like heroes, just for one day.

It would have felt more amazing if I didn’t get separated from my wife at the 25-mile mark. We limped around for probably another mile trying to find each other afterward. It was all worth it. And it was all about finishing the race.

The way we saw it was simple. If someday we find ourselves stuck inside an assisted living facility while watching a Chicago Marathon on TV, we will dig out our wrinkled racing bibs, lace up our old running shoes, and share a smile together for — oh, I don’t know — 26.2 seconds.