I have no Kenyan heritage in my family. I have no family members who run for fun. Heck, I don't think anyone in my family has ever even run a 5 k race. So when I decided in October to run in the Myrtle Beach Marathon I drew a few double takes from my kinship over the holidays.

At 6'2" 250 pounds I'm not the typical endurance runner. I played football, offensive lineŠ you know, the guys who avoid any unnecessary running. I was a member of my high school track teamŠ for two months. I dropped it in favor of playing JV golf. And really, running 26 miles 285 yards is not something big guys are physically meant to do.

However, after committing myself to the marathon with my $60 registration fee, I planned out a training schedule that forced a typically lazy, naturally nocturnal college student to train during a harsh Minnesota winter. I ran in below zero temperatures, through snow, and after the Vikings were destroyed by the Giants. I also made use of Skoglund Center and its variety of training resources. The indoor track and I were tight throughout January. The exercise bikes and treadmills were also faithful preparation tools. As the Feb. 17 marathon approached I was feeling ready for the physical test before me.

I wasn't quite sure what to expect during the four-plus hours of physical exertion, but I was travelling with a trio of midshipmen from the United States Naval Academy who were eager to give advice on the subject. Midn. Robert Bunn reminded me that I should try to not start out too quickly. I tucked that tidbit of information away and believe me, I had no problem starting off slowly. Midn. Mike Schroeder offered his bit of encouragement by saying that there is no way to tell how you're body will react to the physical exertion. There are stories of people who defecate during the race. I ate small meals prior to the race in order to avoid this one. The most important advice came from Midn. Brendan O'Donnell, the organizer of the trip, who told me if I didn't finish in five hours they would leave without me.

Race time was 6:30 a.m., definitely an early morning for me, and I crawled out of bed into my running shoes with a fear that this might be my last day on the earth. I followed my veteran companions around Myrtle Beach imitating whatever they did. When they put Vaseline all over their bodies so did I. When they put Band-Aides on their nipples so did I. When they shouted out a ŒHoo-rah!' or an ŒArgh!' so did I. I pinned my1836 race number to my St. Olaf Athletics t-shirt and made my way to the starting line.

Sizing up my competition I saw families that were cheering on their grandparents, moms being encouraged by their children, a couple father-daughter pairs going over their plan, and two guys in crazy afro-wigs that were definitely going to finish ahead of me. I was uneasy, but when the clock started ticking, I started running.

The first part of the race passed by with ease, it was hard to believe that I had been running for almost two hours when I saw the ever-present clock near the 12-mile marker. Along the course fans had braved windy and rainy conditions beside the beach to cheer on the runners. Although I knew no-one in the crowd, people would cry out Œlookin' good 1836' or Œkeep going, you're doing great,' I even heard one guy yell um-ya-ya. I felt confident about the race turning onto Kings Highway 17. Then I noticed a long straightaway out in the open. I felt the headwind of almost 30 miles per hour hit me straight in the face and in the famous words of Drago from Rocky IV it said, ŒI will break you.'

I had come too far to give up on the race so I trudged along Highway 17 tucking behind sixty-year old men to break the wind. I passed through a plywood wall with bricks painted on it at mile 20. I think I had probably passed through my wall a couple miles back. My legs no longer wanted to move up and down and my feet started to ache from the blisters developing. Passing mile 22, a shop owner thought that it'd be funny to play Pink Floyd's ŒThe Wall' as the runners passed by. I didn't appreciate the humor at that point.

Coming to the final mile I found myself alongside a man who had his age written on the back of his white running shirt, 59. I sucked it up and ran alongside this man who defied father time. Meanwhile I felt as if father time had played a joke on me and I felt my body fall apart on me. Crossing the finish line at 4:49:11 the announcer messed up both my name and hometown calling out ŒEric Vig-io from Rossville, Minn.' I didn't care. I had won my battle. I finished.

I walked around looking for someone to share my elation with and I saw people of all ages, with smiles on their faces and Gatorades in their hands. I even saw a group of old men with gray hair relaxing with a couple frosty brews in the beer tent. My friends were just starting to make their way to the finish line and found me saying they didn't expect me till at least after five hours.

The race was over and I found that I struggled to do three basic things; walk, sit down, and maneuver down stairs. I felt as if I was going though the evolution of man as I recovered over the following three days. Although the race inflicted a lot of pain on my body, I'm already thinking about signing up for the Twin Cities Marathon this fall, anyone want to join me?