The scale by which we measure ourselves is unto itself a measure of who we are. This thought was far from my mind though as I read the flyer announcing the San Diego Chicken Challenge.
Visualizing 30 inches of chicken sub, I wondered why I had accepted this assignment. I could have written about recycling at Fairfield or a basketball preview article but no, something drew me to this epicurean endeavor.
I was suckered in by the word “challenge.” This would not be the case were it a flyer for the Everest Challenge, Swim the Atlantic Challenge, or even the FUSA Scrabble Challenge. This was the eating challenge. This is America, and I am an American; the challenge in this nation is not finding food, it is finding ways to eat the surplus we do have.
“This is doable,” I thought. “I’ve been eating for almost 20 years now, solid food for almost 19. This is the challenge for me.”
I tried to envision myself gobbling down a sandwich roughly the length of my leg, but found it rather difficult. Perhaps there was more to this challenge than I had previously thought – I would need to prepare.
I “trained” all weekend for the gargantuan gastronomic event. I ate a sleeve of Fig Newtons on Friday, a tray of frosted brownies on Saturday, and on Sunday swiped food off others’ plates with a jolly “Hey, are you gonna eat that? I’m training, thanks.”
On sunny Monday afternoon, with an empty stomach and a healthy ego, I walked through the door of What’s Cooking. I had every intention of rising above the San Diego Chicken Challenge; I would eat 30 inches of chicken sub in 30 minutes.
The first clue that I was in over my head came when the owner of the deli asked me to sign a waiver. The surest warning came when she asked me, “Have you ever entered an eating challenge or competition before?”
The owner of the deli rattled off the rules of the challenge like she’d been training herself. Only one person can eat it, no dissecting the sandwich and one cup of water, in which the sandwich may not be dipped.
When she gave the word, I chomped into the first six-inch section of the sub. I devoured the first six inches in a scant two and a half minutes, well above my inch-per-minute pace.
Aside from a brief 10-second break to belch, I maintained a steady two-inch per minute pace through the second section of the sub. By the end of the second sub, my pace was not a problem; my stomach was.
As I entered into the third leg of the race, my pace slowed until hitting a standstill. As I stared at the remaining 15 inches on my dish, my stomach let me know that it wasn’t going to handle anymore of the San Diego Chicken Challenge without fighting back.
This eating challenge taught me a great lesson. I learned that now would be a good time to start that long talked about workout regimen, and that I should wait until I have accumulated more wisdom to form resolutions about my life.
I refuse to let this failure get to me though. I mean, I think most men would be proud of 17 inches.
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