As much as I enjoy constructing
ridiculous arguments about the validity of my chosen (future) profession, that
four page single-spaced essay was mentally exhausting; it felt like I was in
college again….I just wasn’t drunk when I wrote this one (but only because I
was at work). Actually, as I’m writing
this, it’s occurring to me that “because I was at work” may not even be an
acceptable excuse. Anyway, this entry
will be an entertaining tale of dedication, will power, and perseverance.
No shit there I was . . .
This particular incident occurred
in Puerto Rico, a place that the Army Men’s Swimming (AM∑) team frequents
during our Christmas break. Much like
other swim teams, AM∑ takes a two-week-long, school-sponsored (in this case,
taxpayer-sponsored) training trip to a tropical destination because – as an
athlete doing three workouts per day – it makes you want to kill yourself a
little less when it’s sunny outside. Traditionally,
on New Year’s Day, the coaches would always write an absurdly long and painful
workout that was basically the peak of our training trip in both duration and
intensity. In our case – and a lot of
other swim teams do the same thing – we did 100x100’s; that’s 100 meters, 100
times…and, yes, it sucks as much as it sounds.
As you can imagine, workouts like this have an overwhelming impact on
the appetite of a 20-something-year-old athlete, which is where the brunt of
this story lies.
Following the “Feliz Ano Nuevo” practice
(imagine a bunch gringos shouting this at random Puerto Ricans over a period of
time that was New Year’s +/- 3 days), we would participate in a teammate-sanctioned
tradition called the “Puerto Rican Triathlon.”
It’s a very simple competition, in which participants do the following
(consecutively, in the same night):
1.
Eat a 1-pound burger from Fuddrucker’s
2.
Eat a 5-scoop sundae from Baskin-Robbins
(team-dubbed the “Uncle Dezil Special”)
3.
Eat 4 tacos from Taco Bell (2 hard, 2 soft)
According to my calculation, that’s approximately 3500
calories or twice the average daily caloric intake per capita in most African
nations. Needless to say, this is a
considerable digestive feat. Over the
course of my collegiate career, people succeeded to varying degrees, but one episode
of this competition remained particularly noteworthy.
One of
the swimmers and my classmate, let’s call him Kerry, was always unable to complete the most standard of masculine
tasks – eating the one-pound hamburger.
It’s in our genes, written into our DNA; but for some reason, Kerry could never make it past the first
challenge. Of course, not only was this
personally frustrating to him, but his gastric plight also created a fury of
ridicule amongst the teammates. During
his junior year, he tried to find a loophole in the man-rules by separating the
components of his burger, i.e. eating the meat and throwing away the bread. For obvious reasons, this was not
well-received by the other swimmers. Not
only was he unable to finish a one-pound burger, he didn’t even know what a
burger was! How un-American is
that?? Nevertheless, after three years
of failure, Kerry’s seasoned resolve would
culminate in one of the most willful displays of dedication I have ever
witnessed.
The Great
Puerto Rican Triathlon of 2008 started out like normal – reports of several
homicides due to stray celebratory NYE gunfire, inappropriately animated
reactions to our success/failure at guessing the temperature on a scrolling
electronic billboard, and failed attempts to convince the coaching staff to
take us to the Bacardi factory. To set
the stage, during this trip, I was no longer swimming due to some ridiculous
restriction on how many years you can participate in collegiate athletics. Whatever.
In what I consider to be a favorable trade-off, I got to drive one of
the team vans. After bringing some of
the swimmers back to the hotel, I arrived at the Fuddrucker’s in time to see Kerry had completed 75% of his burger
and, in true fashion, he was the only swimmer left in the restaurant. I ordered my meal, sat down to chat, and
began offering some nonchalant, but obligatory, encouragement. A bite or two later (30 minutes real-time),
two of the sub-120-pound female divers returned to Fuddrucker’s (this is where
the vans were staged) and officially announced that they had already completed
the entire Triathlon. As more swimmers
returned with their tales of success, Kerry
– although visibly defeated – was
down to his final bite.
Now,
when I say “bite,” I’m probably underestimating the size of the remaining
portion, so let’s say it was “bite+.” Not
that this story needs any more foreplay, but this bite+ of meat, cheese, bread,
bacon, and grease was the only thing standing in the way of erasing three years
of teammate-driven, digestive emasculation.
After a few gulps of water and some newfound motivation (I could see it
in his eyes), Kerry adopted a
technique of ingestion that would probably get most competitive eaters
disqualified. With his right hand, he reached
out and took positive control of his destiny (I’m using destiny to mean
hamburger here). With his left, he
grabbed his jaw and opened his mouth nearly to the point of dislocation. Then, in what I could only imagine as him
trying to surprise his stomach, he forcibly shoved his last bite down his
throat, past his gag reflex, and to the point of peristalsis. Once he ensured its safe passage to his
stomach, he removed his arm from his mouth, took a gulp of water, and notched
his victory with an emphatic, “THERE!”
I WAS PROUD OF HIM…for the entire 10
seconds his food stayed down. It was
like his stomach believed in the Golden Rule and tried to surprise his mouth
and the crowd of swimmers that had gathered.
Luckily, he threw up in one of those black basket-plate hybrids with the
sheet of paper on it, so the damage was minimal. On the other hand, it certainly helped
concentrate his regurgitation into what looked like a loaf of bread and a 1-pound
burger run through a garbage disposal and a dishwasher. It was disgusting; it was dark, wet, smelly,
and chunky. To boot, what stood out from
this abominable puddle of burger and shame, was the exact bite+ sized chunk of
food that was such an obstacle to him two minutes earlier. As you can imagine, there are quite a few
man-rules that caused the crowd to uproar with cheers of mockery and
dissatisfaction. “THAT DOESN’T COUNT!”
they insisted. Kerry had failed again.
The
remainder of the story should probably have a Surgeon General’s Warning. The story I promised you was one of
dedication, will power, and perseverance.
To this day, I still have not personally witnessed anything more
inspiring. What I saw parallels the
determination of Anne Frank and her posthumous triumphs against the Third Reich.
In
an unprecedented turn of events, Kerry
gave the crowd a metaphoric middle finger, picked the sopping-wet chunk of
gastric-acid soaked burger off his plate, and shoved it back down his throat. He might as well have been cast in Japanese
porn and had girls piss and shit all over him, then be forced to eat it. As repulsive as that sounds, his stomach had
no choice. There were more pressing
issues than the texture and consistency of his food…like pleasing a crowd of immature
men and getting three-years’ worth of sand from his vagina. In the end, he had a goal to accomplish…and
to his credit, from then on, no one questioned his resolve. As a wise TMX would say, “Don’t let your body
scream louder than your heart.”
No comments:
Post a Comment