My Brief and Inglorious Career in Competitive Eating
I was a one shot blunder
I finished grade twelve at a private boarding school, a day’s drive away from home. After graduation, I had neither an idea of what my future held nor any funds to pay for it. I returned home to work, save and plan my next move.
Some of my friends were in a similar predicament. They needed to either save up for school or take more courses to qualify for the post-secondary program of their choice. Some retook high school credits to improve their marks and raise their average. That fall, I turned nineteen, the legal drinking age in my province.
My hometown had a population of just over ten thousand. It has a resource-based economy with forestry, mining, tourism and the usual public sector jobs. Situated in a picturesque region, the surrounding area is a nature lovers paradise. There were very few single women but ample opportunities for fishing, hiking, camping, and hunting.
My father and brother are avid outdoorsmen. I am not. I knew from a very young age that my future was in the city. My time back home would be for saving, planning and regrouping so as to leave. I would not be looking for solace in nature. I was looking to plunge headlong into the world. But as a single, nineteen year old, the challenge of finding something to do in a small town loomed.
I had my boyhood friends for companionship. Although legally old enough to drink, we were already seasoned partiers — something small town life trains people well for. We found ourselves passing more time in bars.
There was only one nightclub in town that played dance music. The other bars played country and western and had billiards tables. These were frequented by a largely indigenous clientele. You might see the occasional fist fight. If it continued into the parking lot, it could escalate into a stabbing. Most nights were uneventful. Or as the locals put it, cultured.
At the height of tourist season, exotic dancers would come through town. One such performer, Mitzi Dupree, was known to shoot ping pong balls into the beer mugs of her front row spectators. How the ball got there, I will leave to your imagination.
Before my return home, a family friend staged a fake fight at the bar where Mitzi performed her feats of muscle control. They pulled off the bogus brawl with heavyweight boxer, Gord Racette, who was passing through town on a promotional tour. He was Canada’s real life Rocky, briefly promoted by Sylvester Stallone.[1] Women in the bar were fawning over the fighter, dropping their tops to get his attention.
The fight was choreographed to look like Racette shoved our friend only to receive a fake haymaker in return. Racette fell to the floor dramatically. According to legend, the locals took it seriously and thought our friend, a physically unremarkable man, was a serious bad ass. The things you do to make small town life fun!
As the summer tourist season ground to a close, the bars, including this one, took to any and every promotion to keep the drinkers coming back. Word got around about a hamburger eating contest.
I was a robust nineteen-year-old weighing 200 pounds, standing six foot, two inches with an endless appetite. I lifted weights, exercised regularly and was in great shape. Surely, I could eat anyone under the table!
The hamburger eating contest was held weekly on Saturday afternoons. The bar inside was dark. I entered my name with the bartender. It was me against a slender indigenous man. No other competitors. There’s no way he could out eat me, I thought. Good thing I had a few beers worth of courage to start me off. The prize was $250.
I went first. The DJ announced my name. The waiter served me a hamburger as big as my plate. I was given thirty minutes to finish. I must admit, eating in front of an audience was new and unsettling. The burger was huge. I slowed down towards the end, but I finished it.
My competition was up next. I didn’t want to watch him eat and went outside for some air. I was feeling wobbly and lightheaded.
I came back into the darkened bar twenty minutes later. The competition had finished his burger and disappeared into the downstairs washroom. The DJ called my name.
I assumed my chair in the spotlight and started on my second plate-sized burger. Every bite started to taste like a mouthful of sand. My eating pace slowed. I didn’t look up or make eye contact and was determined not to become ill in public. I got through two thirds of the second burger and tapped out.
Despite not finishing the second burger, I was still a much bigger man than the competition and was certain he couldn’t polish off the whole second burger. I didn’t want to stick around and watch.
I was feeling groggy. All my energy seemed to drain out of me as I digested the gargantuan portions. I asked my friend for his car keys and took a nap in his backseat.
My friends stuck around to finish their drinks and see the competition get through his burger. When they came out, they informed me that I had been defeated. That wasn’t all.
They learned that the winner entered the contest every Saturday and won it every time. He went to the rest room between rounds and purged himself by sticking his fingers down his throat. It turned out that he lived in the hotel above the bar and paid his rent with the prize money. Talk about a motivated competitor!
While I never became nauseous, it took me a few days to feel normal again. I never went back to the contest and decided I wasn’t sufficiently motivated to purge my way to competitive eating victory.
I learned that in competitive eating as in gambling, the house always wins. Or to be precise, those who live in the house of competitive eating always win.
The next fall, I left town for university in the Northeast. My competitive eating legend did not follow me but it was good training for the beer drinking competitions that followed.
I guess it’s a good thing we don’t get more than one shot at being young because I don’t think I could survive it twice.