I’m a normal guy in a lot of respects. I like to workout, I think dogs are cool, I enjoy good movies. But there is one area I simply cannot downplay how absurdly great I am. Speed eating.
It’s more of a gift than a skill really. Ever since I can remember I’ve cleaned plates before my dining companion takes their second bite. In fact, the last time I sat down with someone who finished their food before me was 1999.
Since then, the gap between me and second place has only widened. People tell me things like “It’s not a race” and “Save some for me”, but I won’t hear it, that’s loser talk for people who expect sympathy for inadequacy.
Growing up, the scene in Ratatouille where Remy yells at Emile, “Don’t just hork it down!” was my family’s most recited quote. It was the signature battle cry to warn my siblings that I was serving myself thirds and that, if they wanted to eat, they needed to fight.
My reign continued for years until one day a group of friends invited me to join them for a 72 hour fast. They mentioned things like health benefits and mental clarity, but I couldn’t care less. I wanted to win and claim my title as master of both worlds, eating and not eating. If Michael Jordan took 2 years off to play baseball, I could take 3 days off to drink water and coffee.
I kept journal entries of how I felt:
[Hour 0] It’s 6:30pm and I stuffed myself at dinner in fear of the impending fast. Clock starts now.
[Hour 18] starting to feel anxious. Normally, I’d walk a mile and eat a nice slop bowl for lunch. But now I have so much time to... do something else?
[Hour 20] wow so much of my day is dedicated to eating food, recovering from food, and planning what food to eat later. It’s like more than half the day.
[Hour 24] the group agreed we would walk together each day to help keep our minds off food. I feel calm, low energy, but not tired.
[Hour 26] we walked. I’m surprised at how long a group of people can talk about not doing something. Still, it was better than sitting alone and thinking about food. Night!
[Hour 34] I am trying to write and I keep thinking, “oh that paragraph isn’t great, let me grab a protein bar and fix it”. As if the protein bar is a necessary ingredient in the act of writing better. It reminds me of how alcoholics describe their inner voice calling for booze. “If you drink a beer this morning, you won’t need one later”.
[Hour 36] It’s clear I use eating as emotional regulation. Now that I don’t have trail mix to numb myself, I have to actually feel the emotion. If my brain wants to feel bad about the shitty paragraph, I have to feel it rather than smother it with a snack.
[Hour 40] I use food like a baby uses a binky...
[Hour 48] the daily walk is coming at the perfect time today because I am getting that itch to use.
[Hour 49] I shared with the group that I, Dylan, am a food addict. I tell them I have been thinking about food all day long. I even bite the right inner side of my lip to mimic the sensation of it.
They look at me like I am crazy. Not eating wasn’t that big of a deal to them. “Just try not to think about it,” someone said, as if I hadn’t already thought about not thinking about it. I left the walk early and irritated. Night.
[Hour 61] my unconscious mind constantly says, “You should eat something because [insert reason here]”. It keeps trying different reasons. I can tell it is trained in the art of persuasion because it knows giving a reason, even a meaningless one, greatly increases compliance.
[Hour 63] I can’t focus at all
[Hour 64] neeeeed foooooooood
[Hour 65] going home, watching tv until this is done.
[Hour 65.5] tv boring, still can’t focus
[Hour 65.7] still boring
[Hour 65.8] I can’t take it anymore
The average time between thoughts about sustenance shortened from minutes to seconds. My inner-voice was persistent and unrelenting, and I feeble and wavering. My confident spirit had been zapped from my body like The Guy in Spy Kids.
In my weak state I folded, and at hour 66, I slumped into my slop bowl eating chair, my face colorless and knees weak, and ate two bowls to make up for lost time. The food restored my soul, then darkened it after I went too far.
In my semi-pleasurable food coma, I pondered how far I had come. Now that I lost, I decided winning was not everything. At hour 72, when everyone met for fast-breaking sushi, I stopped by, said hi, and left. I was happy for them, but hadn’t earned myself a seat. Minor league fasters don’t get championship sushi.
I’ve returned to my old speed eating ways with more perspective and a newfound respect for the other side. Fasting is tougher than I gave it credit for. Maybe one day I’ll try agin, but for now I take solace in the fact that Michael Jordan wasn’t great at baseball either.
Great read
You did great! 72 hours is like Hyrox fasting. 😆