I know some of you have heard of the Krispy Kreme Challenge and, unfortunately, some of you have not. It sounds like the greatest race ever known to man 😉
Runner’s World posted a funny and somewhat sobering view of running on doughnuts that i thought i would share.
Run two miles. Eat 12 doughnuts. Run two miles. Sounds simple enough.
By Charles Bethea
From the February 2011 issue of Runner’s World
I could ball up the last three doughnuts and toss them under a car. Or into the bushes. One was already mashed up in my sweaty fist. I was ready to hurl it from that crowded, sugar-stinking, trash-heaped parking lot when I noticed a young spectator standing beside his mother. He frowned at me. I ate the doughnut. Then another. Bile began to rise. I stuffed the 12th into my mouth, dropped the doughnut box onto the giant pile of empties, and ran off with my doughy tumor.
The eating portion of the four-mile Krispy Kreme Challenge had taken me just over 13 stomach-stretching minutes.
Proving that yes, in fact, you can have too much of a good thing.
I had certainly started the day feeling optimistic about my capacity for overindulgence. It was a freezing February morning in Raleigh, North Carolina, when 4,300 other racers and I had gathered around North Carolina State’s 115- foot Memorial Bell Tower at breakfast time. We’d all paid for the rather dubious privilege of dashing along a two-mile route, eating 12 glazed doughnuts, and retracing that same route back to where we started– some 2,400 calories and 144 grams of fat ago. My history foretold greatness in such an event. I had grown up eating a Krispy Kreme or two most days after school; I took dates to the neighborhood shop to see if we could stomach each other. I still salivated when I saw the glowing “Hot Now” sign, which more often than not sent me veering into the drive-thru, where they generously ask: “How many dozen would you like?”
Plus, I was fit enough. I was a regular runner who’d done triathlons, half-marathons, and an ill-advised 57-mile speed hike. Four miles was a warmup. So when a race official at the start casually predicted that a quarter of us would end up puking in one of the gray buckets lining the course, I wasn’t worried. Following the strategy of the previous year’s winner, I hadn’t eaten breakfast–or dinner the night before. All I had to do was eat 12 doughnuts and trot a few miles in the cold. Piece of cake.
Around 8:30, the mob on the starting line began chanting: Dough-nuts! Doughnuts! More than 50,000 of them waited for us at the local Krispy Kreme–hot, I hoped. The horn sounded and the crowd lurched. With my belly empty, I immediately fell behind. The course ran along a stretch of residential neighborhoods and commercial properties, passing tattoo parlors, an all-girls’ school dating back to 1842, and the North Carolina Republican Party headquarters. A runner carrying a boom box blasting the Rocky theme song raced by, backward, as we crested a small hill. His hat looked like a bonbon. I was so hungry it was hard to breathe, or think. Soon, though, I smelled sugar.
Seventeen minutes and a few seconds later, I faced a mountain of cardboard doughnut boxes, taller than nearby cars, stacked near the Krispy Kreme entrance. A volunteer grabbed one and handed it to me with a few instructions: “Eat them all, show the empty box to an official, then run back.” I began urging dough nuts down my throat two at a time, breathing hard. Runners were strewn about the parking lot, standing, sitting, leaning, lurching, all ingesting fried dough–most frantically, a few fastidiously. One middle-aged man leaning against a phone booth appeared to be crying as he gorged himself. I crouched unsteadily in a handicap parking spot, tasting little, swallowing my pride along with the saturated fat. The doughnuts were cold and hard, like those at gas stations. I felt no giddy delight. Glaze was all over my face. In my nose. Coating my hands. The sugary mass was swiftly hardening in my stomach. Still chewing the 12th doughnut, I started the second half of the run. As I swallowed, I felt a candy-binge energy take hold. I passed a kid who had dusted me on the first leg, bent over in the bushes. I ran past throngs of spectators, two or three deep beside the road, some laughing like jackals. I sprinted the last few hundred yards, passing a man with a three-foot wide doughnut on his head. I crossed the finish line in 49:15, good for 618th place. My second running leg had taken 90 seconds longer than the first. Racers listed toward the water station, where officials advised us to go easy on the fluids–doughnuts expand fast. I caught a ride back to the hotel, and took a nap. When I woke up, I was dripping with a cold sweat. I rubbed my eyes, and discovered more stowaway glaze. What the hell I ate it.