The contest took its toll on all the contestants.

For centuries, men have pushed themselves to the brutal boundaries of their powers, striving to fulfill the savage desire to emerge as the fittest—the alpha, even. This animalistic impulse has resulted in brutalizing weight-lifting contests, bloody chariot races, horrifying wars between nations and, at fair Harvard, the Chickwich Challenge. A test of stealth, cunning and digestion, the rules are deceptively simple: consume a hearty, pre-ordered chickwich (or Boca burger for Daniel H. Lassiter ’04), seated and unassisted, in each of the 12 dining halls, save grill tickets and emerge victorious, as well as nourished, at the John Harvard statue. Completion, however, is another matter entirely.

Seven brave souls entered a world of pain this past Saturday, including Lassiter, Kristopher P. McDaniel ’04, Samuel G. Bryson ’04, Jeremy N. King ’04, Andrew B. Lim '04, Mark D. Lurie ’07 and Jonathan D. Lehe ’04. These individuals placed their stomachs, their bowels and, as no women chose to participate, their manhoods up for grabs in a primordial test of human capacity.

The Competitors...

NAME: Kristopher P. McDaniel ’04

NUMBER: 1

HEIGHT: 6-1

WEIGHT: 178 lbs

“I have no innate talent—none whatsoever.”

NAME: Samuel G. Bryson ’04

NUMBER: 2

HEIGHT: 6-4

WEIGHT: 185 lbs

“Dude, slow and steady wins the race.”

NAME: Jeremy N. King ’04

NUMBER: 3

HEIGHT: 6-4

WEIGHT: 185 lbs

“It is going to come down to strategic booting (vomiting).”

NAME: Daniel H. Lassiter ’04

NUMBER: 4

HEIGHT: 5-11

WEIGHT: 165 lbs

“I’m here to represent vegetarians everywhere.”

NAME: Andrew B. Lim ’04

NUMBER: 5

HEIGHT: 5-7

WEIGHT: 140 lbs

“I really hate chickens and want to see them all eaten.”

NAME: Mark D. Lurie ’07

NUMBER: 6

HEIGHT: 5-8

WEIGHT: 145 lbs

“Pfoho? Man, I don’t know where any of the dining halls are.”

NAME: Jonathan D. Lehe ’04

NUMBER: 7

HEIGHT: 6-8

WEIGHT: 220 lbs

“My strategy is shorts and gym shoes.”

“Stretching? I don’t do that shit,” Lassiter guffawed confidently as he watched his fellow contestants limber up in front of the John Harvard statue for the upcoming battle. Despite his confidence, he, along with the others, could not help but be intimidated by Lehe, who arrived the day after Halloween clad as the Incredible Hulk.

The presence of the Hulk was the last touch on a largely fearful pool of competitors, however. “I don’t really know where the dining halls are,” Lurie, the only first-year in the all senior group, shakily remarked. “And I ate a big lunch.”

“Everyone’s bigger than me here,” said Lim, dwarfed by the stature of his competition, many rowers or former rowers. When asked about previous athletic experience, Lim replied, “I used to run, does that count?”

Several spectators, most uninterested and slightly confused, watched as Dean of the Faculty William C. Kirby wished the contestants on their way. They took off down Garden St., hurdling over the string barriers in the Yard and weaving around angry drivers and pedestrians. Lim and Lurie managed to garner an early sprinting lead, being the first to arrive at Currier. But Lurie lost precious minutes searching for a water dispenser. Nevertheless, he appeared unshaken. “You need to lubricate the bread on the way down. It makes it easier,” Lurie said. Despite the pressure looming over them, the contestants, at this point, remained largely in good spirits. “That’s a good chickwich,” McDaniel remarked to King. “Can’t match ‘em!”

As fast as they descended, the contestants left, leaving a trail of plates and crumbs in their wake. “Seeing the sweat drip off of Lehe’s forehead inspired me to be a better person,” Currier HoCo Chair Lacey R. Whitmire ’05 remarked.

PfoHo was the next stop on the Quad tour. Here, King’s strategy of consuming the bun first, followed by the patty, slathered in ketchup, became evident. As he progressed, with his hands and shirt covered in red goodness, he himself came to resemble the luscious chickwich upon which he was feasting.

Heading to Cabot, McDaniel and Bryson stood out as the most lackadaisical of the group. “What do you have if you don’t have your friends?” McDaniel asked. Watching their competitors frantically inhale their chickwiches, Bryson observed, “The other guys are going way too fast. We’re just trying to pace ourselves.” McDaniel took time to appreciate the moment. “You’ve got to cool it down with the water,” McDaniel said, enjoying a refreshing sip.

Following Cabot was Lowell, which meant the first long stretch of running after eating. Along the way, Lim, “cramped,” and released his burden, literally, in a nearby garbage receptacle. At Lowell, death became more imminent. “Dean Kirby is right,” Lassiter said. “This will kill us.” Bryson, however, continued to maintain perspective. “I’m just going to keep on chewing—one bite at a time,” he said. “Chewing Trident after meals really helps.”

Lowell dining hall patrons received the spectacle with mixed reactions. “I think it’s disgusting,” one resident remarked. On the other hand, Lowell dining staff enjoyed watching the spectacle unfold before their eyes, deeming it “entertaining.”

By Kirkland, Lehe, no longer sporting his Hulk facade but performing incredibly nonetheless, had a clear lead. “The run was my weakest part and I’m past that now,” he said. At this point, he had the support of crew buddy Jordan P. Sagalowsky ’04, who followed him for the remainder of the competition. The status of the only freshman in the competition was, at that point, unclear. King, strolling in, cleared up the confusion. “He’s trying to induce vomiting by spinning in the courtyard,” he said. Eventually, Lurie dragged in to the applause of his opponents. The spinning tactic proved unsuccessful. “This really isn’t going to happen,” he lamented. King, by now his adopted mentor, having guided him in the direction of each dining hall, encouraged him. “Yes, it is,” he said. “I saw you muscle down that last one. You can do it.” On the side, King commented to FM, “This guy [Lurie] is great! He got recruited at the last minute and he’d already eaten two lunches. He’s a champion.”

Eating his chickwich, Lurie stared into the face of death in a mirror above the tray conveyer belt. Discovering that no one had yet conceded defeat, he attempted to take another bite—a bite that proved disastrous. King reassured him. “There’s more room now. That was for both of us.” Minutes later, King himself felt the need to let it out. He leaned on a pillar above a trash can. “It’s not working,” he lamented. Thinking, he ran into the servery and obtained two glasses of milk. He then heated them in a microwave, after which he promptly chugged them down. “Come on, you can’t keep this much milk down,” he said. Upon attaining success, King emerged from the trash can, jumping and shadowboxing. “Yeah, now I’m money,” he declared.

“I am the Boca. I am the vegetable,” Lassiter declared as he arrived in Eliot. Despite his fervor, he disappointedly learned that he was an entire house behind Lehe. Nevertheless, he persevered, adopting the water method of his opponents. “I always soak my buns,” Lassiter chuckled. Meanwhile, Lehe was enjoying a warm welcome from his crew teammates in Winthrop. Peter H. Brooks ’06 offered him some water, but Lehe earnestly turned it down, as the assistance would count against him in the end. Winthrop proved to be a turning point in the competition, as several competitors dropped out, including McDaniel, Bryson, Lurie and King. Lurie lamented, “You know, I am a pole vaulter, and the toughness of eating that many chickwiches surpasses anything involving cross country. Plus, with food, you know you’re going to boot.”

By Leverett, Lehe was securely in the lead. “I’m here to support my roommates,” Will P. Riffelmacher ’04, the roommate of King and McDaniel, said. “But after seeing Lehe come through here so fast, they have no chance.” Regardless of his lead, the Challenge had begun to take its toll on Lehe. “This is so hard,” he said. “And I don’t think I get anything.” Later, Lassiter, holding a solid second, grew visibly upset when he realized that he had been ordered a Gardenburger and not a Boca Burger. Despite this unexpected turn of events, he remained focused on his mission. “We do it for the glory,” he proclaimed. Leverett witnessed the end of Lim, who conceded defeat after his eighth chickwich. “The chickwich doesn’t really taste like anything. It just tastes like texture,” Lim observed. “I feel so sick it’s not even funny. Holy shit, man. This is the stupidest thing I’ve done since I got here.”

Despite a respectable run in a high school milk challenge, Lassiter’s experience with competitive eating could not sustain him past Dunster. “I have let down vegetarians everywhere,” he cried.

FM encountered minor difficulty in Mather when ordering the chickwiches for the competition. But after some negotiation, the dining hall staff graciously prepared 10 chickwiches. The absence of any competition after Lehe made the situation even more precarious, as the now disgruntled dining manager watched FM sit awkwardly with a plate of nine chickwiches.

Not yet aware of his victory, Lehe, still confidently holding a lead, continued on his journey. He strolled through Quincy, taking time to chat with his adoring public. He struggled to stifle what would be a third bout of vomiting (the first two being in Dunster and Mather) and managed to succeed. “I’m all about control,” he boasted. Finally, at Adams, Lehe wrestled through his final chickwich amidst a crowd of onlookers, after which he promptly vomited in a nearby trash can. Always a gentleman, he profusely apologized. “Gross. I’m sorry, guys. I didn’t mean to do that in front of everybody,” he groaned. He proclaimed that it will be “forever” until his next chickwich, to which Sagalowsky answered, “That’s like when you wake up in the morning and say, ‘I’m never going to drink again.’”

After a long, tumultuous run, the chickwiches were eaten and a man was made. In addition to his manhood, Lehe was awarded a 40 oz. Coors Light and a gift bag of stomach medication. Lassiter, having pulled a strong second, was awarded a 40 oz., as well. More than just a contest, the Chickwich Challenge was a war of one—a battle against one’s own body, mind and good sense. However, for Lehe, the significance of the event extended far beyond petty material rewards. “A job well done is its own reward,” he proclaimed.

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