Durfey, visits the shop at least three times a week. George, Utah, when the first Swig soda shop opened its doors there. What the hell I ate it.Samantha Durfey was a high school sophomore in St.
I rubbed my eyes, and discovered more stowaway glaze. When I woke up, I was dripping with a cold sweat. I caught a ride back to the hotel, and took a nap. Racers listed toward the water station, where officials advised us to go easy on the fluids-doughnuts expand fast. My second running leg had taken 90 seconds longer than the first. I crossed the finish line in 49:15, good for 618th place. I sprinted the last few hundred yards, passing a man with a three-foot wide doughnut on his head. I ran past throngs of spectators, two or three deep beside the road, some laughing like jackals. I passed a kid who had dusted me on the first leg, bent over in the bushes. As I swallowed, I felt a candy-binge energy take hold. Still chewing the 12th doughnut, I started the second half of the run. The sugary mass was swiftly hardening in my stomach. The doughnuts were cold and hard, like those at gas stations. I crouched unsteadily in a handicap parking spot, tasting little, swallowing my pride along with the saturated fat. One middle-aged man leaning against a phone booth appeared to be crying as he gorged himself.
Runners were strewn about the parking lot, standing, sitting, leaning, lurching, all ingesting fried dough-most frantically, a few fastidiously. 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. 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. I was so hungry it was hard to breathe, or think. A runner carrying a boom box blasting the Rocky theme song raced by, backward, as we crested a small hill. 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. With my belly empty, I immediately fell behind. Piece of cake.Īround 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. All I had to do was eat 12 doughnuts and trot a few miles in the cold. Following the strategy of the previous year's winner, I hadn't eaten breakfast-or dinner the night before. 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. I was a regular runner who'd done triathlons, half-marathons, and an ill-advised 57-mile speed hike. 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?" 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. My history foretold greatness in such an event. 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. 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.
I had certainly started the day feeling optimistic about my capacity for overindulgence.
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