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Would I call myself the greatest athlete of all time? No. But would I agree that I’m at least in the discussion? Well, to be honest – after this weekend, it hard to say.
A little background: I’m almost two years removed from college, I’m 6’4” and a self-listed 260 pounds, and my exercise consists of playing basketball three times a week. I’m in the middle of making some personal changes to get back to fighting weight, but I had to put those on hold last weekend for the most grueling experience of my life.
I’m talking, of course, about the Beer Mile.
For those unfamiliar, the Beer Mile consists of drinking four beers and running a mile. You drink one beer before each quarter-mile segment, and you’re not allowed to start the next quarter-mile until you finish the beer. This leaves you bloated, out-of-breath and fairly buzzed by the time you stumble across the finish line. Pulling trig and puking during the race incurs a penalty – some sources say a minute is added to your final time for each puke, while others say you have to run an extra lap.
My friends and I do a fantasy football draft in our college town of Fort Worth each year, and the loser of the previous season’s Toilet Bowl has to run the Beer Mile before the draft. I finished in dead last in 2017, and so it was my turn to face my demons. Our draft was held last weekend, and we found a one-eighth-mile stretch of road in a neighborhood that I would run down and back to count as a quarter-mile lap.
Our draft order is set by how close you are to predicting the time of the Beer Mile. In 2017, the guy that had to run it finished in 10:57. It should be noted that that dude is going into the Army in two months, whereas I recently watched Army football play Duke on TV. I predicted myself to finish at 14:30, and was dismayed to find that none of my friends had any faith in me whatsoever. One jackass pegged me at 19:30, which was downright disrespectful.
At high noon, I grabbed my four Busch Lights — chilled but not cooled for optimum chugging temperature — and we stepped out into the street to start the proceedings. A buddy of mine who lost a bet on the Broncos last year also had to run with me, so we both got set behind the starting line. One friend served as the official timer, another set up a Periscope link so those not in attendance could monitor the mile, and I was off and chugging.
For at least 48 hours before I started, the Beer Mile was all I had thought about. It haunted my every thought and kept me up at night. I knew I was out of shape, and I knew I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of my friends. I stretched and did breathing exercises and all that jazz, but before the race I had managed to convince myself that this was all mind over matter. If I focused and kept myself calm, I could get through without puking in a respectable time.
Through Lap One, I was humming. I had downed the first beer and kept a steady pace over the first quarter mile. Beer Two went down rougher – a disastrous sip sent Busch Light down my windpipe and nearly had me puking early. But I persevered, sweating my ass off in the Texas heat and shaking off the bemused looks I received from drivers of passing cars.
My friend and co-runner peeled off to hurl in a bush somewhere around Lap Three. I miraculously pressed on, shocked at my own ability. As I popped the top on Beer Four, I knew I was doing well time-wise (I wasn’t allowed to know my own time until I finished, for fear that I would throw the race to get better draft position). I jogged down to the end of the street and started back.
With ten meters or so to go, I lost all energy. I couldn’t even keep up a jog, and I figured I had blown any chance of beating my goal time. I walked across the finish line, proud that I had finished without puking but dismayed I hadn’t run to the end.
My friend announced my time: 11:29.
There are names that will remain forever associated with times: Roger Bannister and his four-minute mile, Usain Bolt’s 9.59 100-meter dash. I don’t write the history books, so I don’t make the rules — but Mike Honcho and the 11:29 Beer Mile deserve to be among those hallowed names.
Anyway, after I was done I ran into my friend’s backyard and dry-heaved for five minutes, and then proceeded to get wildly drunk and screw up the last half of my fantasy draft. Such is the life of an elite athlete..
Image via mubus7 / Shutterstock.com
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Mike Honcho
Subpar dancer. Mediocre sports journalist. Above average golfer. Excellent trivia team member.
@grantmcgalliard
Ending all confusion, this truly is what I meant when I dramatically laced my shoes and muttered “Make me like Mike”
Watching a few of my friends who ran cross-country finish beer miles quicker than most people can simply run four laps around the track made me respect those athletes even more
Wow, I need to institute this in my league. Shame for the loser and picks the draft order? We’ve just been making the guy in last place get frosted tips for a few months for the past two years.
If you’re looking to finish out of the cellar this year, you should point out that the official beer mile rules require competitors to drink beer at least 5% ABV.
We saw that just as we were about to start! We figured neither of us were going to break a record, so it wouldn’t matter too much.
kinda of like Kirk Gibson’s home run in game one of the 1988 World Series
Speaking from my experience, it’s an athletic accomplishment on par with winning a shirt in intramurals. In other words it’s proof of peak athleticism
If youre semi athletic and ever want to break a world record they have records for every beer and some are around a 10 min mile