diner

Every sport has its pinnacle. In football, it's the Super Bowl. In golf, the Masters. And the pinnacle of the sport known as high cholesterol, lo-fiber eating is the Diner Derby, a rigorous, all-day gustatory free-for-all.

Drawing slackers from near and far, the Diner Derby is a 12-hour nightmare of endurance which tests the wits and perseverance of its underachieving competitors through a 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. obstacle course of food. The goal is not to win, merely to survive. Held this year at New Jersey's Olga's Diner, the Diner Derby is essential to honing any self-loathing 20-something's loafing skills.

Olga's, which sits at the traffic circle where routes 70 and 73 converge, intertwine, then diverge, is a mammoth structure - a veritable stadium of an eatery. Designed with the concept of "less is more, but more is even morer," Olga's is all glistening facade and obnoxious signage outside, distinctively recognizable from too far away. Inside, the premises are expansive, yet low on charisma. Probably too big for its own good, Olga's is more an operation than an inspired undertaking.

Like a marathon, one can't enter into the Diner Derby cold; months of practice are required, and still, some of the most digestively fit entrants fold under pressure.

"I'm taking what I like to call a holistic approach," says Brian. "When I'm training, I can't put just anything into my system. I season my food with only iodized salt. When it comes to hot drinks and cereals, it's refined sugar. I don't care so much about the trophy I'll take home, it's the tumorous pride I'll carry around with me till the day I die."

But each contestant must base his training methods on what works best for him? and his lower GI.

"There's a whole realm of engineered food out there," says Pete. "What nature can do, man can do better. I train with only genetically enhanced snacks - pinker Sno-Balls, more perfectly conic Bugles, zingier Andy Capp's Hot Fries. And quantity is everything. I've brought new meaning to 'after-school snack.' Since I graduated, every hour of every day is 'after school.'"

Come "game day," the Diner Derby is all sheer will and intestinal fortitude. It is a timeless trilogy, pitting man vs. man, man vs. self, and man vs. food.

Pacing themselves as drifters and vagrants have for decades, Brian and Pete enjoyed a leisurely breakfast out of the gate and fleshed out the time until the salad bar opened with cup upon cup of better than average coffee. But by noon, with sun glaring down through large windows, lunch was served amidst the bustle of the New Jersey lunch hour. More casual coffee drinking ensued until the day's final hurdle, dinner, was served up and the finish line was in sight. Jockeying for position in the miracle mile, Pete was first to attract Kelly, Olga's ace dinnertime waitress, and placed his order for eggplant on cavatelli. At a distinct disadvantage, Brian was forced to play "catsup," opting for the less healthy, but decidedly quicker grilled pastrami on rye. This is what those months of "torturous" training came down to, served up on a plate.

Pete maneuvered through tender eggplant with aplomb; the lead was his to lose. Brian got bogged down with an extremely dry and tough sandwich sans thousand island dressing - contrary to his order - to slicken the esophagus. Both finished their meals within seconds of each other, and none too soon, as the clock struck six, bringing this test of endurance and faith to a close.

They emerged transformed. They endured the derby, and the diner which was mediocre at best. They had made the Horatio Alger climb; they had set goals and achieved them, all with plenty of time to get home for Jeopardy!.

- Pete Brown and Brian Howard