Big Kev and I were competetive bodybuilders for many, many years. At our peak, I weighed in at a whopping 230 pounds and Kev tipped the scales at close to 260. This might not seem so amazing unless you take into consideration that neither one of us is very tall. Our time was spent eating, training, sleeping, eating, eating, eating and repeat. We were on a strict training and eating regimine that helped us rise quickly above the local and state level competition. We aspired to achieve pro status but that required a win at a National level show. Now, bodybuilding is “political” sport in the sense that, in order to make your way to the top, you had to gain favor with the judges. Think of it like an NBA game. The home team has the advantage with the referees on their court. When a call could go either way, they get the nod. Bodybuilding is the same in the sense that, if the judges see two guys of equal caliber, they will often give the nod to the one who’s more well known. So, as we progressed in our pursuit of National titles, it became necessary to schmooze a little. We had to make our way into the radar of national level judges. Both of us being pretty smooth, that wasn’t a difficult task. We befriended the state chairman of the NPC (the regulating body for amateur bodybuilding) who, of course, loved us. How could you not love us? We were quite loveable. I mean, nothing screams LOVEABLE like two chemically created monsters of destruction, right? Ok, we were cuddly at the very least. Anyway, Jeff, the chairman, invites us to attend a dinner that’s to take place after a contest called The Jan Tana Classic. It’s located in Roanoke, Virginia, a few hours south of where we live. He’s going to introduce us to all the big shots so everyone knows our name come time for the Nationals and the USA competitions. It’s a great opportunity and we aim to take full advantage of it.

Now, every so often, Kev and I broke training and went a little crazy. We’d go a few weeks of drinking and eating poorly, just to recharge and live a bit of a normal life. It had been a while since we’d done this because we were focused on these National competitions. Granted, we weren’t in “pre-contest” diet and training yet, but still in preparation. You had to start early if you really wanted to win. So, our plan was to go down, watch the Jan Tana Classic, attend the dinner then head back to our lives. That was our plan. We had a plan. There was a plan and we had it. We’d planned. Planning had been involved. There’d been a plan. What happened to the plan? Was there ever a plan? Fuck a plan.

Things go downhill before we even leave home.

Kev mentions that an aerobic instructor from our gym and one of her friends are attending. Oh, and by the way, they have a hotel room. We’ll be staying with them. I know this means trouble. Kev knows this means trouble. Collectively but silently, we agree that we don’t care. We pack our stuff into a rental car, paid for on my dad’s credit card, and head south. About half way into the trip, Kev suggests we get some food. Where, you might ask, do two bodybuilders who should be eating boiled chicken breast and steamed broccoli, find something suitable to eat? The answer is obvious if you just think for a moment….

Taco Bell.

Right. Give us a 10 pack of soft tacos, some cheese enchiladas, a couple of burritos and a few cokes. Look, our metabolisms are running at “tweaker on a treadmill” velocity. We probably NEED a few extra calories to keep our bodies running efficiently. What if we lose all of our bodyfat too early in our training? We might rebound and gain back MORE fat just before the contest. So we should do something about that now. As we drove out of the Taco Bell parking lot, hot sauce already dripping down our chins, we both realized that we had not secured ourselves a good source of protein. Granted, we could get some decent carbohydrates and a sufficient number of fat grams by making a run for the border, but no significant amount of muscle building amino acids. Luckily, the solution presented itself right in front of us. Like a holy sanctuary rising out of the earth, prepared to offer solace and comfort to a lonely sinner….KFC.

We added a bucket of chicken to our gastrically disasterous food choice and headed back toward the highway. Because Kev is slightly older than me, he often demonstrated his wisdom during our travels by offering up some profound idea that would change the direction of our trips nay, our lives, forever more. This journey was no different and, before we reached the on ramp BK spoke words that will resonate in my subconcious for the remainder of my days.

“Nigga, we need drinks.”

Fuckin-a right we do. A screeching u-turn later, we headed to the nearest convenience store which was located, in fact, very conveniently. Kev leaps from the car and returns mere moments later with a couple of 4 packs of wine coolers. Yes motherfuckers, we had wine coolers. I’m not sure why he chose wine coolers, nor did I question this executive decision. Nor should you. What you should do, however, is picture this…

Two giant roided out guys, one white, one black, flying down highway 95 into what Americans call “The South”. We’re in a rented sedan, drinking wine coolers, and flinging chicken bones out the window. Grease from the fried chicken and tacos is all over our hands, making it look like we’d just fisted Oprah.

In case you’re not following, I am drinking and driving, speeding, and carting a big black man eating fried chicken. In a place where “lynch mob” is not a rap group.

DANGER WILL ROBINSON. DANGER.

Imagine we get pulled over by a cop that looks just like Jackie Gleason in Smokey and the Bandit (one of the greatest movies of all time, by the way). He walks up to the car, mirrored sunglasses hiding his eyes, hat tipped slightly to the side and down to shade his face, and uses his nightstick to tap on my window. He doesn’t stand back behind me, like cops do now for safety. He’s old school. He stands directly to the side and leans down, looking into the car.

“You boys in a hurry?”

For a brief moment I imagine going to jail. I’m young, tan, shaved body, pretty face. There isn’t a group in prison that wouldn’t want my tight, firm buttocks. I’d be gang raped by the blacks, the mexicans, the aryans, the guards, the trustees, the visitors, the wardens kids…my asshole would be so wide that, on the day I was paroled, half of cell black B would escape by hiding in my colon. This thought alone would almost be enough to look up at Officer Klanrally and mouth the words, “help me”. Thus sending Kevin into the 7th circle of negro hell, a southern jail.

“Your honor sir, I was minding my own business, on my way to church, when this negro hit me over the head with a bucket of chicken and forced me to drive him around looking for white women.”

But the thought of Big Kev trying to squeeze his giant body into that tiny little electric chair made me feel guilty. So I’d say nothing and we’d both rot in a hot southern jail for the remainder of our days.

Lucky for both of us, we didn’t get pulled over. What we got was bloated from junk food and drunk as hell from wine coolers. An hour later, we arrived in Roanoke. Like good, responsible boys, we went straight to the hotel to prepare for our important dinner meeting. Normally, that would have involved napping, showering, putting on a nice, button up shirt and heading out. What seemed like a good alternative was not getting out of the car, picking up the two girls, going straight to a liquor store and purchasing a bottle of Sambuca.

It was about 4pm. Almost time to start getting crazy.

To be continued…