Upon leaving Hampton Roads, we made a quick stop to visit the Beach Dude Gorilla Statue near the Virginia Aquarium. This would be the first excuse of the day for Zach to get out his Hawaiian T-Shirt.
Zach visits his cousin on the way out of town:
In Newport News, we discovered the Virginia War Museum. Not wanting to spend the money to walk around in air conditioned comfort, we trotted around the the outside examining tanks, mortars, torpedoes, and atomic cannons. Yes, cannons that shoot nukes. Really really far. Like, far enough that they won't kill the artillery crew. Cool.
Conveniently, the War Museum's tanks were positioned right next to a playground for an easy start to our New World Order.
The heat played havoc with our attempts at shenanigans, as Zach attempted a reenactment of Slim Pickens crowning moment from Dr Strangelove. Torpedoes which sit out in the sun all day tend to be rather warm to the touch and Zach was only just able to straddle it for a picture. This would be the first excuse of the day for Zach to burn himself for a really childish reason.
We arrived at Richmond around 5 and meet John at a place called Caliente for the Man Vs Food Stupid Wings Challenge. Rules were laid out: Zach must eat 8 Stupid Wings in 30 minutes with 1 napkin, no other food or drink until he finished them, and must not puke for the duration of the stay. We had two radically different perspectives on the events that transpired there, so we each give our accounts.
Ben: I have the utmost confidence in Zach as he signs the legal waiver after ordering. He is all smiles and excitement and grins when they put a bubbling plate of lava colored lumps in front of him. After one wing he is breathing heavily, tears in his eyes. After a couple more, the shakes start, his fingers and mouth are covered in sauce, and his sole focus seems to be on exhaling. He finishes the plate about 10 minutes into the time, at which time he consumes 4 glasses of water and begins the first of his four cartons of milk. His whole chin is dyed red from the sauce. Syllables come from his mouth, but are never more than “Milk” or “Water”. His whole face is red as a beet and we had to remove his hat for him. I make trips to the restroom to wet paper towels and put them on his face. His eyes are glazed and teary, his shakes come and go with consistency and we know there are no words we can offer to ease the searing pain he is enduring. The waitress is nonchalant, as she's seen this many times. The woman behind the bar keeps throwing milk at me when I ask. Snot trickles in streams from Zach's nose, but his focus seems entirely on respiration and keeping a constant stream of cooling liquid down his throat. We offer encouragements of “Champ” and “Big Guy” and “Badass”, but we see only glimmers of comprehension in his responses.
Zach: I can say with confidence – and no hyperbole – that I no longer fear death. This was pain unlike any I've ever experienced, including when I snapped my leg in half when I was 9. The physiological response to the spice was unprecedented: I actually went into shock. I lost feeling in the tips of my fingers. I couldn't speak, my eyes couldn't focus, and it was impossible for me to eat the wings any faster than I did. My body would not allow it. It was terrifying. I'm glad I did it; that said, I will never ever attempt anything like that ever again.
Now, baseball.
