Glizzy Glory on Weenie Weekend

With a clear mind, a full heart, and an empty stomach, I stepped out of my Crown Heights apartment at 8:40 AM on Sunday. I walked over to the black Toyota RAV4, opened the door, and slid into the backseat next to my friend Anthony and his girlfriend Cristina. Immediately, Anthony gestured to the hot dog costume peeking out of the tote bag between his feet. “Dude, I’m so f—— hyped,” he said with a glizzy-eating grin on his face. “We were born for this.” He then took off his jacket to reveal he was wearing the gray cotton t-shirt that I got him for his birthday. Across the chest in all caps were the words: BAD DAY TO BE A GLIZZY.

The Uber driver pulled away from the curb and started down the street. We were on our way to Coney Island for the first annual Hot Dog Jog, a race hosted by the Brooklyn Cyclones as part of Weenie Weekend. Hot Dog Jog participants run four laps around the ballpark, covering about a mile. Sure, that’s a short distance for a run, but this race isn’t meant to be a feat of endurance. Instead, it’s a test of intestinal fortitude. After every lap, contestants have to stop and eat a hot dog. Anthony and I were running in the race, while Cristina came to see the spectacle, cheer us on, and laugh at us if we puked.

The event was slated to begin at 9 AM, but a few days earlier, we received an email telling us that we would be running in Group 4 and should report to the race no later than 9:40 for registration. The first race, the Cocktail Frank Kids Division, had already begun by the time we were dropped off outside Maimonides Park a little before 9:20. King Henry, the on-field emcee of the Cyclones, was announcing the action through a megaphone and motivating contestants with hot dog puns. We exited the car to a cacophony of crowd chants, color commentary, and Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way.” It was then that we knew we were on the edge of the most glorious day of our lives.

Upon checking in, Anthony and I were each handed a Brooklyn Cyclones hot dog hat, two drink vouchers for post-race beers, and a complimentary ticket to that afternoon’s game against the Wilmington Blue Rocks. “Hot Dog” was printed on the ticket as the official price of admission. Anthony booked it to the bathroom to throw on his costume as soon as we got inside, while I lathered on sunscreen. Cristina scouted the stands for the best seat in the house. Naturally, she selected the spot in the first row just to the far side of the third base dugout, directly in the sun. I put on another coat of SPF. I feared the post-race combination of meat sweats and UV rays would knock me out for a week.

Anthony was far from the only one in a hot dog costume. In fact, the concourse was a walking shrine to sausage supremacy. We saw hot dog Hawaiian shirts, mustard mascots, and funky frankfurter socks. Dozens of contestants in “I Got That Dog In Me” t-shirts assured the competition they were up to the challenge ahead. Of course, this was Coney Island, so there were Nathan’s jerseys as far as the eye could see. One woman had a shirt featuring Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam, with God handing Adam a hot dog.

We took our seats just as they were setting up for Group 2. Near the entrance to the field, stadium workers were unloading 320 hot dogs from a portable heating cabinet onto a cart. From there, they rolled the cart through the gate near the visitor’s on-deck circle and brought it over to the four rectangular folding tables lined up in foul territory between the third base line and the dugout. Every table was divided into 20 sections, each with a number that corresponded with a runner. Four dogs were laid out at each setting. On the home plate side of the four tables was a water station, where disposable cups were filled with water to help get the dogs down.

Once the spread was ready, Group 2 entered the field. The starting line was on the warning track behind home plate. From there, runners would proceed clockwise along the warning track — the opposite direction from running the bases — until they returned to the start to finish their first lap. Then, they’d collect their cup of water, grab a glizzy from their assigned section of a table, and gulp it down their gullet before taking off for their next lap. Because the order of operations was run-eat, run-eat, run-eat, run-eat, runners wouldn’t complete the race until they’d consumed their fourth dog. Swallowing the ultimate bite was akin to crossing the finish line. Just to be sure, the lead runners needed to open wide for King Henry to confirm that they had no more food in their mouth. Only then would one of them be declared the winner. “Everybody’s a wiener on Weenie Weekend!” proclaimed King Henry, but because the official first-place finisher of each group got to throw out a ceremonial first pitch at that afternoon’s game, it was still necessary to officiate the race.

The Group 2 race started tight, but one runner, whose name I later learned is Scott, started to distance himself from the pack on the second lap. As Scott chowed down on his second dog, Anthony started chanting, “Keep on munching!” A few people nearby joined in. By the start of Lap 3, the outcome of the race wasn’t in doubt; Scott was way ahead, so he started pumping up the crowd as he ran by, leaping and waving his hands in the air.

When Scott finished his fourth dog and passed the open-mouth inspection, King Henry put a microphone in Scott’s face and asked him for his name. “My name’s Scott. I’m 36. I’m single. I’m moving to New York in September. Come find me after the race.”

About 10 minutes later, I found Scott on the concourse with two of his friends and asked if I could interview him. That was definitely not the reason he requested that people find him after the race, but he was eager to talk to me anyway. He’s a senior creative producer at the running watch company COROS. He lives in Denver but comes to New York frequently for races and other running events. The Hot Dog Jog was a silly event full of casual runners, but there were also people like Scott who were skilled racers. He spotted the competition immediately and came up with a strategy. “I didn’t want to go out too fast on that first lap, so I was sitting fourth, fifth,” he said. “First hot dog, I started dunking, and I don’t think other people were. And then it was off to the races. I took the lead after the first dog and just kept it.

“You have to dunk,” he continued. “I took one bite, and the bun was just too dense. There’s just no way. You have to dunk it. Get it all in there. Drink some water as you chew.”

I asked him how he felt now, after running four laps and devouring four dogs in about nine minutes. “I’m pretty hungover,” he said. “But I actually feel better than I did. I think I needed some sodium.”

I wondered if I would feel the same way. The day before was my friend Andy’s engagement party, after which a group of us went out to watch Game 7 of the Western Conference Finals. Following an afternoon and evening of beer and fried food, I woke up and remembered that actions have consequences. It was reassuring to learn that someone else was hair of the dogging it, too.

Scott gave me some pointers before I went back to Anthony and Cristina. “Don’t go out too fast,” he said. “Definitely pump the crowd up. If you’re winning, prepare your speech, and maybe someone will come and fall in love with you.”

The only thing I remember from the Group 3 race was that King Henry said someone had run 18 miles earlier that morning and was using the Hot Dog Jog as his cool down. By that point, Anthony and I were stretching and reapplying sunscreen.

Before long, fresh dogs were being carted out and we were lining up to enter the field. As we waited, Anthony and I talked strategy. He’s a faster runner than I am, but I’m a faster eater, so we agreed that he would run at his regular pace instead of with me, and then we’d see each other for the dogs. I was no. 39, he was 40; our stations were across from each other at the second table. I relayed Scott’s advice about dunking the dogs and working the crowd. Dressed as a footlong and grunting about glizzies, Anthony was already a fan favorite. We led the group in a “We Want Hot Dogs!” chant. The gate opened soon after and we took the field.

Maimonides Park is all turf except for the pitcher’s mound and the batter’s circle, but the warning track is still brown, offering a well-delineated course for the race. Trash cans lined the inside perimeter of the track, serving a different purpose. And though I didn’t see anyone in any of the races throw up, it was comforting to know receptacles were nearby if needed. King Henry shouted, “Go!” and we were off.

At some point during the Group 3 race, Wilmington players had started filtering onto the field and into the bullpen to begin warming up for that afternoon’s game. I didn’t recognize any of their faces, but as I passed the visitor’s dugout and made my way toward the left field corner on my first lap, I thought about how some of these guys might make it to the majors in a few years. I was momentarily mortified by the notion that I would bump into them in the Nationals clubhouse down the line, and they would remember me as one of the idiots running around the field in a giant wiener hat.

The first lap was harder than I expected. The adrenaline kicked in right away, and I tried to keep up with the front of the group. Amateur mistake. Huffing and puffing already, I fell back to a more reasonable pace as I turned around the right field corner and quickly caught my breath. It didn’t help that, except for some water, a Honeycrisp apple, and a black coffee from the grocery store across the street from the ballpark, all I’d had to eat and drink for the last 15 hours was a cheeseburger, mac and cheese bites, and Narragansetts.

I cruised into the water station and got my cup, then picked up my dog and went over to Anthony. I dunked my dog in the water and got it down in about 45 seconds. I noticed bun bits floating in the cup just as I took the last sip but pushed the thought of how gross that looked out of my mind. It was time for Lap 2. This one was much easier because I kept a steadier pace. I flashed hands to the pitcher warming up with a football in the grass. He pump-faked to me in the flat and then hit the X receiver on a deep skinny post for six.

I crushed the second dog, let out a falsetto WHOOOOOOOP, and spiked the cup in the garbage. Fueled up on glizzy gas, I felt great as I started Lap 3. Nothing could stop me now.

The third and fourth laps went by in a blur. I have no idea who won the race, but I remember shouting, “Let’s Go!” to the Cyclones employee wearing a hot dog costume and playing the keytar. Anthony and I ate the last dog together, and as soon as we finished, he dropped to the turf and did the worm. I yelled, “Dog down! Dog down!”

King Henry was standing nearby, so in a glizzy-induced euphoria, Anthony walked over and asked if he could give a shoutout to Cristina. The King obliged, ad-libbing a message. “Anthony wants me to say a few words for his girlfriend, Cristina. You’re his little hot dog and he loves you very much!” That was more nauseating than the race.

We exited the field and went back to Cristina, who was laughing at Anthony. They’ve been together long enough that she’s developed an immunity to his cringe. We took our drink vouchers out of the bag and got two tallboys from the concession stand. Our vouchers were only good for the duration of the Hot Dog Jog, so we had another beer in short order. Hydration is key.

Everyone had to leave the ballpark by 12:30 so the stadium workers could do a quick sweep of the stands before the gates reopened for the game. We found a spot in the shade outside Nathan’s Clam Bar. The one-mile, four-dog, two-tallboy cocktail started taking its toll on us. Anthony and I had a tough time keeping our heads up without the support of our hands. Cristina exacted her revenge on Anthony for King Henry’s declaration by rattling off various boardwalk fried foods and telling him how much better he’d feel after eating them.

“I can’t even think about food right now,” Anthony said. “I feel terrible.” I agreed, but neither of us could pinpoint any particular ailment. We were drained, lethargic.

“Nothing hurts, but I’m in a deep discomfort,” I said. “It’s weird. I can’t explain it.”

“That feeling,” Cristina said. “That’s the feeling of victory.”