A story I wrote about a milk drinking contest

El Challengo de Reche

By Robbie Doyen July 29, 2000


At its best the Challengo de Leche was an archetypal contest between the two extremes of conservatism. At its worst it was the Challengo de Reche -- a thickheaded struggle against a painful inevitability.

Basically, whoever can drink a gallon of milk without puking, wins.

It.s a race with no time limit. Either contestant could conceivably spend an entire day gingerly sipping away at their gallon of milk. Nobody does this. There's no nobility in moderation. Not in America--and especially not in Texas.

Two young men competed in this challenge.


Henry Palmer, at age 22, had only recently begun to dip his tongue into the fuzzy world of alcohol. The first time he got drunk he went to a party and ate turtle food. That, somehow, was the first indication that Henry had a chance to be very cool. He goes to church twice a week. He has short blonde hair. He is quiet, meek, and a little pimply with long, gangly limbs. Yet somehow he is not boring. A gentle tension builds around quiet people, causing anything they say to pop into a conversation like an ant bite.

For Henry the Challengo de Leche acted as an opportunity for him to display his steadfast resolution.

For 17 year old Chad Harborth, the CdL wasn't much more than another prank. An exhibition of hardcore craziness. The exclamation point at the end of his two green Mohawks. Harborth would probably be kicked out of church, not because the worshippers wouldn't try to be understanding and tolerant of a possible convert, but because he would likely raise his hand in the middle of the preacher's sermon and ask him mocking questions designed to disrupt and confuse. He is thickly built, like a human dump truck, and his favorite hobbies are drawing tattoo art and fighting with his friends.

Before the contest began Henry sat silent and stationary beside a humming air conditioner behind Valentino's. His eyes shifted relentlessly over each person who had shown up to witness the spectacle. Harborth was so energized by the attention that he danced around throughout the group, talking trash and simulating a particularly horrendous vomit session into the "puke bucket".

The group caravanned to the SWT football practice fields where we could leave behind a horrible mess that others would have to clean up. We sat down and Henry and Harborth opened up their milk gallons.

Harborth drank quickly as though from a shot glass--tilting the gallon back and chugging recklessly. In a matter of minutes he finished half of his milk. His expression, though still jovial, switched from confident to determined. His eyes narrowed a bit. His jaw began to droop. One could almost see his Mohawks begin to wilt. In a final act of exuberance he laid down on the ground and chugged. By now three quarters of the milk had disappeared into his body.

He sat up. This was his fatal mistake. The strain on his stomach muscles was too great. He started convulsing and mumbling. When he pulled the puke bucket toward himself the crowd reacted with a mixture of groans, applause and laughter.

The splattering sound on the bottom of the bucket was too much to bear. And somehow his vomit was orange. Soon after he informed us that he ate some lasagna before the contest. Not to mention, he had spent all of last night partying. And to make matters worse he kept looking into the bucket and commenting on how weird his puke looked.

Henry, at this point, was still only halfway done with his gallon. His judicious sips were a part of his plan to somehow outlast the milk by tricking his stomach into thinking not much was going on. The thrill of waiting to see someone retch was over. Now someone must finish the milk.

Harborth continued to play with his vomit, swishing it around in the bucket. He asked for a cigarette, but nobody would give one to him, knowing that nicotine is a natural diuretic.

The sun began to set and Henry was reaching the final milk level that Harborth had achieved. Now he too turned pale with sickness and determination. This was when Henry asked if it was okay if he took a dump.

Ah, a loophole. We granted that as the commandments of the CdL mentioned nothing about it, the answer must be yes. So he went to the public restroom with a witness following him to make sure he didn't stick a stealthy finger down his throat.

He returned from the restroom to his gallon, still looking ill. The dump didn.t help, but it was a good idea. He continued to sip his milk.

His gallon was slightly less full than Harborth's had been at the end of his try, and by now over a half hour had passed. It appeared as if Henry might finish the gallon without puking, and as the only .touchdown. from a crowd.s perspective in a Challengo de Leche is severe vomiting, most of us grew bored and decided Henry had won and the contest had ended. Then Harborth emptied his vomit bucket all over the street next to the gazebo, and that persuaded most of us to leave right away. One person stayed behind with Henry while he tried to finish, and we heard that he puked anyway.

Alas, each contestant proved to have a Will larger than his stomach. That was it. No big finish. No fireworks. The Will can cause the body to wage war on itself but never defeat itself. Neither contestant really won, except to prove that he was ballsy enough to try. And maybe in the end that is the important part. Mix stubbornness with ignorance of the human anatomy, a jeering, eager audience, and lots of milk, and you get a subtle spectacle... the Challengo de Leche.