Belly Up Man Bites Dogs; Dogs Bite Back

BY ROSE POST
SALISBURY POST

Don’t worry, Mark Collins.

Your name won’t get in the Guinness Book of World Records, says your hot dog-eating challenger, John Morrison of Richfield.

Guinness no longer lists ‘‘gorge’’ records. And John Morrison doesn’t recommend them.

But you still hold that record. You ate 15 hot dogs in 45 minutes last Oct. 11 at Hap’s Grill on North Main Street, and that’s still the record emblazoned on a bronze plaque hanging over the eating shelf.

But John?

Bold John, a route salesman for Merita Bakeries, has been in training to eat hot dogs for six months. Brave John, he’s been confident he could better you by at least one hot dog and scarf down a grand total of 16 so easily that maybe he’d go on to 18.

But he didn’t.

He had to stop at 14 1/2 because ...

Oh, how to say this as delicately as it happened?

On his 15th hot dog, John shakes his head and like a well-rehearsed ballet dancer, twirls, his back toward the onlookers, bends low over a wastebasket no one has noticed – and creates a little more room inside his belt by silently doing what rhymes with scarf – and comes up smiling.

The big hand on the Hap’s clock says it’s 11:18. Maybe he just ate too fast. Maybe you can’t eat 15, much less 16 hot dogs in 18 minutes. But no clock was running. He started at 11 and it was all over at 11:18 – and that’s barely over a third of the time Mark Collins took to down his 15 dogs last October.

Like any good athlete going for the gold, he is at Hap’s well before 11, scoping out the playing field, thinking through the strategy, psyching himself up and talking to his good buddy, Charles Matthews. Charles brought his wife, Lori, and sons, David, 9, and Brandon, 6, along for a taste of excitement on a school snow day.

But this didn’t start the day Mark Collins established a record last October. It started when Spencer Junction Restaurant sponsored a hot dog eating contest during a festival in Spencer. On that day, John Morrison ate 12 hot dogs to be heralded the Spencer Junction champ.

‘‘And then somebody told me about this place,’’ he explains, ‘‘and I like the hot dogs here because they’re grilled. You can’t find a good grilled hot dog.’’

So he started getting ready.

‘‘With four,’’ he says, ‘‘and worked my way up two at a time,’’ training about once a week or every week and a half. ‘‘A month ago I ate 12.’’

That’s not such a big order for a big man – 5 feet 9 and 280 pounds, so he hasn’t bothered to do it again.

‘‘You know that old saying, ‘I’d walk a mile for a Camel’?’’ he asks. ‘‘I don’t smoke, but I’d walk a mile for a Hap’s hot dog.’’

But he’s almost ready. The big hand on Hap’s clock is pointing to 10:57.

‘‘Greg,’’ he says, ‘‘go ahead and fix me eight. And a root beer and a water.’’

He takes off his jacket.

Greg pops eight hot dogs on the counter. Steam rises. John opens the buns wider, rotates the wieners a few turns and lets the steam escape.

‘‘My only concern,’’ he says, ‘‘is them being so hot.’’

He wants to give them a minute or two so they can cool.

‘‘I know I can do 16,’’ he says. ‘‘That’s only four more than I’ve done. And I’ve never had indigestion.’’

His wife, Carole, wanted to be here, but she’s home with the flu.

It’s 10:59.

He rolls the wieners over again, and the big hand moves straight up.

‘‘Here I go,’’ he says. Is he going to put the whole hot dog in at once? Nope. It’s gone in four bites.

11:01 – He picks up speed. Three bites. He wipes his mouth. Takes a swig of Blue Mist. Picks up the next dog.

‘‘Greg, fix me four more. Ummmmm! They’re good.’’

11:02 – Three bites. Still chewing the last of No. 3 when he bites into No. 4. Opens the four new dogs to let them cool. More water.

11:03 – Almost half the hot dog goes in. A little cough. A quaff of A&W Root Beer. Seven hot dogs are on the counter now.

‘‘Greg, four more.’’

11:05 – Water. One dog in the hand. Nine on the counter.

11:06 – More water. More wiener rolling. Root beer. Swallow. Chew. Water. Chew. Root beer.

11:07 – No. 9 goes in four bites.

11:08 – Surveys the crowd. Raises eyebrows slightly in a tiny shrug. Is he wondering if this is going to work? Bite is smaller. Swig of water is larger. This one needs five bites to go down. ‘‘Starting to sweat a little,’’ he says.

11:10 – Chewing longer. Root beer. No. 12. ‘‘John, you’ve already tied your old record. If you’re going to get sick, you better do it right.’’

‘‘Get out of here,’’ Greg advises.

11:12 – A bite out of No. 13. ‘‘This is more than I’ve ever eaten.’’ Wipes a spot off the counter. A deep breath. More root beer.

11:13 – Picks up No. 14. ‘‘It’s just like eating lunch.’’ Opens it. Looks. One bite. Closes mouth on a soundless burp.

‘‘You can do it, John,’’ Charles says. ‘‘You can do it.’’

Shakes his head.

‘‘Pretty rough,’’ he says. Small bite. Wipes counter with a napkin.

11:16: No. 15. Coughs. ‘‘Looks like he might be able to top it off with a couple more,’’ somebody says.

‘‘Huh uh,’’ he objects. Shakes his head. Two small bites. Puts the hot dog down. Tries to chew. Shakes his head.

And then he does that dance step. Twirl, turns back, bends. Silence.

And he turns back to the crowd, smiling.

It’s 11:18.

‘‘I’m not disappointed,’’ he says. ‘‘Really, I don’t encourage anybody to gorge like that.’’

Is he coming back?

‘‘It’ll be a while,’’ he says. ‘‘How much?’’

Greg doesn’t charge for the half.

‘‘Fourteen hot dogs,’’ he says. ‘‘Halves don’t count. You go down on the plaque as 14. A drink, water – $19.20.’’

John pays.

‘‘Those last two,’’ he says, ‘‘looked like 20. But 14 1/2! I’m happy!’’

Mark Collins ate 15 hot dogs in 45 minutes – and he started with a sprint, too. His first 10 went down in 9 minutes. But then he slowed up.

And he still holds the record.