Supersize Me: How I Gained 40 Pounds Overnight

I woke up on June 30th of last year in close to the best shape of my life. I was 210 lbs, which is what I weighed as a seventh-year senior at UNC. A six-pack was never in my genes, but I no longer had the love handles that woman between the ages of 52 and 67 dreamed of holding on to. Two weeks earlier, at the age of 45, I completed a half-ironman, which came on the heels of a 100-mile bike ride to Montauk.

As the calendar prepared to turn over from June to July, I went for a bike ride on a near perfect, sun-splashed afternoon. I wish the ride was as flawless as the day. I edged a pothole going downhill, flipped my bike and was nearly roadkill. I separated the AC joint in my shoulder and left three chunks of flesh from my back, hip, and shoulder on the asphalt of Oenoke Ridge Road.

The bad news was, I couldn't work out for at least three months. The good news was, I got introduced to something that would become my new best friend: Vicodin. Vicodin is the pain-killer that former NFL Quarterback, Brett Favre, once became addicted to. It makes you feel good and really groovy. The pain goes away quicker than Favre can say comeback.

Unable to work out, I needed something else to obsess about and get addicted to. I was 37 days from reaching my goal of not drinking for a year, and that was out anyway, since I was on Vicodin. Extreme eating become my new sport. What comfort I didn't get out of Vicodin, I got from stuffing my face like Augustus Gloop in "Wily Wonka's Chocolate Factory."

I had been a workout freak, now I was obsessed with food. If it wasn't tied down, I was eating it. Weddings and cocktail parties were the best.If there was a buffet, I'd eat half of it. Those people passing around hor dourves never had a chance. I'd hijack them and the trays carrying calorie-packed treats. I became like Joey Chitwood in a hot dog eating contest, chowing down food fast and furiously.  Perhaps I was having a mid-life crisis. If that was the case, food was my new Ferrari.

I didn't care, I loved it. I had always been a pretty healthy eater but that went out the window with my stint on the disabled list. Ring-Dings, Cherry Garcia, and pizza, oh my. I'd go to the Shell station on my way to work and pick up a Choco-Taco, a Drumstik, and a Good Humor Chocolate Eclair for the ride.

On the way home, I'd hit the 24-hour Wendy's drive thru for a spicy chicken sandwich, a double-cheeseburger, and fries. And I'd do what every overweight, food-obsessed person who is in denial, does. I'd wash it down with a large diet coke. Like the diet part of the drink matters after you blasted your body with 3,200 calories of artery-clogging fast food.

Trouble loomed over the horizon with my weight and vanishing Vicodin. My prescription was just about done and I had to make the decision whether or not to tell my doctor I couldn't tolerate the pain and ask him to refill my scrip. I had visions of becoming addicted like Favre did and hallucinating all over the place. I passed on the refill figuring my fascination with food would help me overcome the pain. It did.

However, I was paying the price. My waistline was exploding quicker than C.C. Sabathia's and I bypassed a double-chin and went straight to number three. But at 6'3", I could carry the extra weight, or so I told myself. As for that scale in my bathroom? Well, let's just say it had become the extra large white elephant in the room, and it was thinner than I was. No way I was getting on that thing. I didn't want to face reality, even though that came in my failure to get into any of my dress pants. My jeans were my safe haven, the one thing that didn't reject me or shout out that I was turning into a fat tub-of-goo.

But I was. I was getting extra large and wasn't in charge of my eating habits. I was out of control. On December 1st, I finally stepped onthe scale and it wasn't pretty. Remember "Groundhog Day" where the clock turns  over from 5:59 to 6:00 everyday? I stepped on the scale and it was teetering on 249lbs. 249lbs! The only thing more shocking was seeing it turn over to 250. There it was. 250 pounds.

Never in my life did I think I'd see that number below me. My manager in the minor-leagues, Gary Allenson, bet me $500 that I'd be 250 when I was 40 years old. He was six years off. I went to the doctor for a physical and the news was not good. My cholesterol shot up to 296.  Even my good cholesterol was bad.

Was it a wake-up call? Absolutely. That, and the fact that my mom nicknamed me "Shamu." But for the first time in my life, I had lost some of my drive to work out. I'd lose a few pounds here, a lose a few pounds there, but I was closer to 250 than 240.

I signed up for a half-ironman on September 11th, hoping it'd be the kick in the butt I needed. I'm getting there, but at 47 now, the metabolism rate has slowed down a lot.  There will be no Jenny Craig. I need to do this on my own.