This may surprise those of you familiar with my granite-hard abs and pecs of steel, but - brace yourself - I was never much of an athlete.

Oh, I tried; I played softball and football in elementary and junior high, but by the time I had reached high school it was pretty apparent I wasn't going to make first string of, well, anything.
I boxed a little Golden Gloves at a west side gym near my house, but I wasn't all that great at that, either.  And after getting the dignity and a few teeth knocked out of me by a kid half my size I decided to retire from the ring while I still had molars and most of my pride.

Then in my senior year, I ran cross-country - the official sport of people who can't do sports. I only joined the team because I had a mad crush on Corrine Turner, a coltish brunette who also ran; I thought being a fellow runner might be an "in" for me.

It was, and as soon as Corrine agreed to go out with me, I quit the team. The coach, as I recall, was not especially distraught over my departure.

I also tried ski team for a while, but my heart wasn't really in that, either.

In college, I was too busy even to consider sports. Also, I was one of those "serious" kids who dress only in black, write bad poetry, and drink a lot of expensive coffee while thinking extraordinarily deep thoughts about life, the universe, and everything.

I was an arts nerd.

But back to my original point: When it comes to sports, I, for the most part, bite, and have always bitten.

Until now, that is.

While Googling the Internet the other day in search of instructions for canning banana peppers (a story for another time), I came across a site dedicated to Takeru Kobayashi.

Who  is Takeru Kobayashi? Good question.

Kobayashi (What a cool name! I'm tempted to change my own!) is the four-time winner of Nathan's Famous Hot Dog Eating Competition, held each year in New York.

Kobayashi, who hails from Nagano, Japan, recently choked down 53 1/2 wieners in just 12 minutes, breaking his own world record by three dogs.

Following the links on Kobayashi's Web site, I discovered there's an actual organization devoted solely to "competitive eating." I swear I'm not making this up.

It's called the International Federation of Competitive Eating (www.ifoce.com) and let me tell you, these folks take the sport SERIOUSLY.

There are hundreds of competitions held throughout the world each year, and it won't be long before you see me chowing down at a few of ‘em.

Being a newcomer to the sport, I won't try to jump right in against competitors like Takeru Kobayashi. I'll need to start off slow, do some training.

I plan to start tonight with a burrito and several beers. By this time next week, with a lot of hard work on my part, I hope to be up to two burritos. By summer's end, I'll be a burrito-eating machine!

Unfortunately, I could find no burrito-eating competitions. Still, burritos are a great training tool. If you can eat a dozen burritos you can eat most anything.

Once I'm in shape (the shape of a walrus is what I'm shooting for) I'll travel to Texas to compete in the jalapeno peppers-eating competition they hold there every year. I've been scarfing down jalapenos since my third birthday and can eat a jar of ‘em without the slightest hint of heartburn.

The pizza-eating contest in New England is likewise a natural for me, as is the Bratwurst-snarfling competition in Hanover, Germany.

Once I've earned my street creds at those events, I'll move on to some of the more exotic chow-downs: In April I can return to Texas to compete in the pickled quail egg-eating competition, then head over to Baton Rouge to see how many crawfish I can consume.

Finally, in October I'll head to Brighton Beach and join in the Pelemeni-eating contest that takes place there. This one may be tough for me, as I have absolutely no idea what Pelemeni is. I'm hoping it's not a squid-like sea creature; I won't eat anything with suckers on its tentacles no matter how fashionable it is.

After that, I'll choke back a few hundred Matzo Balls in New York, some Pomme Frites (just French Fries with a frou-frou name) in London, and finish up by downing my fill of Maui Onions in Hawaii in February.

By then, I figure I'll be ready to face off against the indomitable master of the wiener, Takeru Kobayashi.

I can see it now (somebody cue the music from "A Fistful of Dollars"):

A feverish sun marks high noon, basting the dusty, hoof-hammered boulevard in its enervated, washed-out glare.

Anxious, frightened faces peer from behind the streaked glass windows of the tavern, the church, the general store.

Pacing toward me, his worn boot heels softly rapping a steady cadence in the dirt, is Takeru Kobayashi, his face all but obscured in the shadow cast by the black Stetson drawn low over his eyes.

My eatin' hand trembles slightly, but Kobayashi doesn't notice. His eyes, like mine, are fixed on the table that has been set up in the middle of the road by the townsfolk.

That table is covered with wieners. Hundreds and hundreds of wieners.

Kobayashi and I reach the table at the same time. We stand there - two statues casting frozen, hippopotamus-like shadows across the sun-baked earth. The clock in the bell tower ticks off the final seconds until noon.

Somewhere, across the wind-whipped plain, a lone coyote cries into the desert sky. A falcon pinwheels overhead and a tumbleweed scuds across the boulevard. A billboard bearing the legend "Good Writers Avoid Hackneyed Clichés at all Costs!" flashes neon-bright in the distance.

And then, the clock strikes noon. We dig into the dogs, Kobayashi and I.

When the sun sets eight hours later, only one of us is still standing.

I would tell you which of us it is, but I'm hoping to market the whole thing to pay-per-view.

Let's just say that - in my scenario at least - I've finally found a sport I'm good at.

Do you have a comment, question or terrifying hot dogs ingredients list you'd like to share with Mike Taylor? Send it to: mtaylor@midmich.net, or via snail mail to Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.