‘I matched Olympian’s crazy McDonald’s diet – I would’ve sunk to bottom of pool’

I thought getting paid to eat McDonald’s for a day sounded like a laugh.

But let me tell you; chowing down on an Olympic-sized bottomless buffet is about the furthest you’ll ever get from a ‘happy meal’. So what was on the menu?

Well, to mark Paris 2024 getting underway, I slipped into the shoes of Olympic swimming icon and six-time gold medallist Ryan Lochte. Granted, swimmers don’t wear shoes, but I couldn’t exactly slip into his speedos given the belly stuffing I was about to subject myself to.

The 6ft 2in American claims he won his two golds and two bronze medals at the 2008 Beijing Games on a merciless diet of Maccies for breakfast, lunch and dinner. So against my better judgement, I took the plunge, diving face-first into the deep end of what quickly became a ketchup-stained McDonald’s nightmare.

Breakfast

– Sausage and egg McMuffin (x2), bacon roll (x2), breakfast wrap (x1), hash browns (x3), fruit salad (x1)

I remember the feeling I used to get when I was a kid when those golden arches above McDonald’s pulled into view. That salivating sense of imminent indulgence. But walking through the doors of the Sydenham branch in south London, all notion of indulgence dissipated. After all, I was here for business, not pleasure.

My first mistake of the day, other than agreeing to actually do this challenge, was taking my breakfast away in a takeaway bag. I don’t usually eat until around midday, and figured if my stomach was going to run a marathon I should at least let it have a lie-in. But all this did was reduce recovery time between meals – and congeal my friggin’ eggs!

At 10am the slog began with the two bacon rolls. An ounce or two of euphoria began darting through my lanky, swimmer-esque (if I pretend I have abs) 6ft 5in frame. I wish I’d savoured it. The hash browns were next; a nice potatoey palette cleanser after four rashers of bacony goodness. They went down easy enough, so I moved on to the McMuffins.

Almost immediately, my stomach began sending me distress signals. The congealed egg clung to the back of my throat like wet spaghetti on a kitchen wall. I don’t even like eggs. Why did I agree to this again?

I decided to up the pace – to cram the rest of it in before my belly had the chance to say no. Besides, I knew I needed rest because lunch was just around the corner.

I couldn’t imagine jumping in a pool after this, let alone after (*checks notes*) five more burgers.

Lunch

– Chicken McNugget (x18), double cheeseburger (x1), Big Mac (x1)

With my stomach packed like a balloon full of marshmallows, I decided to wait until 3pm to climb the second mountain, which was a lot taller and greasier than the first. The chicken nuggets went down without much of a fight, but my stodge levels were rapidly approaching maximum capacity.

As I tucked into the double cheeseburger, I felt an unsettling heaviness, like a lead weight had just been tied to my waist with an oily chain. Relish started dripping metronomically from the bun-like sweat from my forehead. I was now officially struggling.

It took me until 4.15pm to polish off the cheeseburger, and by that point the Big Mac was boring a hole through me from across the table, Oleksandr Usyk to Tyson Fury-style. I had to take a break, so I did. That was my second mistake.

It wasn’t until just after 6pm that I mustered up the courage to attack the Big Mac. By then, it was colder than the look my missus gave me when I told her I’d volunteered for this ludicrous endeavour. But with time running out, and another meal to conquer, I threw caution to the wind and put pedal to the metal.

The Big Mac went in three bites. Three. But while cranking up the speed revved me closer to the finish line, it cost me plenty of engine power. My brain felt foggy, and it now felt as if a wet sack of coal was sitting in the pit of my stomach. I felt lethargic, groggy and desperate for relief. My insides were screaming ‘Stop or we’ll eject everything!’ But in the name of hair-brained research, I told them to figuratively – and literally – get stuffed.

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Dinner

– Chicken McNugget (x18), double cheeseburger (x2), Big Mac (x1), fries (x1)

With sweat, grease and probably a little burger relish oozing from my pores, I sat down for dinner. I felt nauseous, knackered and as if I was about to burst – but with the finish line in sight came a newfound and desperately-needed sense of determination.

I’d waited until 10.35pm to start the third and most arduous leg (my third mistake), giving me just under an hour and a half to gobble everything down. This time, I spaced the burgers out, but it made little difference – I was a walking, talking clogged-up grease trap.

By 11pm I was just one burger and a couple of fries down. That wasn’t good enough. I needed to speed up. I sunk half of the chicken nuggets before going back for burgers two and three as my overworked arteries pleaded for mercy. Each bite was torture. The burgers felt like greasy sponges wrapped in sodden cardboard and the fries were limp and lifeless.

I looked over at my phone, it was 11.48pm. I still had a Big Mac, six nuggets and half a box of fries to go. I wasn’t going to make it. But suddenly, a surge of adrenaline hit me like Will Smith‘s palm on Chris Rock‘s face. I wasn’t going down without a fight.

I decided to go balls to the wall – like I was pushing for a last-minute equaliser. I clumped the fries into a ball and scoffed them before turning my attention to the Big Mac. It was 11.52pm. Remembering my lunch tactic, I chomped it in four huge bites. At this point, my stomach was audibly churning as it scrambled to find room for more unwanted stodge. I felt like s***, but I had to carry on.

At 11.58pm, all I had left was six nuggets, but I was about to explode. I crammed the frigid bits of chicken into my gob and swallowed them as fast as I could, but as I glanced over to my phone to potentially confirm my place in the history books, I came to a sudden grim realisation: All that balls to the wall stuff was my fourth and final mistake.

Before I even had a chance to log the time, a chunky, beige volcano began erupting from the depths. As I sank to my knees, my stomach launched the full-scale revolt it’d been planning all day.

A violent cascade of processed meat, sesame seeds and bread crumbs spewed forth, with each heave ramming home a very important point: I’m not an Olympic swimmer. And based on this experience, I never want to become one.

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Source: bing.com