As we walked into HyVee, we knew it would be a special night. A hand-drawn sign near the entrance said “Extreme Savings Zone.” We were there for three things: jalapeños, milk and cigarettes.

These were the ingredients for our “extreme challenge.” We weren’t quite sure what it would be yet. All we knew was that we wanted to test our physical limits. We wanted to puke. We wanted to cry.

My friends and I have always enjoyed these kinds of challenges. It’s not just us. It’s our generation, it’s college, it’s America. Just turn on the TV. Shows such as “Jackass,” “Survivor” and Spike TV’s “Most Extreme Elimination Challenge” are popular because we love seeing each other win and lose in tests of the disgusting, the dangerous and the obscene. It’s the closest we can get to seeing heroes rise and fall before our eyes, like the ancient battles of the Roman Coliseum.

Some of my fondest memories are from testing my limits on the track and soccer field. But there’s something equally memorable that comes with creating your own challenge. There’s glory in saying, “Sounds crazy, huh? Well, I did it.”

When professional wrestling was at the peak of its popularity and I was in middle school, a group of my friends and I formed our own professional-style wrestling league. We called it “Extreme Backyard Wrestling.” We drew up our own costumes and gimmicks and powerbombed each other on a backyard trampoline. I have two loose teeth to show for it.

In high school, after the movie “Fight Club” came out, we started our own fight club, which we code-named “Shag the Dingo.” We’d drive to an empty parking garage or parking lot on Friday night and wail on each other with cheap kickboxing gloves that made our knuckles sore for a week.

One New Year’s Eve, some of my friends did the lactose challenge. Popularized on “Jackass,” it consists of drinking a gallon of milk in an hour without puking. It supposedly can’t be done.

I’ll never forget the image of my noble friend, Brendan Irving, holding the empty milk jug over his head 48 minutes after the contest began, his spiky black hair shining in the moonlight, yelling, “Every man does one great thing in his life!” and slamming the jug to the ground.

This week I felt the old familiar pang, the urge to go out there and tear it up. Perhaps it’s the ancient blood of the Celtic warrior coursing through my veins that makes me feel this way. Or maybe I just needed a distraction from a heavy load of tests and papers.

I knew as I rode my bike to my friends’ apartment that I would find willing accomplices on my mission of self-destruction. I was right. I found them watching TV on the couch. We brainstormed for a while and decided that the contest would have three parts. We bought supplies at the store and the challenge was on. My seventh-grade locker partner, Ben Suh, deemed it “The Inferno.”

Part One: And old-fashioned jalapeño eating contest. Eat an entire raw jalapeño pepper in two bites or less. The last one to take a drink wins.

It’s almost cliché to have a jalapeño eating contest these days, but the old green pepper still does the trick. The first few minutes were hell for the five of us. We stared around the kitchen table at each other and saw faces gradually turning red as the heat grew on tongues and lips. Sweat ran down cheeks. Snot poured from noses. A bottle of Gatorade laughed at us from the middle of the table.

After 10 minutes, the pepper’s heat had mostly passed. Someone grabbed a bottle of Tabasco from the fridge, and we passed it around and drank it. Still, nobody cracked. We microwaved five spicy burritos, smothered them in disgusting spicy mustard, Sriracha Hot Chili Sauce and Tabasco, and quickly ate them. All but one of us finished.

Part Two: Chug a quart of milk, then get punched in the stomach. The first one to finish the milk wins, as long as you don’t puke after the punch.

This contest really got to me. Rob Ingersol was the clear winner, finishing the milk in 45 seconds. The instant he tossed his carton aside, the nonpartisan puncher Jordan Baranowski delivered him a wallop to the stomach. Rob was unfazed.

I finished five seconds later and felt sick after the punch. But I didn’t puke. The final contestant, Pat Barger, wasn’t so lucky. A minute after Jordan punched him, he spewed on the lawn.

Part Three: Smoke three cigarettes at once. The first one to finish the cigarettes wins.

This was the hardest for me, partly because I don’t smoke and partly because it was three cigarettes at once. I don’t know how sickening that sounds, but to do this moments after drinking a quart of milk and getting punched in the stomach … I wasn’t exactly in flavor country.

But in the name of sport, you have to put your body on the line sometimes. Four of us competed, and others stood around making sure we were inhaling the triple-thick smoke. Halfway through I felt numb, wheezy and lightheaded. I vowed never to smoke again.

Pat won this one, smoking the cigarettes down to the butts in just under three minutes. He indulged in a victory puke as Jordan doubled over and spit on the lawn.

“This is what college is all about,” Rob said, laughing.

I sat down on a cooler with my head spinning, my stomach bloated and my tongue still tingling from the jalapeño. The challenge was complete. We were all declared winners, and as I sat there clutching my stomach, one thing ran through my head: Milk was a bad choice.

F Tankard is an Overland Park sophomore in journalism.