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At 80° it is about 25° hotter than chick ens like. With no pores to sweat through, they cool off by panting. And a panting bird, as any chicken-flying handicapper knows, is not likely to travel far.
White Flyer is the first contestant. She escapes again at the mailbox, is netted in midair. "Fowl start," rules the judge.
Finally plunged through the box for an official start, the bird veers sideways into the crowd sitting behind the platform on folding chairs. Eleven more are launched with equally poor results before a hen named Stephanie soars 60 ft., to the cheers of the congregation. For most of the next two hours, birds with names like Chick en Little, Chickenmauga, Opeck, Granny Kluk and Herb W. Cluckerman drop stonelike or circle back over the crowd. Apparently unruffled by the Shake 'N Bake threat, Otis, when his turn arrives, drops out and down. Kamikaze literally lays an egg en route to the mailbox and can manage only an exhausted 5 ft.
Flights are interrupted from time to time for fowl play. Children are invited to scratch for nickels in two sawdust piles. The winner is Dan Deaver of Gallipolis, a beaver-toothed boy who has been "nine for a week now." He finds 27 nickels. Blond Kathy Markwood, 8, of Rio Grande is top girl with 15. They receive a silver dollar and the honor of being photographed with Evans. A human in white chicken suit demands entry. A lengthy rule-book search discloses no weight limit to keep him out but he is disqualified be cause he cannot fit through the mailbox.
The high point of the day, however, comes early. The 45th bird, Lola B., a 15-oz. common bantam with a proud black tail, breaks cleanly from the mailbox, then swings sharply to the left and lands atop a sheep shed beyond the snow fences. A tape-measure team figures her flight at 302 ft. 8 in., which betters Kung Flewk's old record by 5 ft. 6 in.
Owner Sherwood Costen, 66, a shy retired municipal employee from Point Pleasant, W. Va., raised his winner and her four sisters as wild birds. While less savvy contestants carried their fowl around feet first in the hot sun, Costen cradled Lola in the shade of a thick maple.
After the day's final flight, Costen shyly accepts the $500 check and the big black and yellow world's champion rib bon from Host Evans. Two hundred T shirts have been sold, the sarsaparilla has given out and the Olympic torch is flickering low. Wiping the fried chicken from their fingers, the satisfied spectators slowly meander toward the car pasture. "See you all next year," says Evans, as a state policeman helps the campers and pickups thread in among the giant semis barreling along Route 35. From one departing truck, a rooster crows an unprintable reply. — Spencer Davidson