RDAU_2026-ISSUE0809_DIGITAL MAGAZINE

W E THINK OF chickens as flightless birds, but they’re not. In fact, it’s common for them to travel modest distances via stints of explosive flapping. This phenomenon, known as burst flight, is sort of beautiful to watch: Chickens leap upward at a sharp angle, then start pumping with manic abandon. As their wings cut tight figure eights, they shoot forward and drop into a glide.They never get very far, but there’s something existentially pro- found in the effort. Chickens fly as if they’re trying to escape the inevitable. Much of this is true of rubber chick- ens too. To get airborne, they first need a hefty shot of kinetic force. From there, it’s a question of how far this force can take them in defiance of gravity’s pull. Like living chickens, they tend to land gracelessly. The first rubber chicken I ever threw didn’t go very far. Part of this was sim- ple physics: The wind was against me, and the projectile was large and light. The other factors were physical. The vessel propelling my rubber chicken into the air was the right arm of a 38-year-old male. I am 5 foot 10 and weigh 165 pounds. I am not—nor have I ever been—elite at any form of sport. I am becoming familiar with the slow betrayals of aging. Each morning, my heels and lower back ache for reasons that elude me. Gravity tugs at my love handles and salt-stubbled jowls, and I suspect that I’m slowly becoming lac- tose intolerant. If you’d like the literal reason I started throwing rubber chickens, it’s because I wanted to break the Guin- ness World Record for the longest throw of one. If you want the more hon- est reason, it’s because I had recently sunk into a midlife crisis. One morning last year, I woke up unemployed and profoundly depressed, questioning whether the time and care I’d poured into my career had been worth anything at all. It didn’t feel like it. It felt as if I’d fallen asleep and woken up 10 years behindmany of my smarter and more charismatic peers. My chil- dren, meanwhile, were no longer doughy cherubs, reliant onmy strength and my cereal-reaching capabilities. They had taken to stomping around the house, slamming doors and making Spotify playlists. Recently, my son handed me a fatherhood report card he’d drawn with a “Z-minus” grade on it. Because it is in my nature, I began speaking to experts, who assured me that a lot of this is normal. Normal to experience angst and uncertainty during this time of life, normal to have doubts and take stock. But something about my scenario seemed dire. My brain chemicals had edited together a nonstop blooper reel of my failures. I needed a win. The rubber chicken idea came one summer evening while my wife clipped the kids’ toenails. As they watchedGuin- ness highlights on YouTube, I saw the current record holder, a Turkish security reader ’ s digest 116   august/september 2026 BYARD DUNCAN guard named Osman Gürcü, loft his own toy chicken a distance of 114 feet and 9 inches across a soccer field. Gürcü seemed roughly as athletic as I was, and a little older. His throwing technique involved a sort of javelin-style stutter step, followed by a primal scream. I chuckled at first, marveling at the inanity. Then I remembered the calam- itous nature of my own affairs. Who was I to judge? Wasn’t there actually some- thing dignified about Going For It, whatever it might be? And why not a rubber chicken, America’s trusty totem of self-parody? Desperate times called for farcical measures. My body ignited with a hot resolve. I had to break this record. I had to make a mark—to prove something, the exact contours of which could be sorted out later. But first I would need to prepare. “SO WOULD THIS be some sort of discus motion, then?” It was late September, and I had finally reached AdrienMellion, the pro- prietor of a California-based track and field training outfit called ThrowsLab. He was the first (and only) throwing coach to respond to my inquiries, and I could hear his bewilderment as we spoke over the phone. He had ignored my previous emails, believing them to be a joke or scam. But now, perhaps picking up on the anxious tremolo in my voice, he agreed to a one-on-one session. Like people, rubber chickens come in all shapes and sizes. readersdigest.com.au     117 Just for Fun