ORLANDO, Fla. -- During the 17 days of the Winter Olympics, I saw superbly conditioned athletes hurl themselves down mountains at speeds that would get them pulled over on the interstate, skiers racing cross-country until they collapsed to the snow as if Claudine Longet were on the course and speedskaters driving across the ice until their leg muscles quivered like Barney Fife facing Tony Soprano.

	When you've got 100 competitors baking at 100 different ovens, things really heat up.

I saw figure skaters kiss the ice in exultation after a performance, and a hockey team glide across the ice so smoothly it was if the players could not feel themselves lifting an entire nation on its shoulders.

I saw an luger from India slide down a hill as the lone representative for a country of one billion.

And then I left the Olympics for a real competition with real pressure.

The Pillsbury Bake-Off.

"I didn't think I was nervous," Bake-Off contestant Gina Deroma said, "but my body broke out in hives last night, so I guess I am."

That's understandable. After all, it's one thing to guard the net for your country while facing a 5-on-3 against the likes of Mario Lemieux, Joe Sakic and Paul Kariya, it's quite another to bake Banana Fudge Baby Cakes with $1 million on the line, while 99 other competitors are lined up at 99 other stoves, and a panel of judges stricter than a Ukrainian figure skating coach is waiting for a taste, and all the while the Pillsbury Dough-Boy is jiggling above you on a platform.

"The Dough-Boy is very unsettling," Phil Capaldi said. "And I'll tell you why. There's an air system inside, and if you squeeze the Doughboy a little too jubilantly, the person inside starts to suffocate, because all the air escapes."

Ummmmm, Phil, is there a compelling reason to squeeze the Doughboy "too jubilantly"?

"Because he's there, and you have to squeeze him," Capaldi said, laughing. "You just have to. It's like an accident at the side of the road. You can't not slow down and look."

	It's incredibly difficult, but you must always fight the temptation to hug the Dough-Boy too hard.

The Pillsbury Bake-Off is the Granddaddy of all cooking contests, dating back to 1949 (it went from an annual to a biannual event in 1978) and offering the largest prize in the country -- $1 million. Yes, $1 million. If that sounds like a lot of money for Soft Pesto Pretzels or Cheese Fondue Sticks, imagine what the price would be if you included a cup of Starbuck's.

With that kind of money at stake, Pillsbury (recently acquired by rival General Mills) receives recipes the way the rest of us receive preapproved credit card offers and AOL free trials. A Pillsbury crew painstakingly winnows down the entries from the tens of thousands to a manageable level for consideration. From there, they narrow the final field to 100.

"I think there is a quota and that's why I entered broccoli," said Pamela Norris, whose recipe is three-cheese broccoli couscous. "I figured that hundreds of people would send in chocolate cake recipes, so I would go with broccoli. I'm like the Jamaican bobsled team."

Norris was one of the 100 contestants who received the good news that their recipe was chosen, and that they would receive an all-expenses paid trip to compete for the $1 million prize at the Bake-Off.

The rules are pretty basic. You must use at least one product from the Pillsbury, Green Giant or Old El Paso food lines. You can compete no more than three times, and former winners and their families are not eligible. And no professional cooks are allowed, though Deroma acknowledges she once was host of a TV cooking show called "Dishing it Out."

"But it was on public access. We had to pay $35 for the time," Deroma said. "We were the 'Wayne's World' of cooking shows."

Not surprisingly, cooking shows are very popular here. Capaldi, a Red Sox fan from Rhode Island, says his TV is tuned to the Food Network about as often as it is to ESPN. Pam Ivbuls from Nebraska acknowledges having watched 35 cooking shows a week and collecting autographed photos of her favorite chefs.

I'll trade you two Emerils for one Jamie Oliver rookie card.

His Upper Deck rookie card or his Topps?

Many traditional homemakers are in the 100, but there is also a very wide range of professions and backgrounds. Norris is a writer who used to work on "Saturday Night Live" and "Designing Women." Melanie Stutzman is an 11-year-old schoolkid -- her father, Ken, insists he is not one of those notorious cooking-contest fathers, the ones who force their children to bake just one more soufflé or no TV. Jim Pleasants, who is making Banana Fudge Baby Cakes, is a retired Army colonel who did two tours of duty in Vietnam. "He keeps me on my toes," said Janet Barton, assigned to the stove next to Pleasants.

	The Bake-Off is so intense that it pits father vs. daughter -- such as Melanie and Ken Stutzman.

There is even a forensic scientist, Melody Levault. She'll come in handy should a judge need to trace where a hair in a Sloppy Joe Salad Pie Fritter originated. "As long as everyone is willing to give me a hair sample, I could do it."

"There are two different mindsets here," Capaldi said. "There are a lot of people who are, 'What the heck, I'm just here to have fun.' And there are people dead serious about it. They want the prestige of having their recipes in the Pillsbury cookbook.

"Just telling people you're coming here, you learn that. Some people are like, 'Ha, ha -- that's great.' But there are other people who are in awe."

Capaldi, a stay-at-home dad and former schoolteacher, has a good attitude toward the contest. He said that if he wins, "I'll cry like a schoolchild," but that just being here is enough for him, an approach many share (or at least claim to share). He said he isn't caught up in the pressure or the ego.

Then he opened a package of ham and stared at it with mock disgust.

"I can't work with this," he snarled with exquisite timing.

The contestants eat a breakfast at 6:30 a.m., listen to a few words from representatives of General Mills and General Electric, sing "God Bless America" and then march into the contest arena (a converted hotel ballroom), where they take their place in front of the 100 ranges arranged in four long rows. They have five hours to cook their dishes, which then go to the judges. The winner will be announced Wednesday.

Unfortunately, this is not a spectator sport. Limited family members are allowed inside but the general public is not. This is most unfortunate. Rowdy fans could add much to the competition, which one competitor described as the world's largest potluck.

"They should open it up," Capaldi said. "It should be like the bleachers at Fenway with 20-ounce beers."

	A worker makes sure all the refrigerators are fully stocked for the competition.

Hey, is that a tuna casserole or did something curl up and die in your bundt pan?

More paprika, you dope! More paprika!

You call that cous cous?

Sally Pillsbury, who is sort of the Queen Elizabeth and Oprah of the Bake-Off, described the Bake-Off as a mini-Olympics, and there definitely are some similarities with sports. As Oceanside's Steve Greiger said, "We're the tail end of hunting and fishing....

"If people can consider ice dancing a sport, if they can consider hunting a sport when there is no competition involved, when you're just shooting a defenseless animal, if you can consider baseball a sport -- and I love baseball, it's my favorite sport -- then why not this? It's a competition of skills. We're all trying to outdo each other."

So, all right. It's a huge competition with an enormous amount of money at stake. But is the Bake-Off as big, say, as the World Series?

"Let me put it this way," Capaldi said. "It's bigger than 'Cats.' "

Jim Caple is a senior writer for ESPN.com.