Dancing Kevin had a bad day. It involved two drive-thrus, two cheeseburgers and a spicy chicken sandwich. Fine, they were meals. With fries. And Cokes. Kevin Schroeder, on a quest to lose the belly that made him semi-famous, was about to absolutely torpedo his diet.

Dancing Kevin had a bad day.

It involved two drive-thrus, two cheeseburgers and a spicy chicken sandwich. Fine, they were meals. With fries. And Cokes.

Kevin Schroeder, on a quest to lose the belly that made him semi-famous, was about to absolutely torpedo his diet.

He wasn�t even hungry. He carried his fast food up the steps to his Clintonville apartment and thought about what he was doing, and why.

�I realized there was something else going on,� he said.

Schroeder, 44, known for years as the shirtless dancing fat guy who could lift a dull Columbus Blue Jackets game with the jiggle of his pendulous gut, has decided to get healthy. He�s keeping his social media followers posted and has allowed The Dispatch to chart his progress, hoping the extra scrutiny holds him accountable.

It�s not exactly easy. There have been a lot of cheeseburgers.

He was 358 pounds when he started. His trainer, Jack Skaggs, ran a measuring tape around his belly a month ago and came up with a circumference just shy of 5 feet.

The belly was a joke that was killing him. Schroeder decided to get well after one of his sisters got very sick. He traded fast food and high-calorie snacks for chicken breasts and raw vegetables. He joined an eating-disorder support group. He began working out at Life Time Fitness on Henderson Road, sometimes twice a day.

Skaggs volunteered to train him for free.

They were there in the gym last Sunday, Schroeder squatting against a wall and jabbing his fists into the air, looking like he might throw up. Even the fit women around him were panting. Sweat had turned his shirt a dark gray.

�It�s not sweat,� he likes to say. �It�s my fat crying.�

Skaggs pressed him to keep going. Most men don�t enjoy this mixed-martial arts boot camp. They walk in cocky and leave bent over. Many never return.

This day was important, though. Four weeks had passed since Schroeder�s first weigh-in. He was going to find out what 28 days of working out and eating well had done to his body. Skaggs told him to arrive at 9 a.m., but Schroeder showed up at 8:30.

�That just goes to show the type of hard work and determination this guy has,� Skaggs said.

They headed to an office with a high-tech scale in the corner. Schroeder peeled off his sweaty shirt and stepped up.

�What�d I tell you?� Skaggs said. �What?�

The scale read 326.7. Down more than 31 pounds. Schroeder�s body fat measured at 42.7 percent, down from 47.9.

His belly had lost almost 2 inches.

�Hey, I don�t hate it,� Skaggs said.

�I don�t hate it, either,� Schroeder said.

Skaggs warned Schroeder that his workouts were going to get tougher. He would like him out of the 300s by the end of March. In April, he wants him to complete a 5K race in 45 minutes, 24 minutes faster than he�s ever done it.

�Kevin can be his own biggest fan or his own biggest enemy,� Skaggs said.

The trainer knows this is about more than weight. He knows that Schroeder has made being fat part of his identity, and that others have, too. Dancing Kevin hasn�t danced at a Blue Jackets game since October. The team hasn�t asked him back, though a spokeswoman said she expects a return appearance before the end of hockey season. If there is something more going on, no one is saying.

Schroeder watches games from a treadmill now and imagines how he could rally a fading crowd.

�Are you OK not being that guy?� Skaggs will ask him. The way the trainer sees it, the fat guy no longer needs to make a joke of himself.

�The weight of his character and the weight of his heart far exceeds his weight on the scale,� Skaggs said.

But it might take Schroeder some time to see that. For now, he said he�s feeling great. His pants are loose and his neck is slimmer. He got a haircut. People tell him he�s inspiring them.

He has a long way to go, but he�s getting there. He�s changing. Take that fast-food binge from two weeks ago.

The almost-binge.

It wasn�t about the food. He realized he was bored. More, he was lonely. He tapped into some of the tricks he had learned at the Center for Balanced Living on the Far North Side. There were things he could do besides eat. He made a list.

He called friends. He watched a movie. He got distracted.

�Whatever I did got me through that moment,� he said.

He did eat a few french fries. But the rest of the food ended up in the trash.

lkurtzman@dispatch.com

@LoriKurtzman