Whenever I come to western New York I have one mission in mind: chicken wings. When are we getting them? How good are they going to be? And who is the poor sap that has to watch me gobble them down? Seriously. As you all know, Buffalo is the home of the original chicken wing and on Sunday, yours truly gets to go to THE original wing spot, Anchor Bar. In order to prepare for this, my Dad, Step-Mom and I went and ate wings last night at a local joint.
With the additional caloric intake last night, I was fueled for a nice run this morning. I was thinking that with my newly acquired lung power from living in the mile high city, I’d be able to run 11 miles. This was not the case (I blame the wing grease hiding in my arteries); I ran for 45 minutes and only busted out one version of my air guitar. The whole time I was running I was envisioning my fiance’s calves when he runs and Anchor Bar wings. Unfortunately, I’m dead serious.