(Originally sent to the Penguin List, a runners' support group. A little long, but thought some might enjoy his different perspective. Forwarded with the author's permission. Tom Denton in Austin.) San Francisco is known for its sourdough bread and Rice-a-Roni. New Orleans has its Cajun cooking, Chicago is known for its deep dish pizza, and Milwaukee has its beer. This week, I was in Buffalo, which has its world famous hot wings. I'll admit, I could see leaving San Francisco without making a point of eating the San Francisco treat, but I could not leave Buffalo without sampling their wings. So, just as a runner who would seek out a local road race while spending a weekend in a strange city, I stared my quest for some good honest Buffalo wings. I decided on ordering them from a local Pizza place near the hotel I was staying at. I ordered them medium strength, since I can't tolerate them if they are too hot. They were a major disappointment. I could get them this good back home in Atlanta. The next day, when I got to Buffalo/Niagara International Airport to catch my flight back home, I saw a place named "Niagara Grill." I decided to give Buffalo wings one more try. An order of wings was $5.25, but I could get five more for an additional $1.50. I asked how many wings were in an order, and the guy said there were ten. Wow, a choice of a 10 or 15. Another analogy! This weekend, the race I went to had 5K, 10K, and 15K options. I opted for the 15K then. Now, again I was faced with a choice of 10 or 15. Again, I went with the 15. Just like last time, I got the medium strength, and a Sam Adams to wash it down. The order came, and I could see just by looking at the plate in front of me that these wings were going to be much better then the ones I had he night before. They were much meatier, and were dripping with the secret sauce. And even before my first bite of my first wing, I knew I was in for an adventure. The pepper hit my nose, and I felt like I had just been pepper sprayed. My eyes teared up, and I could hardly breathe. And this was BEFORE my first bite. Last night's wings were also medium, but they didn't pack any clout at all. I guess it's open to interpretation, just like a course description that says " Moderately rolling hills." Yeah, right! I realized that this was going to be some tough 15 piece race. I finished the first three wings t splits of 1:21, 1:35 and 1:30. I was staying pretty consistant so far, but was already sweating heavily out of every pore in my head. Maybe I should have chosen the 10 piece after all. I was already struggling, and didn't now if I could finish the full 15. I grabbed my Samuel Adams and took some at the three piece mark. I was already wiping my brow from the sweat with a napkin. Pieces 4 and 5 went a bit slower. 1:47 and 2:15. More beer, more sweating, more napkins, but I was determined to go on. The next five were a blur. I didn't even keep splits, but I know it took at least 14 minutes to go through pieces six through ten. Why did I ever commit to the 15? It all felt uphill. My Sam Adams was getting near rock bottom, but I was determined to go on, without a refill. A refill would have cost me valuable time. There was only one bartender on staff, and I couldn't afford to run off the course at this point. By the 10 piece mark, I had already used 4 napkins to perspiration, and another 3 to sauce. I think people were beginning to notice. Five more to go, then I could rest. Pieces 11 and 12 were at about a 3 minute pace each. I spent a lot of time just looking into space between pieces at this point, wondering why I ever got in to wing eating in the first place. But finally, the end was in sight. I still had about two fingers of beer left. I knew I would finish today's race. I put my head down and charged. The pace quickened. I got down under 1:30 each for pieces 13 and 14, and with a finishing kick, the last one was the quickest. I looked at my watch. The last piece was gone in under a minute. Unbelievable. It was far from a PR, but eating wings in Buffalo must be akin to running a marathon in Boston. I finished, and that was all that mattered. Well, that and the T-shirt! Michael