Days 30: WING BOWL

Day Thirty: It's four a.m. and fifteen of us are crammed into a van headed to the Wells Fargo Center. Someone hands me a Coors Lite can and I crack my first beer of the day. After a quick unload we start on a fresh round of beers. The sun is still hours away and we're feasting upon wings, eggs sandwiches and breakfast burritos. With a smorgasbord of beer I take what I believe to be a decent photo of this Pale Ale (5.5%) by Saranac Brewing (Utica, NY). I am sure it was a great brew but I really can't say. There's no time to wax on the subtleties of molt undertones and hop profiles. It's time for Wing Bowl 23 by 94WIP!

A motley group of professional eaters, some local superstars and a few celebs are to compete in two fifteen minute rounds of wing eating, followed by a two minute championship round. The rules are simple: eat wings, if you heave, you LEAVE. Like prize fighters the contestants parade around the stadium with an entourage of beautiful wingettes. As the horn signals the start of round one the action on the stage is surpassed by the crazy antics of the booze fueled scantly clad crowd. The jumbo tron toggles from chipmunk cheeked eaters covered in chicken residue to sexy wingettes carrying trays of wings. Drunken spectators trash talk, girls kiss, exposed buttocks are everywhere, people are shouting and dudes are passing out. The event in all it's glory appears to end rather abruptly. Then again, that could have been the lack of sleep and elevated blood alcohol levels. The final wing count of the top two contestants is 444 to 440. Some dude has just won twenty five thousand dollars and at this point no one seems to give a shit. We all just leave. Presumably to go drink beer in the parking lot.

I arrive home sometime after five p.m. The world is a tilt & whirl but I still have a run to get done. I set my alarm. Sometime later my alarm goes off. Where am I? Oh shit, then I remember. It's now after ten p.m. and there is an evil creature trapped in my skull trying to escape. I throw on my gear. Twenty-five degrees and wind. I run six miles. It is easily one of the worst runs of my life. Fun has just died. My liver has aged considerably in the past twelve hours. I might collect social security soon. So I shower and immediately go to bed. The streak lives on.