Badass Second Saturday

Mmm, carbs.

Mmm, carbs.

It’s 11:30 a.m. on Sunday as I near mile 13 on the American River Parkway. I started my 15-mile run at 9:15 a.m. and now feel like a rotisserie chicken with a salty glaze under the blazing sun. Tandem bicyclists, the woman speed walking and speed reading, and Josh Fernandez don’t seem to be as affected by the heat. Then it hits me: an immense hunger pang, like a black hole sucking any fuel it can find from my outer limbs. But there is nothing left and my legs just stop. I hit the wall for first time and can blame only one thing: Second Saturday.

My Second Saturday began casually enough: six-mile run at McKinley Park, a jaunt to Sellout Buyout at Bows and Arrows, a couple peeks at galleries. My friend Becky and I celebrated the day with a couple drinks, starting with margaritas at Zócalo and progressing to sangrias at Tapa the World. Sushi at Kru on J Street was next on the list, with a brief stop into Recess clothing boutique to hear hip-hop and watch Becky’s mom throw down.

With my 15-mile run on the horizon, I needed to start carbo-loading, which usually consisted of stuffing my belly with whole-wheat pasta. But with no pasta possibilities at Kru, I improvised. “I’ll have a Sapporo,” I told the waitress.

Four sushi rolls and one Sapporo later, I felt sufficiently loaded with carbs. We said goodbye to Becky’s parents and strolled to Aura on 28th and J streets to get in a quick dance session. Undulating pop/electronica beats and a glass of liquid courage had one chick trying to impersonate Shakira. Trying.

With my boyfriend designated as chauffeur, we left the primped G’s at Aura for his tattooed buddies at Old Tavern Bar and Grill. I continued my carbo-loading with $1.50 Miller Lites and picked on a sufficiently wasted guy. We began the conversation as Becky and Jenn/Jennifer, and sometime during the conversation changed to Veronica and Kathy/Katharine without him noticing.

“I like you, Veronica. You’re badass,” he slurred.

“Yep, she’s B.A.,” my boyfriend joked.

“No,” he replied aggressively. “She’s B.A.P.: Bad Ass Pretty.”

We convinced him he needed to talk to someone at the bar and snuck out to meet friends at Torch Club. At a little after midnight, we only caught the last few songs by A.C. Myles. Although most of the crowd dispersed, we got in a few more dances before ending the night with a trip to Del Taco for an order of fries.

It took me 30 minutes to walk those last 2 miles along the river. My ankles were weak, shoulders burning and an enormous blister on my little toe was ready to pop. I knew there was only one way to cure my hitting-the-wall fatigue: brunch and unlimited mimosas with B.A.P. Becky at Capitol Garage.