#527 Ride the Wild Egg

Sunday we went on a quest for breakfast.
I make it sound like a horror movie because it was. Nothing worse than hashing your way through the traffic of Olympia when your blood sugar is dangerously low and all you want is a short stack, an over-medium egg and a rasher or two of bacon.
Does anybody outside for novels ever talk about strips of bacon as rashers?
In any event, we made the mistake of thinking we should head downtown to get breakfast. I mean, heck, it was Sunday.
Unfortunately, it was the Sunday of the Capital City Marathon.
Marathons sound real cool and healthy and stuff until you’re trying to drive your way through blocked downtown streets—
AND YOU’RE STARVING.
Let me just say, not cool. Not cool to the point of cranky. Morning low-blood-sugar cranky is not a good thing.
Every restaurant was full. We finally got in one.
Every table was full.
Some of them with people in sweaty high tech running shirt thingies. The ones that wick sweat from the skin and evaporate it on the surface of the jersey.
Which sounds really good until you realize they are wicking and evaporating it—into your nose.
Hungry, cranky, assaulted by marathon sweat. Leave.
Drive out to Mud Bay to what we thought was an out of the way restaurant far away from marathoners.
Turns out ever yokel in 26.2 mile radius eats breakfast at that place on Sunday morning.
More cranky, more starving, more full of despair.
Whip into a small place tucked away in an old residential neighborhood on the West Side. Our breakfast plans are now toast.
Place is jam-packed, some tourists, some hippies, some sweaty marathoners. Proprietor says as at least a half hour wait.
At this point, it’s been an hour and a half and we are reconsidering wisdom of leaving the first place.
Through light-headed fog of hunger, remember my mom’s advice to never switch check-out lanes at the supermarket. May actually have been seated and eating by now.
Consider running over marathoner, ripping off, chewing, and swallowing high tech sweat-encrusted jersey.
Smells kind of like bacon…
America ya gotta love it