Last Week's Workouts
Mon: Swim 2000 yds (mostly 250s and 100s); run 40 min treadmill
Tues: Swim 1750 (a hard 1,000, 2 250s...); bike 1:20 at 125-135 HR (23 miles)
Wed: Swim 1750 yds (8x100 on 2:10, etc.)
Thurs: Bike 1:20 at 125-135 HR (23 miles); Mountain bike 1:45
Fri: Swim 2000 yds (8x100 on 2:05, etc.); 4 mile evening walk
Sat: OFF
Sun: Bike--Tour of Napa Valley (103 miles, 6:04 riding time)

My first mountain biking race was in 1987 at that granite monolith in the eastern Sierra, Mammoth Mountain. I wore a goofy yellow helmet that had, I think, exactly zero air vents, and my bike was unsuspended, front and back. Come to think of it, I don't think anyone had any suspension at the time, even at the NORBA World Championship. That's right: World Championship. They could call it the World Championship because we Americans owned the sport. We invented it on Mt. Tam and the Euros were, for another year or two at least, still skinny-tire weenies. The great veteran runner/rider/triathlete Ned Overend (aka, The Lung) won the race, and I can't remember what happened to John Tomac, the emerging sport's young endorsement-besotted turk. I finished far back but strong, strong I tell you, on my Univega Sport, which weighed in at probably 40 pounds, including the rack on the back.

The point of this windy recollection is as you expect: To establish my street cred as a mountain biker. Because 15 years and a lot of miles and a lot of races later, I've turned on my tribe. Or maybe not. This is my problem: I love mountain biking, but I very much dislike mountain bikers.

I didn't fully realize all this until a visit last Sunday to Skyline Park, on the southeastern edge of our fair town. We were there for a walk in the Native Plants Garden, but the park proper is the only legit mountain-biking option that a Napa resident can hit without loading the bike into the car. As we pulled into the parking lot--me, my wife and almost-3-year-old son--we noticed a pack of mountain bikers getting ready to roll. They had dual suspension, Camelbacks, the latest frame technology--all the accoutrements of fanaticism, or at least weekend warriorism. I was immediately irked that they had, in fact, loaded their bikes into the car and driven to Skyline. Skyline is nice riding, but there's as good or better to be found all over the Bay Area; it makes no sense to come to Skyline from afar. And if you're local, why not ride to the park?

Then they took off and I could tell by the belly-driven tone of their conversations, by the way they shot down the little grade that connects to the trails, by everything about them, that they were ready for some hardcore riding. Never mind that it was Sunday and the park was full of hikers. Never mind that Skyline's track is often narrow and a hiker wouldn't have a prayer getting out of the way of a bike coming around the curve on an off-camber, gently down-sloping stretch. Never mind, moreover, that any other visitor's goal of some modest communion with nature--its sound, its quiet, its delicious lack of human intrusion--would be exploded by the presence of these cyclists.

The question I had wasn't how hikers could have a good time under these circumstances--it was how cyclists could.

A few days later, still thinking about all this, I gave my road bike a rest and pedaled my '96 Bontrager Privateer S (Indy shocks up front) over to Skyline. It was 5 p.m. on a weekday and nobody was there. I clambered up the Lake Marie fire road, cleaned a wicked rocky, rutted, singletrack climb and swooshed down the hill in the invigorating cool ocean breezes rushing from the Bay to the south. Good golly, I had a good time.

Alone.

I didn't bother anyone. And nobody bothered me. I knew before I even hit the dirt that it was unlikely I'd come across even a single hiker. And I didn't. This freed me to ride unencumbered, and that made all the difference.

There isn't a chance in the world I would have enjoyed myself if every half-mile or so I had been coming across a hiker. I would have known I was wrecking their experience, and fears of a collision would have distracted me. (And a distracted mountain biker is a bleeding mountain biker.)

Where does that leave me? Here: I now know what it is, exactly, that I dislike about mountain bikers. It's their unwillingness or inability to empathize with other trail users. No matter how courteous they might be, mountain bikers on busy, narrow trails are a pain in the ass. Period. They take more than their share of the space, in every sense. They are selfish. But go ahead and ride. Ride hard! Just do it when you won't be bothering everyone else. You'll like it even more.

It was very late, well past the customary appointed hour of slumber. But we were nearing the station, finally--just about to lie down and read "The Salamander Room." And that's when Niko turned to me and said the one and only thing that would derail the bedtime express: "Daddy, can we go downstairs and watch the Giants game together?"

We sat hip-to-hip on the couch, my arm around his shoulders, as Schmidt overpowered the Mets and Niko talked. He talked about how the fishes breathe water, and about the Duplo office tower he built, and how we could go to a lot of Giants games if we won the lottery, and how black olives have lots of flavor because of the salt and the vinegar, and he looked outside at the blackness and asked, "Is it night now?"

It pours out. The theories to explain the mysteries, the questions to answer curiosities, the speculations to close gaps in suspicions. Niko isn't interested in thrills, in screeching down the slide at the playground or tearing around the yard on his tricycle. Niko wants to understand. (The other day, he and his mother sat for a full 30 minutes studying the area under the kitchen sink, working out which pipes took which water--yucky, hot, cold--where, and how the garbage disposal motor works, and why that white plastic pipe thing goes up to that vent hole thing up there.) I confess: Sometimes I fall into my old impatience and sink under the weight of Niko's unending assault of Whys? and am tempted to grab that wretched ol' buoy Because! But so much is missed, and tonight reminded me of that. Niko unloaded the day's accumulated knowledge and I, the Daddy, sat there full of pride and love, dazzled to my very core, soaring at the wonder of how far his short journey has already taken him, and where he might go in the years to come.

This is great. The Associated Press talks to an expert whose credentials are unspecified, and a clueless neighbor; reads from a lawsuit by a disgruntled former devotee that was settled; and the next thing you know a thriving winery is labeled a "cult." To be sure, it's a fine line between off-beat organization and cult and this "fellowship"/winery may fall on the cult side. But who thinks mainstream media are well-equipped to make the distinction? Not me. I read this story looking for some hard evidence that Renaissance Winery and Vineyards was evil, but never found it. Especially appalling was the passage in the story where the writer says of Renaissance, "[t]hey are virtually unknown to their neighbors," and then goes onto quote a local retiree who, with no apparent evidence at all, proclaims, "They are really on another level. It's a cult. They don't make decisions for themselves." How does she know this? We're not told. Weak stuff from AP, and weaker yet for the Chron to pick up the story.

Speaking of Lileks, he's just gone nutso about an anti-America piece he just read, and says that "with the publication of this piece in a major American daily" the idea that lefty idiots don't have any avenues for their views is shot down. Only problem is, the piece he's talking about (I won't link to it; it's ridiculous) was published in the Baltimore Chronicle, which is neither major nor daily.

Eventually I want to include some thoughts here about being a father, but think I'll wait until I have a better feel for the blog form. Meanwhile, two of my favorite bloggers are Brad DeLong and James Lileks, and here's DeLong, reacting to a recent Lileks' post, on the profound change that parenthood brings.

Daily Howler has the goods again on how shockingly poorly the NY Times covered the 2000 race. As a former reporter and editor, this stuff amazes me. (And if you think that DH is always hostile to Dubya, this is a must-read.)

Last Week's Workouts
Mon: Swim 2000 yds (300 warm-up, 7x100 on 2:15, 500 steady, 500 mod hard--9:10); run 45 min treadmill; 3 mile evening walk
Tues: Swim 1500 (500 warm-up/steady, 2x250, 500 steady); bike 1:20 at 125-135 HR (23 miles); 3 mile evening walk
Wed: Swim 1750 yds (200 warm-up, 4x200 on 5, 500 steady, 200 recovery)
Thurs: OFF
Fri: Swim 1750 yds (200 warm-up, 500 hard, 1000 slow but steady, 50 breaststroke cool-down); 4 mile evening walk
Sat: Bike 35 miles, up Mt. Veeder, down Oakville, moderately hard
Sun: Swim 2250 (250 warm-up, 8x100 on 2:15, 100 breast recovery, 2x250, 500 steady, 50 breast easy/recovery, 50 cool-down); 3 mile evening walk

The Seattle Times editorializes that because the Washington wine industry is so successful--it's now selling $628 million worth of product a year--you and I ought to pitch in and give it $250,000. Huh?

The industry wants the quarter-mil to expand its genetic plant bank, or "mother block." A good cause, but why can't this fabulously successful industry pick up the tab itself? This looks like corporate welfare, pure and simple, and is just the sort of thing we don't need in lean economic times. The sad thing is, the only argument in Washington is whether the big corporations and wealthy independents who make wine in Washington will get $250,000 (House version of the pending legislation) or $150,000 (Senate version).

Napa has a new wine shop and it appears to be well worth checking out. It's a little shop, called Back Room Wines, and is on Franklin Street between First and Second. Some Californians you don't usually see in Napa--Cedarville, Copain, Ojai, Hitching Post. Daniel Dawson is the owner. He wasn't in last night when I strolled by. More on Back Room after I meet Daniel. For now, check out the shop's website.