Napa Vintage Half-Iron Triathlon
What next? That's what I'm wondering now. One thing is certain: No more triathlons this year. Last Sunday's half-iron swim-bike-run gaggle up at Lake Berryessa marked the end of the season. ("Season." That's far too grandiose a term to describe my periodic exertions, but anyway it's over.) It ended well. The sun shone; the field was small and friendly; I didn't fall or flat; I didn't barf; and I started what I finished.

Took me six hours and fifteen minutes, which is more than half an hour longer than my best half. But it was a tougher course than Vineman. Part of the swim went right into the damn sun and most of the time I was either off-course or stopping to see if I was off-course yet. And then I turned at a buoy when I was supposed to go straight and one of the kayak dudes had to redirect me. That cost me a minute and some pride.

Nevertheless, when I did know my way my swim was steady and relatively strong. I climbed out of the water onto the concrete boat ramp at Putah Creek Resort about 39 minutes after the starting horn blared.

The bike ride was beautiful, through the rolling hills that divide our mild, Mediterranean inland valley from the Big Valley, with its wicked hot summers and cold fog-bound winters. The terrain was brown and the grasses and the trees seemed crisp and just about ready for the rainy season to begin. Aromas of sage, fennel, hay and other plants were carried by the breeze, which blew from the northwest at first then turned a bit and came warmer from the northeast. We never quite had the wind at our backs, nor did it ever feel like we had to fight it. But there were always hills and twists and turns. It was a ride where developing a rhythm wasn't easy. And, too, with only 88 athletes going (and a healthy number dropping out along the way), it was lonely out there. There were stretches of 10, 15 miles where I didn't see a single rider. This made it a challenge not to take it easy on the ride, which was fine. From the start of the day my body had felt a little off, my throat a bit scratchy and my sinuses congested. I mostly convinced myself that it would be dangerous to dip deep into the energy pool -- everything I had would probably be necessary just to finish. So I didn't hammer any climbs and I coasted the declines. Once or twice I scolded myself for being such a weenie, but then I told myself that maybe this year, maybe this October, maybe this day, just being out there was proving enough to myself.

Anyway, the suffering would come. What was it about that run? Well, I was on the asphalt between 1 and 3 p.m. and the temperature was 85 degrees and there was no shade, so that wasn't ideal. They had us go about 2.2 miles out and 2.2 miles back, once, twice, three times. Each time out, there was about 200 feet of vertical ascent and 100 feet of vertical descent. And of course the reverse coming back. The big climbs came on long, gentle curves, giving you a long opportunities to contemplate the hard work ahead.

The mind games this setup engendered were interesting and intense. On the plus side, it was easy to measure my progress. At each turnaround I could do a simple calculation: One-sixth done. One-third. Halfway. Etc. But I found this focus on where I was -- on, When will this agony be over? -- to be tiring and distracting. I felt disconnected from my actual performance, clueless as to how hard (or not) I was going. My first out-and-back split was around 36 minutes -- well under nine minutes a mile. Then came splits of 42 and 46 minutes. Who knew? All I knew, constantly, was where I was on the course and what that meant I had done and had left to do.

When I headed toward the start/finish for the last time the guy at the turnaround said, "How many is that?" "That's it," I said. "I'm done." The PA guy overheard me and said, "That's Pete Danko from Napa. Stick a fork in him, he's done."

I picked up my medal and a bottle of water and headed down the ramp into the water -- 66 degrees, they said. That was a good ten minutes. Then, as I gathered my gear and took it to the car, the PA guy reminded us about the "great beef enchilada dinner" that was waiting for us. The mere thought had my stomach doing flips, so I picked up my T-shirt and began the hour and a quarter drive home. After about 15 minutes, my body was screaming for calories. I pulled over at a little grocery and got a ginger ale. Sipping it felt like I had been hooked into an IV; my muscles and stomach relaxed, and the fuzziness in my head began to clear.

The morning after, on Monday, I woke up with a full-fledged cold, concentrated in the sinuses. So: That was a triathlon done at less than 100 percent. OK. That explains some things.

Now I'm feeling significantly better. I did two very light swims during the week and am contemplating an easy, not-long run this morning.

Here's what I'm thinking for the next few months: Run, run, run. Long slow runs. Low intensity! And maybe -- if I can swing it with the work and family schedule -- do the Death Valley Borax Marathon on December 3. I love triathlon, but sometimes the effort and complexity of putting together the three disciplines can feel like too great a burden. Plus, the races are becoming outrageously expensive. I was going to do an Olympic distance tri in November, but it was $125 for early registration, and $140 for regular registration. Meanwhile, I can do a marathon in one of the more amazing spots in the world for less than half that.

The numbers:
Swim: 39:29
T1: 4:43.2
Bike: 3:23:17.1
T2: 2:40.4
Run: 2:05:17.4
Total: 6:15:28.3
17th out of 34 male finishers

Weekend Fun
The best laid plans.... Niko is ailing, though just one of the 2-a-day-for-10-days Amoxicillin doses prescribed by Dr. Carrillo appears to be making inroads already. It really is a whopping dose: He's getting 1,250mg of the stuff a day, about 60mg/kg of body weight. Always-dangerous Internet research shows this is the new protocol for ear/sinus infections (Niko apparently has the latter), after years of 20-40mg/kg being the norm.
Meanwhile, I've got a scratchy throat and feel run-down. Harbinger of things to come? I'm guessing not. I think the half-iron action will happen on Sunday. Maybe not "as planned," but it'll happen.

2,192 Days!
That converts to six years. Happy birthday, Niko!

Didion
In today's Times Magazine:
Nor can we know ahead of the fact (and here lies the heart of the difference between grief as we imagine it and grief as it is) the unending absence that follows, the void, the very opposite of meaning, the relentless succession of moments during which we will confront the experience of meaninglessness itself.

The Race Angle
I never bought into the view that the federal response to Hurricane Katrina was evidence of President Bush's malevolence toward black people. To me, the more likely explanation had its roots in a general disdain for the value of government to aid people in getting through life's inevitable and often unavoidable challenges; and sheer incompetence. I mean, the man is a boob, no? Anyhow, Harry Shearer notes HK's impact was not felt by people of color alone, and in hard-hit largely white middle-class areas help has been slow to arrive.

American English
I don't know; I like the semicolon.

Solo
The thing about riding alone -- for me -- is that I so easily convince myself that I can cut it short. Up Veeder, down Dry Creek, ah, what the hell, that's enough. Thirty miles. An hour and 45 minutes. Good ride but, c'mon: blah!

Let the Mystery Be
I've never been sure how a run or bike ride or swim is going to go. I've been surprised many times. But there have usually been larger, recognizable patterns playing out. I'd be having "a good month" or "a tough couple of weeks." That kind of thing. And the workouts would rarely stray too far from the trend line. Now? No telling.

Thursday I swam about a mile, then did a little 5-mile run in the evening. Wasn't up for any more than that. It was OK. Last night, I skipped my scheduled afternoon swim, walked three miles instead, then when I got home decided to run. The plan: 6 or 7 miles.

After about five strides I said to myself, "My legs feel good." The weather has been unusually cool this September, with the fog persisting past noon and temps peaking in the low 70s -- and by evening dipping deep down into the 60s, with the south wind howling. But yesterday the morning gloom burned off a little earlier and the temps bumped five or eight degrees higher. There was a hint of our typical end-of-summer warmth in the air, deliciously. Was I inspired?

I ran out toward the river by the Yacht Club, then turned around and headed south to the restored wetlands on the edge of town. Hopped the fence, trespassing. Did the 0.8 miles on the old paved road, then hit dirt and circumnavigated that strangely placed Pinot vineyard, running along the levees. Where I was, the sun had dropped behind the western hills, but it still shone bright on the eastern edge of the valley. The skies were clear except for a few wisps of pink-edged clouds just to the left of Mount St. Helena. I scattered some ducks and a great egret on my first 1.1-mile loop around the vineyard, and a few jack rabbits darted out onto the levee, blazed a zig-zagging path, then dived back into vineyard.

I ended up running 10 miles, exactly, in an hour and 18 minutes. That's about 7:50 per mile, which for me is fairly fast. My left hip began to ache, as it always does around Mile 10, but otherwise I was strong and fresh at the end. It was my best run in months. It came out of nowhere. This morning, I'll go out an ride 50 miles or so. No telling how it will go -- until it's done.

Start with Apricots
Don't know where they got their info, but it looks pretty legit: the 29 healthiest foods.

Napa River Delta Blues
When Niko and I finally emerged from the house -- many hours after his 6:10 a.m. wakeup, and after the vacuuming, laundry folding, spider catching, Katrina tracking, duck drawing, raccoon drawing … oh, yes, and the preparing and consuming of egg-white scrambles, waffles, blueberries, faux-meat sausages and potato pancakes -- we were struck by the afternoon heat. Not wishing to drive far, but seeking cooler air, we raced down to Carneros. "What are we going to do there?" Niko asked. "Explore," I said.

Heading south from the highway on Cutting's Wharf Road, the rolling hills flatten and the vineyards become scattered, eventually giving way to marsh. On the horizon, distant, are Tam and Diablo, even Sutro Tower (I think). That wide-open quality is what I like best about this part of Napa County. Our valley is narrow and I sometimes feel the Mayacamas and the Vacas squeezing me. For those of us in the business and maybe those not, too, half of the time it's nothing but wine, everyone everything everywhere wine until you want to sream. The other half of the time, at home, one settles in for the familiar debate, You Fucked Up vs. You Got Fucked Over (no matter who wins, you lose).

Carneros is a soft landing, quiet, bird-filled -- but quirky. Empty spaces with no good prospects. We saw pretty, modest homes with pear orchards and flower gardens and we saw many, many ramshackle properties that suggested escape from somewhere was the only point. "There are a lot of no-through-road roads here," Niko noted. And roads that, after a spell, are "Not Maintained by County." We walked a few levees. We stood on an arched one-lane bridge over a tiny tributary, just a few feet above the reedy expanse yet above it all. It occurred to me that you could spend a long time getting to know Carneros. Or, better yet, in Carneros, a long time unknowing things.