It's a Lifestyle, I Guess
More of the working out thing. Today's report:

• Swim 3x500, plus 260 yards to make it a mile.
• Run 8 miles in 59:20. Legs are back!

What Zidane Should Have Said: A PR Professional's View
"Many have asked, 'What did he say to provoke such a response?' I have thought long about that question. And in my mind, I have replayed my opponent's words many times, so of course, in all honesty, they are etched deep in my consciousness.

"But I will tell you this and this everyone must understand: In the end, the nature of the provocation is immaterial. On the field, representing my families -- yes, families: my family of teammates; the vast family of my countrymen who love France and French football; and my immediate family whose respect is more important to me than anything -- it was my obligation to act as a sportsman, to rise above insult, degradation, provocation. Surely that is no less important than scoring goals and winning matches. There is no excuse for my failure to do so. None. All I can do now is express my regret, and commit myself to living my life in such a way as to re-earn a measure of respect."

Recent Workouts
Monday:

• 2,000-yard straight swim, 38 minutes: Great swim! Felt smooth and comfortable (well, more than usual).
• 6-mile jog (9 minute pace): Legs still recovering from Kenwood? Very sluggish.

Tuesday:

• 1,500-yard swim, mostly freestyle 200s with some back and breastroke. Easy swim.
• 25-mile bike, including Veeder climb.

Sunday Ride
Ran into my friend Peter at the pool yesterday and we discovered we were both planning to ride before the World Cup final at 11. So we made a plan and hooked up in Yountville for a most excellent 50-miler through the eastern hills (aka, Vaca Mountains). That's up Silverado Trail, east onto Sage Canyon, veering left at Chiles Pope Valley Road, then back over into the valley on the Ink Grade-Howell Mountain combo. Ink Grade tops out about 1,800 feet, so altogether we were over 3,000 feet in climbing. With Vineman three weeks off, it was just the ride I needed.

By the way, this was the second ride in four days with Peter. He and his family invited Niko and me to spend some time with them at a beach house they were renting in Santa Cruz. While the kids played on the beach on Thursday afternoon, Peter and I rode south and east through the foothills just in from the coast. Real nice 30-miler, marred only by the fact that a couple miles shy of home, my chain broke. Drats to that, but I fixed it Friday in San Jose (thanks for the help, Dad) and all is well.

Been on the bike a lot more the last three weeks and am definitely starting to feel stronger. I think I need one very long and hard ride and a couple more medium-long and hard rides before Vineman (well, before 10 days before Vineman, so I have time to taper a bit), and I may actually be able to do a sub-5:40 race.

Additional note on Santa Cruz: We busted into a 1996 Argyle Pinot Noir Nuthouse Willamette Valley for dinner Thursday night (with grilled wild salmon). Wow! Many, many layers of fruit and earthy/meaty flavors and aromas. Perfect balance and texture. Just killer Pinot. Besides Calera, does anyone in California even try to make Pinot that will taste like this 10 years down the road?

Kenwood update: Results finally posted. My official time was 43:54, and I finished in 78th place out of more than 600 runners. Woo-hoo for me!

Kenwood Footrace
For readers flung far, Kenwood is a leafy little unincorporated town about halfway up Sonoma Valley, the 20-mile crescent that runs from Sonoma northwest toward Santa Rosa, bisected by State Route 12. Kenwood once would have been called a farm town, but this being Wine Country 2006, the price of admission for a 2BR/2BA cottage is probably a cool million. And the most common businesses in town are probably bed-and-breakfasts; there's one on every block, I think. So farm town doesn't quite work anymore. Nevertheless, on the Fourth, the small-town feel flows. There's a big pancake breakfast, World Championship Pillow Fights, parade, chili cookoff, fireworks – all kicked off, at 7:30 a.m., by the Kenwood Footrace.

This is a 10K with some history – 2006 marked the 35th annual running. The course is certified and certifiably about as beautiful as you can imagine, starting alongside the "downtown" park, heading past vineyards and pastures into the hills for a few miles, through more vineyards and woodlands, too, then back toward town through yet more vineyards and oak-dappled terrain. Quiet country roads, dirt trails, paved paths, it has a little of everything, and no cars.

The other time I ran Kenwood, in 2003, I was surprised and hurt by the hills. From about Mile 1 to Mile 3, the course climbs some 250 feet in elevation. (The second half of the race is mostly downhill, but with one more significant climb.) I hit the hills hard in '03, and my muscles weren't ready. My quads tightened into knots.

So this year, returning for the first time to Kenwood, I made sure to warm up well, running slowly for 15 or 20 minutes until about a quarter-hour before the race started. When I stopped I noticed I was sweating just a bit, despite the cool morning temps (around 60, sunny with a bit of scattered marine layer on the edges). Good.

The race start was a little frustrating; a lot of slow runners positioned themselves at the front of the pack. Why? Maybe they didn't realize what they were doing. Or maybe they're the sort who drive at the speed limit in the fast lane on the freeway. Anyway, it took about 10 seconds to reach the start line, then a couple of minutes to break free from the crowd and find my pace.

I ran 44:52 in 2003, and thought I might be able to cut a minute off that time this year, on account of the proper warm-up and just generally being a more fit runner. Of course, I am three years older and theoretically at least that ought to work against me. (But I don't feel any older, he said, defensively.)

I have to say this about 10Ks: After doing four marathons and 15 triathlons (eight half-iron distance) in the past four-plus years, a 10K is delightfully simple. I love triathlons and love training for them, but it's great to compete with a pure focus on simply getting out and running hard for 45 minutes. No wetsuit! No transition setup! No flat tires!

I used my Garmin on the run and despite some tree canopy issues in the hills, it mostly kept its bearings. Despite the crowded start, I managed the first mile in 7:01. Then came the hills, and for the next two miles my pace slowed to 7:30. The only mileage marker on the course is at three miles, and I hit that in 22:01. I felt good, really good. Nothing hurt – not the Achilles, the knees, no aches, no pains. I can't emphasize enough how fun it is to run in a race and not have anything hurting.

We dropped 120 feet from Mile 3.3 to 4.4. Running those downhills, I thought about the signs Caltrans has for truckers coming down I-80 from the High Sierra: "Let 'er run" (or "ride," or "rip," something like that). I lengthened my stride, letting gravity do as much work as possible. I completed that 1.1-mile stretch in about six minutes, still feeling fairly frisky – which was good, because right when we bottomed at the 4.4 mark, we had a 100-foot climb over the next 0.8 miles. I knew it was the last climb, so I went at it hard, staying well under 9 min./mile pace.

The last mile was great: 120-foot decline, first fairly steep then leveling out a bit. I went hard, using runners ahead of me as targets. (I was passed once on the second half of the course, but came back and got that guy, an amazing runner who must have been well into his 60s.) Down the final straight, a few hundred yards maybe, I passed a younger woman and wanted to make a run at a younger guy up ahead, too, but the effort finally began to get to me: It wasn't the legs or the lungs; it was the ol' lower GI. I felt like I could make it to the finish without having a major incident, but no farther. I'm not sure if anything disastrous would have occurred had the race been a tenth of a mile longer, but I'm glad I didn't have to find out.

Final time on the Garmin, from gun to finish line: 43:52, a 7:01 pace. Considering how challenging the Kenwood course is, I feel good about that: One minute faster than three years ago.

Afterward, I had some time before the noon Germany-Italy match, so I did an easy 1,500 yards at the pool. Now, with the match over, why not an easy spin on the bike? A "triathlon" day after all.

Fire It Up!
Dan came up from Berkeley and we did a nice ride up a hill (Soda Canyon Road) said to be the third-toughest climb in the valley by one source. It's amazing how much more fun it is to ride with a friend rather than alone. Instead of having the same old conversations in my head in order to distract me from the grade or the heat, I can babble on to an actual human being. For those of you who didn't follow the link: we ascended 1,340 vertical feet on this ride, with 720 feet in one especially gnarly 1.2-mile stretch. Nothing to write home about, but good enough to blog.

Later, after showers and smoothies, Dan helped Niko and me break in the earthen oven we built this spring. That's right, we fired it up! As Niko said to Dan, "My dad didn't want to invite a lot of people over the first time because he was worried the oven might collapse. But it was OK to have you over."

Dan was the fire-tender extraordinaire:
















For kindling we used a couple small sheets of newspaper and small dead branches that had fallen from our sycamore trees. For real fuel, we busted up one of my old oak wine barrels. We were all amazed at how well the fire burned. You wouldn't think there would be enough air. But just as Kiko said it would, the air wooshed in the bottom portion of the opening and the smoke went out the upper portion. And the fire burned.

I hadn't thought about dough until it was too late, so I ran down to Trader Joe's and picked up a variety of prepared pizza doughs. Niko whipped up a sauce and we were on our way:

















Yes, as a matter of fact the "pizza peel" you see there is a metal dustpan with a broomstick attached to it. Our regular pizza peel wouldn't fit through the 13-inch oven opening. Here is the historic first pizza to emerge from the oven:

CaliMan Half-Iron, June 11, 2006, Morgan Hill, CA
A big workout – given that I haven't been doing long rides, that was the only sensible way to view the CaliMan half-iron distance triathlon. (How lazy have I been about the bike this year? Well, I'd gone 56 miles exactly zero times, and now I'd be bracketing that distance with a 1.2-mile swim and a 13.1-mile run. A stretch, to say the least.)

Of course, rational thinking wants to go out the window once the race starts. Or sooner even. A minute before the cannon sounded Sunday morning, the recorded strains of bagpipes blaring "Amazing Grace" busted loose over the PA. Floating in the cool, murky waters of Uvas Reservoir with 300 other racers, I was getting excited. I don't know if it was adrenaline flowing or what, but I had that great nervous/excited/scared/curious feeling that comes just before a race begins.

But seriously, this was half-iron distance. Swimming and biking for a PR would only have left me staggering home on the run. I desperately didn't want that, with all its attendant misery. I wanted a good, solid effort, a session that would leave me a realistic sense of were I am fitness-wise without leaving me so beat up I couldn't rejoin my training, such as it's been, within a couple of days.

Oh, and one other thing I wanted: Fun on my old stompin' grounds! I grew up in South San Jose. Uvas Reservoir was where we had our sixth-grade end-of-the-year party. I wasn't a "cyclist" back then, but this was the pre-videogame era and we were active, sports-crazed kids. From time to time we'd get the itch to get on our bikes and head away from the city into the hills and farms south of town. Santa Teresa, Bailey, McKean, Willow Springs – many of the bike-route roads were familiar to me.

Niko and I headed down from Napa early Saturday afternoon for the packet pick-up, at T2, a hospital off U.S. 101 in Morgan Hill. After getting the registration taken care of and my run stuff in place for the run-bike transition, it was back to my folks' house for the evening. Nice to spend the night before the race at a home, with Mom's cooking and a quiet place to sleep, rather than a motel, I'll tell you that.

I was out of the house a little after 5 the next morning for the 7 a.m. start. I knew this would get me there in plenty of time, but didn't think I'd be parked and 100 yards from the start at 5:35. No problem. This left me a leisurely time of it in getting body marked, using the porta-potty – no line! -- and setting up my T1 things. I was surprised at how few bike racks were out there. I was expecting 1,000 racers or so, just like Uvas/South Bay and San Jose International, a couple of popular events put on by the same group doing CaliMan, JA Productions. But apparently the fact that the race has bounced around from Folsom in the spring of 2004, to Folsom in September 2005 to Morgan Hill in June 2006 has hindered its development. I heard afterward that JA plans to keep CaliMan in Morgan Hill next year, so maybe that'll help in drawing more racers. I know I'll be back. It's not an amazing course, but it's pretty cool.

Uvas, filled in early June to near its 10,000 acre-feet capacity, is a lovely spot in the foothills sandwiched between the Santa Cruz Mountains to the west and the Santa Clara Valley to the east. There are some noveau villas scattered around the area, old farmsteads, a few vineyards, and mostly grass, scrub and oaks.



The swim itself takes you around a big peninsula that juts into the reservoir, so we couldn't see the finish until we were about two-thirds of the way done. That made it more interesting than a course built solely around buoys.

I've been swimming pretty consistently this year and working on achieving a longer, smoother stroke, and tried to keep that in mind once we went off. That is, when I wasn't getting whacked in the head by some wayward swimmer (or, wayward, whacking someone in the head). Even with only about 300 racers, a mass start is pretty wild, but I tried to stay to the outside to avoid the fray and mostly did. Getting out of the water, I could see the clock ticking just past 40 minutes. My official time crossing the chip sensor was 40:44, 27th out of the 37 finishers in the male 40-44 group. For me, pretty good, especially since I felt as though I hadn't swum nearly as hard as I could have.

I don't know what I was doing in T1, but somehow it took me a little over six minutes to get out of my wetsuit, pack it away in the bag that volunteers would take to T2 11 miles away, put on my helmet, gloves, socks, shoes, Garmin and glasses and then get the heck across the chip sensor marking the start of the bike. I think this was a case of taking the casual, "just a long workout" philosophy a little too far. I wasn't feeling the sense of urgency I should have been. Given the transition area logistics, that should have been a 4-minute T1 at worst.

Anyway, on the bike: The morning was gray but mild – temps in the upper 50s as I began pedaling, I'm guessing, with the high not expected to climb higher than the mid-70s. Ideal. We went north through the hills for about 10 miles, then down into the Santa Clara Valley proper, heading south into the area's typical 5-10 mph summer-morning breeze. Then we turned back into the hills for the major climb of the day, supposedly a 610-foot elevation gain up Willow Springs Road. Didn't feel like that much. Then south through the hills, back down into the valley, south more or less for 20 miles, then back north toward the hospital, breeze at our backs, for the final 15 miles or so. The overcast broke up and the sun began to shine bright on that last stretch.

One of the more interesting things about the ride were the smells. On the first leg along the hills I noticed lots of road-kill smells, though don't remember seeing any squashed critters. Perhaps dragged off to the side? Then going down the valley on Santa Teresa Boulevard the south wind brought the pungent odor of the mushroom farms along the way there. Then later it was garlic that I smelled, Gilroy of course being the garlic capital of the United States, home to the legendary Garlic Festival each summer.

I mostly just tried to stay good and steady on the bike. My bike computer wasn't working so I was relying on my Garmin, which I hadn't set to give me mph. But it did give me pace, and I knew that 3 minutes per mile was 20 mph, 3:12 was 19, 3:24 was 18 and so on, so I had a good sense of where I was. One thing I noticed was that I enjoyed not having the odometer front and center with my trip distance constantly in my face. The Garmin was on my wrist and I'd look there only every few minutes. Instead of seeing hundredths click by, I'd see quarter miles or thirds go by the wayside.

One other thing about the ride: somewhere in the 35- to 45-mile range, on a long stretch heading south into the wind, a rangy local kid in baggy shorts rode up alongside me. It was clear he wasn't a racer, just a kid 16 or 17 who loved to ride. Drafting and pacing weren't allowed in this event, but we rode together for a while, chatting about cycling in the south valley and such. I don't know if the accompaniment improved my pace – I held it steady at about 18 mph, despite the wind – but it sure helped the time pass faster.
Numbers on the bike: 3:08:25, 24/37 in the AG.

T2 was only a little bit better than T2, considering how much simpler the change is. Yet it still took be 3:05, and could easily have been a full minute faster without costing me anything. And then I was off and running.

Right from the start I was wondering if I should hit a porta-potty to pee. I didn't have to go terribly badly, but I hate even thinking about having to go and I began to wonder if having to go would lead me to drink less than I should along the way. So after four miles around 8:30, with my legs feeling quite good, I stopped at a john midway into Mile 5. A minute in there and I was on my way – but there was a problem. My right knee – the ITB – had tightened and was in excruciating pain with every step. I slowed, knowing my only hope was that it would gradually loosen up again. And it did, sort of. By Mile 8, I was mostly running OK. Of course, by then the jawache/toothache/headache I've been experiencing of late was in full voice. The right side of my face, from my jaw through my upper teeth back toward the ear and to the temple, was pulsing with pain. Yes, I'm going to see the dentist about it this week, again (he hasn't been able to identify the problem after a couple of visits).

The run was almost entirely off-road, on a mostly paved bike path that runs alongside Coyote Creek (and over it a couple of times). It goes through some grassy and lightly oak-wooded areas, though it never feels like you're out in the wilds with 101 nearby. At one big open spot there's a park for remote-controlled airplane enthusiasts, and several were out doing their thing as we trundled along the path, mindful of the occasional recreational cyclist.

The ITB hurt from time to time and my face was in pain, but mostly I continued to feel pretty good during the run. But I was losing steam. My pace fell to 9:30 until the final mile, which I brought home in about 8:25. I was hoping to crack 6 hours – still 18 minutes off my half-iron PR – but with a 2:02:40 run (18/37 in the AG), just missed. Final time: 6:01:03, 23/37.

Now We're Cookin'!

Well, not really. Not yet. But Niko and I did get the next layer of mud on our oven. Over the three-inch-thick shell of clay and sand, we put on a six-inch-thick layer of "cob" -- clay and sand with dried cut grass mixed into it. This was about 300 lbs. of mud, all combined by hand in the wheelbarrow. My arms are sore.

Next up: a thin layer of "plaster" to make it look all pretty. Then we fire her up!

The Great One
In hockey, it was Gretzky. He stood head and shoulders above the rest. In wine writing, it is Jancis. Yesterday in her Financial Times column she wrote about Steven Spurrer, the man behind the CA vs. France tasting in Paris in 1976, and its sort-of rerun this past week. Here's a taste of the piece:

Perhaps every area of activity has its puzzlingly under-celebrated pioneer and
Steven Spurrier is certainly an unsung hero of wine. He has quite exceptional
wine knowledge, particularly but not exclusively of France, has fingers in
vinous pies in six countries, and has had all manner of brilliant wine ideas
that other people, never him, have managed to spin into gold.

Fortunately, he began life with a fortune, was wise enough to marry
another, and seems to be happy enough to have spent his 42 years in the wine
business gently frittering them away in various agreeable wine-related
pursuits.

Not that he is indolent. Far from it. At the Christie's Wine Course, which
he set up in 1982, it is more often than not Spurrier who carries the boxes and
opens the bottles. His prolific wine writing output includes three very solid
books, of which only Clarke &Spurrier'sFine Wine Guide is still in
print.

When a group of us British wine writers needs to fix up its programme of
visits to taste the Bordeaux primeurs each spring, it is Steven who does all the
hard work of writing to the châteaux and co-ordinating our split-second
timetable. But when Steven counselled me to invest in Vinopolis, the wine-based
tourist attraction that opened just south of the Thames in 1999, assuring me
that he was putting everything he could into it, I did the opposite and have not
regretted it.

But to call him the man with the tin touch would be deeply unfair because
he has enriched the wine world considerably and played a key part in the wine
education of such luminaries as Michel Bettane, France's top wine writer, Tim
Johnston and Mark Williamson of Willi's Wine Bar in Paris, Roy Richards of
Richards Walford, Britain's most fastidious wine importer, Charles Lea of Lea
& Sandeman fine wine shops around London, Paul Bowker (who was so cute he
was known as le petit'ange by Caves de la Madeleine customers and went on to run
Christie's wine department) and Jenny Dobson, whom Spurrier met when she was an
au pair for the Seysses family at Burgundy's Domaine Dujac and, touchpaper lit
by Spurrier, has gone on to make great wine at Ch Sénéjac in Bordeaux and Te Awa
in New Zealand.

If Spurrier has a fault, it is hardly the most serious: an excess of
enthusiasm about the most humdrum of wines.....

NYC
Went back east on business this week. Here's the view from my Jersey City hotel room.