You call this stuff wine?

I should know better.

When the wine salesman, err, sommelier, comes up to me in the store trying to sell me something, its not necessarily something they think tastes good. Its usually a bottle that gets them their commission.

I normally steer clear of these people. They don't know my taste buds, how finicky I might be, whether I like spicy zins or big cabs or fruit forward petite syrahs.

They don't know whether I'm spending the last $12 in my pocket or I've cashed in the quarters in my piggy bank to buy a bottle whose vintage is in the 20th century.

They don't know. And I know they don't know. And so when their shelves are filled with dusty looking bottles with labels I've never heard of or read about, I go for my usual reliables: A Peachy Canyon. An Ed Meades. A Peter Mondavi. A Layer Cake or Boarding Pass Shiraz.

But sometimes, in my confusion, my self doubt about my own taste buds, and willingness to try something new, I don't buy what I think I want, they sell me what they want me to buy.

And I get home. And I take that first swig. And I wish I was drinking Reunite instead. And no, it's not just in my head.

And its not like you can take the bottle back. Uhh, sir, this Gnarly Head tastes like shit. I'd like to exchange this open bottle for your most affordable Barossa Valley Shiraz.

And its not like I'm going to go back and buy another bottle that I'd like better. I make decent coin, but a big percent _ rightfully _ goes to my son in Austin.

So when this happens to me _ happens, like I caught a disease or something, right? _ I'm stuck with the musty-feet tasting alcohol for the night.

And its like, when you get back to the house with your takeout and you realize they didn't put extra cheese on your pizza or extra cucumber sauce on your Gyro sandwich. You're starving. Right now. And every bite you take, you are muttering, damn, those mutha-fukkers.

But you go to bed with a full belly, only out of the $5.99 you put down for the Chick-fil-A on wheat which came broiled instead of breaded.

The angst is much more with a bad bottle of wine, when you invest $15 in some fancy sounding, Chateau foo foo that turns out tasting like whatever smegma must taste like.

Wine isnt like anything else. You get a certain quality when you pay a certain amount of money for single-malt scotch, or running shoes, or stonewashed blue jeans. But sometimes, that wine bottle on the top rack hides so many secrets that an article in Wine Spectator can't unearth.

You only know the wines you like by tasting the wines. To hell with what someone else might say.

I didn't go with my own instinct when the wine guy came up to me tonight with all of his fancy words and clever terminology.

That mutha-fukker.

Smoke tasting graham crackers

Ok. Watching Mavs-Hornets, Game 4. It's halftime. Drinking a glass of Zinfandel. Its a 2006 Edmeades from Mendocino County.
The label says, "with dollops of smoke, graham cracker, chocolate and fruit..."
Now, I don't know what smoke tastes like. And my inexperienced palate hasn't figured out how to discern graham cracker. (Maybe, as NY Times wine writer Eric Asimov blogs, this wine is on Viagra.)
But I know what I know.
I like this wine. Yummmmmmy.

200 bottles of wine on the wall, 200 bottles of wine

People who think I am a wine snob always ask me: "How do you know what a good bottle of wine tastes like?"

I always answer: "Go buy some wine. If you like it, it's good, if you don't, it's not good."

Now, that's being a little simplistic.

Someone with a refined palate, who has tasted hundreds and hundreds of wines, will be a little more adept at discerning "good wine" than someone whose only wine experience is the Bolla they had at Macaroni Grill.

But who is right? Do critics know more about wine than the average weekend drinker?

The New York Times' wine writer, Eric Asimov, tries to tackle this subject in his The Pour blog post titled, You Can Please All Of The People, Or You Can Make Great Wine.

Asimov comments on findings in a book titled, "The Wine Trials" which analyzes the results of blind taste tests of 540 wines by 500 volunteers.

The findings were first published in the April 7 issue of Newsweek. The book shows that 100 wines under $15 consistently outperformed more expensive wines. With this evidence, the book tries to downplay the knowledge of wine critics, calling their trade, "the jargon and pomposity of wine writing."

Asimov disagrees. He compares the palates of a novice and expert wine drinker by using a sports analogy. Translation: A non-sports fan tuning into the NFL for the first time last year would think the New York Giants were the best team ever created simply because they won the Super Bowl. A sports fan, who knows the flaws of the Giants, would put their money on the New England Patriots again and again and again.

A novice wine taster doesn't know that he doesn't know.

This brings me back to my own palate. I started drinking wine in 2002. Right now, I wouldn't drink some merlots if you gave them to me free. But back then, with my unrefined palate, my "go-to" wine was a Kendall Jackson merlot.

Since 2006, I've probably drank 200 bottles of wine, maybe more. I've gone through stages. I remember drinking my first Bordeaux, a $12 Chateau Sisson, and thinking I'd made it as a wine drinker. Now my palate frowns on the "affordable" bordeauxs, too earthy tasting, not enough body.

But that's the way it goes for me. I get hooked on one varietal, get tired of it, then find another one and get hooked. I went from bordeauxs to petite syrahs to cabernets and now I'm hooked on syrahs/shirazs. (Run dangerously has suggested I try a Zinfandel, Marietta Old Vine Red. As soon as I get my hands on a bottle, I'll post my own tasting notes).

Tuesday night, to celebrate filing my taxes on time, I drank an $18 bottle of 2005 Boarding Pass Shiraz from South Australia. The tasting notes says this wine has, "a nose of smoke, spice box, blackberry, and blueberry jam."

Now I'm not sophisticated enough to know about all of that. I mean, what's a blackberry taste like anyways.

If you blindfold me, however, I'm certain I can tell the difference between Boarding Pass and Yellow Tail or Wishing Tree; or Stags' Leap Petite Syrah and Bogle.

But it's always fun when you find your own Two Buck Chuck.

Cheers

Teased, tired, and now back to basics

So after 16 days of inactivity, I ran 25 miles last week.
Probably ran way too fast. 8:30 miles are a smidge faster than easy pace and the week has left my legs feeling achy.
I guess I came back too hard too soon. Its just that that first day back teased me. It was so easy, so inviting. I had that runners high thing going on that the scientists discovered last week.
But now, after an 8-miler Saturday and rest Sunday, my feet hurt. My legs hurt.
Reality has hit me over my freshly cut head: Running is hard. Running is grueling. Running can break your heart. But its one of the loves of my life, and so I keep coming back.
This week its back to the basics.
*I'm swigging the blackstrap molasses to keep my electrolyte balanced.
*I'm going to try to be in bed by midnight.
*I'm going to limit the wine drinking to one bottle during the week. (It's gonna be hard, though. I just found that the liquor store down the street has several cases left of Guenoc Petite Syrah North Coast from 2001 selling for just $13 a bottle.)
*I'm going to try not to eat out so often.
*I'm going to try to keep my heart rate under 80 percent for every run except for one: My Tuesday morning 6-mile tempo run with the gang from Luke's Locker. You know how it is when you run with other people. You don't wanna be the last lug in the group.

The tannins in my perspiration

When I ran Monday, for the first time in 16 days, it was 38 degrees and I was floating.
This morning, it was 68 degrees (Texas weather) and muggy.
There was no floating. Flopping, maybe. Trudging. Shuffling. But this was not an easy day.
I did 6.5 miles in 56 minutes and it had to be the hardest 6.5 miles I’ve ever done (if you don’t include the final 6.5 miles of the two marathons I’ve run).
They say when it gets hot your blood works first too cool you off, then its sent to your working muscles. For that reason, your heart rate will always be higher on runs in the heat until you are acclimated. Well, I’m not acclimated. At all.
Running 6.5 miles in 56 minutes in February (when its cool outside) usually means a heart rate that might top out at 80 percent, 85 percent max. This morning, I was at 90 percent by mile 5 and 92 percent at the end. (Ok, full disclosure. Tuesday night, I drank half a bottle of Trinchero Family Cabernet and two big plates of spaghetti. My sweat this morning had hints of oak, vanilla, and garlic.)
The good thing is my right leg, which kept me on the sidelines to begin with, is no worse for wear. So, I’ll run a few miles Thursday and Friday and go out for an 8-miler Saturday, and next week, I’ll try to have a normal mileage week, which for me is about 30 miles.

A lot can happen in 10 days

I have just swallowed the last dose of methlyprednisolone, the anti-inflammatory medicine that the doctor prescribed for me last week. When I got this stuff, the pharmacist said, “Don't drink alcohol with this.” So, the night before, I drank nearly a whole bottle of Guenoc Petite Syrah.
And then went cold turkey.
Last night, though, I read the fine print on the drug. It said limit alcohol use with this medicine. Then, I read this story that says red wine is an anti-inflammatory agent. Shoot, I could have drank and got twice the treatment for my leg.
Anyway, my leg feels much better. And even though the doctor _ remember, it was a fill-in _ told me not to run for another two weeks, I'm going to call my regular guy today and see if its okay that I start putting in a few miles. I last ran 10 days ago. And what has happened in the world since: the fortunes of Eliot Spitzer and Bear Stearns have plummeted and the Houston Rockets have gone on an absurd winning streak.
On the family front: My son, Noah, and his mother, Nancy, visited me for a week. I am more in love with him everyday. He is still crawling backwards. When he gets excited he kinda squeals and babbles. He loved the zoo. He is eating rice, sweet potatoes, applesauce, and formula. He is growing up before my eyes. He is only 7 ½ months, but is as heavy as my 2-year-old nephew, Keith. Here are some pictures from his visit.

Too much Cabernet, not enough 5k

On Feb. 19, I wrote in a post that I thought the reason I was not losing weight was because I was drinking too much wine. I said I would limit my wine drinking to the weekends. At the time, my weight was 171 pounds. That was 16 days ago. I was 167 pounds this morning.
Wooo-hooo.
But......... I have not exactly kept the promise to myself of not drinking during the week. Stressed from work, I stopped at Put a Cork In It Wine and got a bottle of Santa Ema Reserve Merlot Maipo Valley. Yummy, yummy. You put this stuff in a big wine glass and you can smell the leather, and it is very chocolaty.
The week before, I also had a mid-week bottle of wine, a 2005 Yountville Napa Valley Cabernet from Charles Krug by the Peter Mondavi family. This is a big cab, I mean big. And smooth. I taste some coffee, some cherries. Awesome tannins. Long finish.
So, I drank, but I still lost weight.
So maybe the wine drinking was not the blame for my once expanding waistline. I looked at my running log and noticed that my running pace has been sub 9:00 minute per mile in six of the 11 runs since I swore off drinking during the week. In the 11 runs before I made that promise, only three of my runs averaged a pace faster than a 9-minute mile.
So, here's what this tells me: Run fast, drink wine, lose weight. Run slow, drink wine, maintain weight.
Well, it's a lot more fun to run fast and drink wine. But, I'll keep it in moderation. I will only drink one bottle during the week (if that) and not limit myself during the weekend.
I know, I sound like I should be in AA.