Boston Dreams and Michelin Stars

Harsh Chocolate

2012-01-22T03:35:00.000-08:00

That's me in the back.

When I arrived at the Hot Chocolate 10K on Saturday morning, I passed one of my running friends and made a comment to the effect of welcome to the first race of the spring. It was chilly but unseasonably mild by January standards. It was also overcast, with some sun peeking through, suggesting that we may avoid the rain that had been predicted. I went out for a warm-up jog, passing the little tykes lined up for the uphill Marshmallow Dash, and you can imagine what happened next. Ten minutes down the road, the sky goes black and starts dumping rain. A Biblical downpour. I'm either wearing or carrying the dry and warm clothes I had hoped to put on after the race. So much for that. By the time I get back to Isaac Dickson, I am sodden.

But that wasn't the worst of it. As I'm coming up the steep hill that is the finishing stretch of the course, I see a little boy of about 6 or 7 and he's crying. Maybe he fell during the Marshmallow Dash or he didn't win or he doesn't like being in the rain. I don't know. All I know is that his mom grabs him by the scruff of his Carolina Day School hoodie and yells into his face: "YOU'RE SUCH A MISERABLE CHILD!" It was like I was standing in front of a cafe in the Middle East when the bomb goes off. The shock waves from that comment nearly knocked me over. I know the weather had most of us feeling, well, miserable, but still. Who says that kind of thing to a kid? It was a brutally ugly moment.

So I make it inside the school still a bit shell-shocked and I strip out of my sweats and jacket and wring them out and check my bag. I go to the gym for some stretching and to stay warm for as long as possible. It's still pretty crowded in the school and gym and outside as well. My watch says five minutes to start time when a volunteer tells me that her watch says one minute to --- BANG! -- the race just started. The last time I ran out of a school that fast, it was at Lacache Middle and the school bully was in hot pursuit. Of course, I didn't run far because I had a solid wall of people in front of me, the entire 1,000+ field packed into the tight start. It took me almost a minute to get to the start line and then the first half-mile was at about a ten-minute pace with plenty of weaving and apologizing.

Amazingly, I crossed Mile 1 in 7:10, which meant that I ran way too fast once I got out of the crowd. The course was opening up at this point and you could run your pace and your tangents, watching only to avoid the larger, deeper puddles that were swallowing some runners whole. As I settled into my race pace, I felt like I had a little jockey riding my calves and giving them the whip with every step. And then I realized, that's no jockey, that's my shoe lace. My right shoe was untied and about to flop off. I've been racing for over ten years and I've never had to stop to tie a shoe in a race. I told the Trauma Whisperer this was a bad week to wean me off Velcro. So I ran for a mile with the floppy shoe and the stinging laces, trying to decide if I could run the entire race without stopping. At the Mile 2 marker, I stopped to tie it. Unfortunately, I was wearing gloves. I tried to tie them with the gloves -- big mistake -- and ended up tying my finger to my shoe. Just go with it, I thought to myself, and tried running with one hand tied to my foot. Well that didn't work so I had to stop again, remove my gloves, tie the dang shoe, put my gloves back on, and start racing again. I lost all my momentum and about a minute of time.

As I pressed on, the rain, which had stopped for about twenty minutes, returned. We were getting poured on as we clipped off our miles. At either Mile 3 or 4, I hit stop instead of split on my watch. I had engaged in so many other acts of self-sabotage in this race, what was one more? I made it to the finish line in 47 minutes. It was a shameful time, but I didn't let it bother me. As I stood there drenched, I couldn't help but laugh about the entire cluster of a morning. At least I got a decent workout in and could add the "wet" Hot Chocolate to last year's "cold" Hot Chocolate and the original "short" Hot Chocolate.

It's Winter racing, and I'm not doing any serious speed work, so there's no need to be too concerned about finishing times right now. Today's lessons: Check those laces, get to the start line on time, and don't verbally abuse your children.

Jambalaya as Metaphor

2012-01-16T16:55:00.000-08:00

When Donald Link opened Cochon in the Warehouse District of New Orleans, it was arguably the first real Cajun restaurant in the city, with a menu rooted in the bayous of the Southwestern Parishes rather than the Creole redoubts in the French Quarter. And then when he put out his cookbook, he called it -- aptly -- "Real Cajun." With the New Orleans Saints in the second round of the playoffs, I turned to "Real Cajun" for an authentic brown (sans tomatoes) jambalaya to eat during the game. Little did I know that the jambalaya and the game would become intertwined in tragic fashion.

I started, like the Saints, with high hopes. The Saints had won nine straight. The offense was lights out. They were confident. I have cooked about nine recipes from "Real Cajun." They all turned out perfect. I was confident. But there were warning signs. The Saints defense has a tendency to stink up the joint. The jambalaya recipe called for only one onion. My chef sister scoffed at that, contending that no serious jambalaya recipe could work without five pounds of onions. There was truth to that. My mom's mahogany brown jambalaya with incinerated shrimp had about a dozen onions in it, which she cooked down to blackness for about three days.

Link's recipe has you trying to get everything to stick to the pan, then de-glazing it over and over to create a dark color. I did that, over and over, and all was fine. But then I noticed some omissions in the recipe. He tells you to pull the sausage out and put it aside, but he never tells you to put it back in. At the crucial point when you add the rice and stock to the pot, he says simply to cover it and cook for 40 minutes. I did. When I opened the pot, I had what looked like soup. It was about this time in the Saints game, I should point out, where our team was making mistake after mistake, five turnovers in just over two quarters. The game, like dinner, was looking like a total disaster.

And then a rally. I removed the cover, raised the temperature, got a boil going, then reduced to a simmer and left the pot uncovered. After all the stock was absorbed, I then covered the pot for 30 minutes, keeping the temperature on low. (That's my mom's trick.) Back at the game, Drew Brees showed why he is one of the great ones and won the game for the Saints not once but twice.

Well we know what ultimately happened. The defense couldn't stop the Niners and the Saints were good but not good enough. 36-32 bad guys. For dinner, we all cried in our bowls of jambalaya, which my chef sister said "was good, but it's rice pilaf." I felt it shrink an inch when she said it, but I knew she was right. While the taste was there, the rice had acquired only a soft tan color, the color of Rice-A-Roni, the San Francisco treat. Oh, the irony.

The Saints had come up short and so had Link's "Real Cajun." We needed jambalaya, we had to settle for rice pilaf -- on the field and in our bowls. We'll get it right next time.

Here is an unedited version of Link's recipe. To make it easy on yourself, you can buy a roasted chicken from the grocery and use store-bought stock as well. Follow my instructions above on cooking the rice. Add the sausage back when you add the chicken, and don't forget to double-team Vernon Davis. Good luck.

Chicken and Sausage Jambalaya Recipe
Ingredients
One 3- to 4-lb chicken, roasted
2 tablespoons butter 
1 green bell pepper, cored, seeded and diced
1 red bell pepper, cored, seeded and diced
2 small jalapeno peppers, seeded and minced
1 bunch scallions(white and light green parts), thinly sliced
3 celery stalks, diced
4 garlic cloves, minced
2 medium onions, 1 quartered and 1 diced small
10 cups cold water
1 tablespoon canola oil 
1 pound smoked sausage, diced
1 tablespoon Donnie’s Spice Mix
2 teaspoons salt 
5 bay leaves 
2 teaspoons dried oregano 
2 tablespoons tomato paste 
2 cups long-grain rice, rinsed

Directions

1. Pick all the meat from the chicken and discard the skin. Shred or chop the chicken, as you prefer. Save all the juice and fat from the roasting pan (or store container, if you’re relying on a rotisserie chicken) in a separate container. Refrigerate both until needed.  

2. Trim and dice or mince the bell peppers, jalapeno, scallions, celery, and garlic, reserving the trimmings. Place the chicken carcass, quartered onion, and vegetable trimmings in a large pot. Add the cold water and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer gently for about 1 hour, skimming any foam from the surface as necessary. Strain the broth and discard the solids. You should have about 6 cups of stock. 

3. Heat the oil in a large cast-iron skillet over medium-high heat. Add the sausage and sear until it starts to color, turning as necessary. Parts of the sausage will begin to stick to the pan. When there is a goodly sausage-y coating stuck to the pan, pour in 1/4 cup of the chicken stock and cook, stirring and scraping the skillet, until it comes loose. Let this simmer gently until all of the liquid has evaporated. Transfer the sausage to a plate.  
4. Return the skillet to medium-high heat, add the butter, and heat until it melts. Add the diced onion and cook until it starts to stick to the pan, about 5 minutes. Deglaze the pan with 1/4 cup of the chicken stock and let this reduce until the skillet is dry (or au sec, as they say in French kitchens). Continue to cook until the onion turns a nice, deep, brown color, about 5 more minutes.

5. At this point the onion will start to stick to the pan again. Add ½ cup of the chicken stock and simmer. When this is almost gone, add the bell peppers, jalapeños, scallions, celery, garlic, spice mix, salt, bay leaves, oregano, and tomato paste. Cook, stirring often, for 10 more minutes, until things start to stick to the darn skillet again. Deglaze with another ¼ cup stock and reduce again until the skillet runs dry. Add the shredded chicken, 1 cup stock, and the defatted juices from the chicken and simmer until the liquid is reduced by half.

6. Transfer the vegetable mixture to a large, heavy-bottomed pot and add the sausage, rice, and the remaining 4 cups stock to the pot and stir well. You want the mixture to have plenty of room so the rice will cook evenly. Heat, covered, over low heat for 40 minutes.  

7. Remove the pot from the stovetop and keep covered for 10 minutes while it rests. If the rice seems a little unevenly cooked, leave the lid on a little longer and it will even out. When the jambalaya is done, transfer it to a casserole dish and serve. (If you leave it in the pot it cooked in, the jambalaya will continue to cook and become dry.)

Clan of the (Not in its) Cave Bear

2012-01-07T08:54:00.000-08:00

Five of us set out from Weaver Park this morning before sunrise for a guaranteed negative-split 10-miler. Five grinding miles up Town Mountain to the water tower, five gravity-supported miles back down. For me, the miracle wasn't that I finished, it was that I started. Leo2Max has a cold, which means we all have a cold over here. I woke up with my head feeling like a caramel apple. I had been dreaming that my head was submerged in a bucket of mucus. Imagine my surprise when I woke to realize that I wasn't dreaming after all. But thanks to Kleenex and coffee and Pop-Tarts, I mustered with my running friends. They are a merciless bunch, and knowing I would be subject to ridicule if I bailed was another motivating factor.

The run cleared my head and about seven miles into it, another encounter with two black bears almost cleared my shorts. It was a mother (or father) and her cub. The big one looked like a furry Volkswagen Beetle. Beautiful creature with a shiny black coat. We saw them on the downside of the road as we approached a switchback. We paused, but as we gave them a wide berth and turned into the switchback, they kept moving down-mountain right into the road. We had to loiter for a few additional minutes until they decided to continue on. It has been warm here lately, so maybe they're awake from hibernation and think it's Spring already.

It was another great morning for running, with wispy clouds and temperatures in the 40s. As we neared the end of the run, coming upon the Grove Park Inn via Edgewood, the temperature seemed to drop a good 15 degrees. But we were nearly home at that point and I was happy to have squeezed in some mileage, chatted with friends, and seen Ursus Americanus up close.

It's Grrrreat!

2012-01-03T17:26:00.000-08:00

Tony the Tiger walks into a bar and orders a brown liquor drink.

Well we did it. VO2Max and I made a batch of "secret breakfast" ice cream -- vanilla, corn flakes, and bourbon -- over the weekend. I can't take credit for the flavor, it's one of several flavors -- "Jesus Juice" being another -- that put the hipster San Francisco ice cream shop Humphrey Slocombe on the map. "Secret Breakfast" is not as crazy as it sounds. Bourbon comes from corn and corn flakes come from corn . . . syrup. It's an intriguing flavor, part Tony the Tiger, part Pappy Van Winkle. Simply make an ice cream base and when you have it over your ice bath add one teaspoon of vanilla and 1/4 cup of bourbon. Then add 3-4 cups of toasted corn flakes (12 minutes in a 350-degree oven) to the mix and let it steep for an hour. Then drain, chill, and churn, adding another cup or so of corn flakes about one minute before it's done. Or simply sprinkle the corn flakes on top. Or do both. You'll love it.

December 31, 2011

2011-12-31T09:53:00.000-08:00

I did not run on the first day of the year, but I ran on the last day. Three of us mustered at French Broad River Park for 12 1/2 miles, most of it within the serene, and noticeably warmer, confines of Biltmore Forest. Is this neighborhood climate-controlled, we wondered?

It was a peculiar year for running. The high water mark was Boston, in April. I still can't believe that I ran 3:19 on that course. The feeling on the final stretch of Boylston was incomparable, and that moment alone was enough to make 2011 a successful year. But after that, with the exception of the Soldier Field 10-Miler in Chicago, it feels like it was just maintenance for most of the year. This year was almost as notable for the races I didn't run as the ones I did. I had to miss The Scream Half-Marathon because of my neck surgery, which also kept me out of the Ridge to Bridge Marathon. I signed up for Kiawah in December but just didn't have the fire to train for it. I bagged that one too, one of the smarter training decisions of the year. As the year closes, I do not feel particularly fast, but I do feel that I am capable of getting faster.

For the first time in several years, I lost track of my mileage and races. I know I was down from previous years. But running is not just about racing or recording mileage. I was fortunate to run in Nashville, New Orleans, Charleston, Chicago, Savannah, Florida, and San Francisco (and Asheville, NC). Some of those runs were with friends, others alone. The solo miles in San Francisco were absolutely wonderful. I love that city. I told the TW that I want to retire to San Francisco (with her) and wind down my days in an apartment with the view captured in the photos below. Jog and walk along the Bay or in Golden Gate Park day after day, maybe learn Tai Chi and perform it in Washington Square with all the elderly Chinese-Americans. Eat. Drink. Drive up to the Wine Country or over to the coast. If someone has a better idea, I'd like to hear it.

Game-Changer

2011-12-29T17:05:00.000-08:00

Santa left me the Sous Vide Supreme under the tree. I knew I was nice this year, but had no idea I was that nice. It's going to be a game changer for my cooking. Sous vide, from the French for "Sweet Mary, that's tender!" is a form of cooking where you seal food in industrial-strength Ziploc and then cook it in a water bath under precisely controlled temperatures. Unlike braising, the food does not come into contact with the water. If you've eaten in a fancy restaurant in the last 10 years -- and by fancy I mean a restaurant that cuts your meat for you -- you've been exposed to sous vide somewhere on the menu. But until last year, there were no sous vide machines for the home cook unless you were willing to jerry-rig your crock pot, Walter White style.

Sous vide is ridiculously simple. You fill the box with water and set the temperature of the water. The genius of the device is that you can't overcook food. Look below, for instance, at the bone-in prime rib I did on Christmas (observed) on December 26. I set the machine for 139 degrees -- the high-end of medium rare. I Zip-locked the meat and tossed it in the water and forgot about it. Several hours later, I pulled it out and it was 139 through and through. At one point, I said: "Sous vide machine, overcook that meat!" and it said "I'm sorry, Hal, I can't do that." Can you believe that? My name isn't even Hal.

Sure you can roast prime rib in the oven. I've done it countless times. But even when I get the center perfect, the edges are over-cooked. Or the edges are perfect and the center is closer to rare. Sous vide cooked it perfectly to the edge. I simply pulled it out, removed it from its bag, gave it a quick sear to create a crust and voila -- world class prime-rib. While the meat luxuriated in its water bath, I used all the down time to make horseradish mousse and John Besh's "Christmas" Mashed Potatoes and Oyster Dressing. Bring on the gout.

Christmas Without Maggie

2011-12-24T16:38:00.000-08:00

We won't have Maggie with us for Christmas this year. This will be the first Christmas in 11 years without her. I don't often drift off-topic on this blog, but I wanted to take a moment to remember our Bernese Mountain Dog, who was with us in Greenville, Nashville, and Asheville. She died this summer at 11 after suffering from a lengthy illness. Although she was so thin and weak at the end, she never lost her spirit. Maggie had a wonderful temperament, a signature of the breed -- she truly was an 85-pound lap dog. The TW and I drove from Greenville to some place outside of Baltimore to get her as a puppy. She was living with her litter in a basement and had never touched grass. We got one minute down the road before she dropped an explosive deuce that destroyed her kennel. Before her last day, we took her to a self-serve dog wash and we scrubbed and scrubbed. Her paws and chest were blindingly white when we left.

The Bernese is a beautiful breed, in part because of their thick coat. We used to joke that Maggie only shed twice per year: January to June and July to December. Once we brought Maggie into the house, dog hair became a condiment. When we were in Greenville, she one chewed up a magazine while the TW and I were at work. When we got home, magazine pages were everywhere. I swept everything up. Later, I noticed a small piece of page that I had missed. It was stuck to the floor. I reached down to scrape it off the floor and there, on the page, was a single typed word: "Maggie". That's a true story.

Maggie was patient with Max and patient with Leo. She was even patient with Charlie. She was a working dog by breed, but she never pulled a wagon or ran a mile next to me. It didn't matter. She pranced in Asheville snow, she panted in Greenville humidity. She begged for table scraps. We loved her.

6 at 6

2011-12-23T15:24:00.000-08:00

Here's to running friends as we sled headlong -- Ethan Frome-style -- towards Christmas. Knowing there would be too much wassailing tonight to allow for my normal Saturday long run, I reached out to friends interested in a pre-work Friday run. Six of us mustered under cover of darkness at the downtown Y at 6:00 AM. We had downtown to ourselves, as well as all of Montford, as we ticked off our miles. Three of the group split off at Weaver Park, content to do eight and head over to the Dripolator for a "Cesspool of Cinnamon" latte. The other three, and I include myself in that group, pushed north, did a loop around the rose garden, then climbed up and over the Grove Park Inn. It was an honest 10 miles by the time we made it back to the car, the sun just starting to reveal itself. I had my long run in the bag and I was at my desk by 8:00 AM.

A Very Momofuku Christmas

2011-12-18T04:21:00.000-08:00

With Christmas a week away, VO2Max and I have picked up the pace on churning and baking. Yesterday, we made these wonderful Cinnamon-Sugar Cookie Squares, which is a family recipe from Christina Tosi at Momofuku Milk Bar in New York. It's quick and easy and makes an excellent moist and chewy cinnamon-sugar cookie that tastes great alone or even better with a scoop of vanilla. As a bonus, you should have leftover cinnamon-sugar for morning toast.

Cinnamon-Sugar Cookie Squares

½ cup butter, room temperature
2 cups granulated sugar
½ cup canola oil
2 eggs
½ cup milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
3 cups flour
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking soda
Cinnamon sugar, to garnish*

Preheat the oven to 350°F and grease an 11-by-15-inch pan.
Mix all the ingredients together with an electric mixer, beginning with the butter, sugar, oil, eggs, milk and finally the dry ingredients.
Pour into the pan and spread evenly with a metal spatula or knife. Sprinkle with cinnamon sugar all over and bake for 20 minutes or until the edges are light brown.
Allow to rest for 10 minutes, then invert onto a cutting board and cut into bite-size squares.

*To make cinnamon sugar, mix ½ tablespoon of cinnamon for every ¼ cup of sugar.

World Record Splits.

2011-12-12T17:54:00.000-08:00

That is a fast split.

I've been meaning to share this vignette from the Savannah 1/2 Marathon. A few miles into the course, I was feeling pretty good and as I came through a mile split, I saw the clock and it read 7:30. Not great, but not bad either. Some time later, feeling a little better, I came through the next mile and the split was 3:39. Wow! You talk about dropping the hammer. I pressed on and when I hit the next mile, the clock read 3:40. I'm cranking world record splits, I thought to myself, and I'm hardly feeling it. It must be these Honey Stingers. One more mile and a 3:38 split and I finally dawned on me that I was looking at gasoline prices and not course times. Embarrassing.

Popcorn! Popcorn Ice Cream!

2011-12-12T17:27:00.000-08:00

Inspired by the final dish from our meal at Saison back in October, VO2Max and I decided to make popcorn ice cream this weekend. The results exceeded all expectations. With only a little effort and a few dirty bowls, we created a luscious, smooth, and creamy ice cream that tasted exactly like buttered popcorn. If you want to wow your dinner guests, or your family, or you just want to enjoy ice cream and popcorn simultaneously, you need to try this.

Make an ice cream base. See my other blog posts for a recipe.

As your base cools in an ice bath, pop a bag of microwave popcorn. We used the Newman's Own brand.

Add the entire bag of hot popcorn to the ice cream base.

Stir. Some of the popcorn will melt.

Stir some more then let it steep for about an hour.

Strain through a fine-mesh strainer or chinois, using a spoon to press the mix out of the popped kernels.

Chill, churn, and serve alone or with a movie.

I work. I get the job done.

2011-11-23T17:12:00.001-08:00

My mom had a saying: "A ____ is not fun. It's work." You could fill in the blank with anything: vacation, marriage, religion, child, milk shake. And when you think about it, she was probably right, particularly if you're milk shake is thick.

Thanksgiving is work. To make it more fun tomorrow, I've been slaving in the kitchen tonight. Pie dough -- check. Cranberry sauce -- check. Flavors are melding in the fridge. Sweet potato casserole -- check. All it needs is a dusting of mini-marshmallows. Turkey -- brining as we speak. Smoker prepped and ready to go. Despite three hours in the kitchen tonight, I still have to make oyster dressing, brussels sprouts, and two pies tomorrow. And that doesn't even include Thanksgiving brunch, because the TW likes an egg and prosciutto biscuit in the morning. Looks like I picked a bad week to stop standing in the kitchen for eight hours at a stretch.

Tybee Island Chow: Tybee Island Social Club

2011-11-14T17:11:00.001-08:00

If you find yourself on Tybee Island whiling away the afternoon, consider a visit to the Tybee Island Social Club. It's right off the main drag across the road from the beach side, and you'll probably pass it by if you're not looking out for it. It's a hip little spot with an intriguing sense of design. The inside had a cool vibe that is more South Beach (with a Jack Johnson soundtrack) than Georgia barrier island. We just had two-for-one margaritas and chips, but the menu was as intriguing as the decor. They had an ambitious cocktail menu and an assortment of interesting taco, burger, and seafood options. If you're interested in something other than a typical island seafood shack (and we had a decent meal at one of those too), then you want to visit this place.

Big Night

2011-11-13T11:53:00.001-08:00

A couple of Sundays ago, I joined some friends in the kitchen to cook dinner for ten people. This was a dinner the ten guests won at a charity auction. The theme was "Big Night," the "Lawrence of Arabia" of foodie movies that starred Stanley Tucci, Isabella Rossellini, Tony Shalhoub, and all sorts of Italian food. My friends did most of the work in the days leading up to the dinner. My contribution was limited to putting some appetizers together, plating, service, washing dishes, and almost setting one of my friends on fire. (Paper towels and gas stoves don't mix.) It was fun to work the back of the office and pretend to be a chef for a night. We served pate, duck prosciutto, fried sardines stuffed in sage leaves, whole-roasted fish in a salt crust, timpano, and tiramisu. The timpano -- a Calabrian pasta dish that contains salami, meatballs, provolone, hard-boiled eggs, ziti, romano, and sauce and is baked in a large bowl -- came out perfectly and was a sight to behold. In "Big Night,"' the timpano was a bigger star than Stanley Tucci. I suspect it had its own trailer on the set and the director would call for it when he needed it. "We're ready for the timpano." "The timpano says to get his agent on the phone." Anyway, ours was A-list too.

Big Z and Little Z

2011-11-13T11:21:00.001-08:00

VO2Max and I participated in the Super Hero 5K yesterday afternoon. I think this was the third or fourth year for this race, which starts from Asheville Pizza and Brewing on Coxe Avenue, and always draws a few hundred costumed runners. Once again, the little man was game, overcoming two side-stitches and a "burning toe" to cover the entire distance. The line for the craft beer was too long, so we retired up the street at the Thirsty Monk, where a Southern Tier "Pumpking" proved to be the perfect recovery beverage. It's a testament to Asheville that I could open a tab in full Zorro garb without a single question or comment from the bartender.

Up the Hill for Bill.

2011-11-12T06:43:00.001-08:00

It was a morning where, when I slipped into the heated bathroom of the Asheville Country Club to contort my head under the lavatory faucet to steal some water, all the while thinking about which member I could say I was should security walk in (Charlie VonTrapp? Chance Astor? Little Jimmy Vanderbilt? You lying little twit, everyone knows Little Jimmy Vanderbilt is a member at Biltmore Forest, not here!), I noticed in the mirror that my skull cap had frosted over. It was 28 degrees when I left at 6:30 under a waning gibbous moon with 97% visibility. (VO2Max's Moon Journal project changed our lives.)

It was a morning where I still had the taste in my mouth of New Holland's El Mole Ocho Mexican Spiced Ale, which the Monk had on tap. When I asked the bald-but-bearded bartender about the brew (That, right there, is what alliteration is all about), and whether it was, as it suggested, a melding of beer and mole poblano, he affirmed that it was. And when further interrogation sought answer to the question: "What does it taste like?," he responded: "It tastes like awesome." He was right -- a great amber ale with a touch of cocoa and chile heat on the finish.

It was a morning where, when running on the trail along Beaver lake, I saw a lone green-headed mallard floating peacefully, and then a majestic heron, standing off the path not two feet away, whose long, graceful head reached almost to my shoulders. Beautiful bird.

It was a morning where I ran alone, not encountering a single runner over 12.5 miles. It was a morning where one of my running friends, Bill S., the same Bill S. who rode Cheesewagon Express from Boston Commons to Hopkinton with me this year, the same Bill S. who let me talk him into running Elk Mountain from the Rattlesnake Lodge trail head, all but guaranteeing that the musculature and ligaments around our shins would be shredded like so much pattypan squash, yes, that Bill S. mustered not at Weaver Park but at Chickamauga Battlefield to lay down a fast marathon time.

With this knowledge in hand, I thought I would offer up a sacrifice -- not so much a blood sacrifice, more like a blister sacrifice -- so that he would run well today, an attempt to draw some of the suffering away from him and into my lumbering body so his race could unfold effortlessly. And so, mid-way through my run, I climbed Horizon Hill at full speed. It has been at least two months since I took on Horizon Hill. I've been favoring Lookout, which is on the backside of Horizon, but Lookout just can't compare to Horizon's blunt, vertiginous beat-down of a grade. So when I say I did it full speed, that means I put one foot forward, took a long deep breath, then put another foot forward. But I made it, and I made it without stopping. And it hurt.

So I did my part, Bill S. Don't screw up your part!

Napa Notes

2011-11-08T17:41:00.000-08:00

We ate and drank well in the Napa and Sonoma Valleys. It's almost impossible not to. Here are some highlights, each of which merits their own individual post if time permitted:

Bouchon - If you can't get into The French Laundry, but want the Thomas Keller experience but not the pre-fixe menu roulette of Ad Hoc, you go to Bouchon. Bouchon aims to be the definitive French bistro experience without cigarettes and surliness. It reminded me of Mr. B's back in New Orleans, with equally exemplary profiteroles to finish the meal. Before you get there, there's oysters and duck l'orange and steak frites and trout mueniere and, well, you get the idea. The food is exquisite, the service impeccable, the banquettes cushiony.

The Model Bakery - The Model Bakery in St. Helena makes an excellent breakfast sandwich -- fried egg with cheddar and bacon on a house-made English muffin. While you wait for them to assemble it, you can work your way through brioche, cinnamon rolls, sticky buns, muffins, you get the idea.

Redd - Redd serves quintessential refined California cusine. You can order a la carte or have a five-course tasting menu where the chef gives a different course to you and your dining companion. Of course we went that route and were able to taste 10 different courses. They were all precious and delicious. Service was fantastic. The dining room was hip yet warm.

Morimoto - Cavernous and loud, a dining room befitting a Food Network rock star. The food is fine, but not overwhelming. Morimoto is no Nobu, it's no Sushi Sasabune in Honolulu. But a raw oyster and seared foie gras appetizer was ridiculously yummy. The sushi was fresh and reasonably priced. The desserts, usually an afterthought at Japanese restaurants, were the highlight of the night. We had a sushi rice pudding with tropical fruit that surpassed all rice puddings that have come before it.

7&8 Vineyards - The serious cyclist would love the long, twisty, winding, shaded climb up Spring Mountain Road to 7&8 Vineyards, a vanity winery by an East Coast hedge-fund guy. We went not so much for their Cabernet, which is exquisite, but for the rotunda-style tasting room with floor-to-ceiling windows. The view of the Valley floor below is jaw-dropping. The production facility below looks exactly like Walter White's meth lab in the most recent season of "Breaking Bad."

Cade Winery - Oil money, not collateralized-debt obligations, gave us Cade, on the eastern side of the valley up another bicyclist's delight of a climb on Howell Mountain. Cade has a LEED-certified contemporary-style tasting room with its own marvelous views of the Valley floor. Their Cabernet is no joke either.

Midnight in the Garden of Smarter Pacing

2011-11-07T17:38:00.000-08:00

We went to Savannah and Tybee Island over the weekend. The original plan was for the TW to run the inaugural Rock -n- Roll Savannah Half Marathon while the boys and I offered race support. But life conspired to limit the TW's training regimen and, rather than slog through the race on principle, she gave me her bib number and offered me these words of encouragement: "Just try not to embarrass me."

We left Asheville mid-day on Friday and reached the Talmadge Bridge in record time. Unfortunately, we missed the Hutchinson Island exit and went over the bridge into Savannah wondering what all those people were doing in the opposite lanes -- a two-lane traffic jam extending the entire length of the bridge and into downtown Savannah. Guess what? They were trying to get into the expo. As were we. It took us about 90 minutes to cover 2 1/2 miles. We raced through the expo, picking up the TW's bib and chip, as well as a round-trip ticket for the Tybee Island shuttle.

We then rushed to Tybee to prepare a pasta dinner for friends, two of whom were running the full Monty in the morning. We made it just in time, had our guests over, had a nice meal, cleaned up, laid out my outfit, and collapsed around 11 PM. At 4:30, I was awake. At 5:15 AM, I was at one of the Tybee Island pick-up spots. It turned out I picked the right one. Apparently, several hundred other runners were at the second stop, a stop known to everyone but the bus drivers.

Our bus driver got lost on the way into Savannah, but eventually got us close to Bay Street. I searched out an extra bib pin -- a race-morning first for me -- as the race packet contained only one so my bib was hanging at a flimsy angle. A found a runner willing to spare a pin so I was able to straighten out the bib number. It was a breezy morning so I would have to endure a "flapper" all race. It was also chilly, and runners huddled in the hotel lobbies along Bay Street. At 7:00, I went jog for 15 minutes. At 7:15, I entered my designated corral - No. 7. Corrals were not monitored.

The race started at 7:30. We crossed the start line around 7:35 or so. After my debacle in Bethel, I was determined to run a smart, conservative race. Instead of running the first two miles in 7:08 or so, I went 7:50, 7:48, 7:46. The course was crowded and I spent plenty of time weaving around and squeezing through runners. For the next three miles, I went 7:45, 7:30, 7:28. I thought I would be running faster than that, but my legs felt heavy. Heck, my whole body felt heavy. Maybe because I was carrying the consequences of our San Francisco / Napa vacation. For the next three, I went 7:37, 7:29, 7:25. I felt decent, all things considered, even if I had no "fast" gear. Coming home, I went 7:24, 7:34, 7:28, and 7:20. My finishing time was 1:39:15.

Although this is well below my half-marathon potential, I was generally happy with my performance. Here was a situation where I was probably in slightly worse shape than Bethel, I was coming off a slothful week of vacation, and I had spent most of the day before in the car. Yet I still ran 4 1/2 minutes faster than Bethel. The course was easier, but it was the pacing that made the real difference. It's always a great feeling when you run a negative split, when your the passer and not the passee in the latter stages of the race, and when your last 5K is faster than your first 5K (unless you're running a 5K, which means you got lost.)

The race ended at Forsyth Park under giant oaks sporting beards of Spanish moss. It took 1:39 to finish the race, another 1:17 waiting in line for the first Tybee Island shuttle to pick us up and take us home. They will need to work through some the pre- and post-race logistical issues, but once they do so, I think this will be a popular race. The half-marathon course is flat with many long straightaways. It could be hot and humid, but this race weekend was cold and dry. If you arrived in Savannah early, went to the expo on Friday morning, and stayed at a downtown hotel, you probably had a great race weekend.

Valley Boy

2011-11-01T17:51:00.000-07:00

Moving north from San Francisco to Napa -- Yountville, specifically -- allowed for a change of running terrain. I'm sure there are incredible trail systems on either side of the Valley and if you're a cyclist looking for an epic climb culminating in great Cabernet, visit the Spring Mountain or Howell Mountain AVAs. On the Valley floor, however, you basically run east to west to east on dirt or paved roads between Highway 29 and the Silverado Trail. The roads are flat and the smell of grapes was overwhelming, even if most of the Valley grapes had already been picked in what the winemakers were calling a "mercy harvest." I only ran one morning in Napa. It was about 35 degrees and crisp when I left the hotel. I hadn't brought any cold-weather clothes so I moved at a quick clip to hasten warmth. I ran for about 45 minutes and counted nine hot-air balloons floating through the Valley. Then we went to Calistoga to take the mud 70s style -- 1870s. I counted that medicinal volcanic ash mud bath as a second workout.

Kissed by the Embers

2011-10-31T17:50:00.000-07:00

At Saison, you enter through this courtyard.

The night before we left San Francisco, we had dinner at Saison, a year-old restaurant in the Mission District run by Chef Joshua Skenes, age 32. A few hours before we arrived at the stable-turned restaurant, Michelin awarded it two stars. Our meal at Saison was one of the most wonderful that we've ever had -- ambitious, exquisite dishes of astounding flavor and complexity served in a sophisticated but relaxed setting. It didn't hurt that the soundtrack, incongruous at first and then just plain awesome, was a late-80s pop tribute. (Upon inquiry, we were told it was a customized "Hall and Oates" Pandora. I can go for that.)

Saison was, by far, the culinary high-water mark of our trip. You enter the restaurant through a long courtyard. The restaurant itself is small and L-shaped, a single dining room with an open kitchen at one end, and then, adjacent to it, a glass wall with a couple of doors looking out on a courtyard. The courtyard has tables, a small bar, and, more importantly, a giant hearth with a dude wearing a giant oven mitt working it like Vulcan. All night, food would pass back and forth between the hearth -- where it was sent to "kiss the embers" -- to the sleek kitchen.

The menu is intriguing, short on description but long on judicious use of fonts.

There is one menu at Saison. Other than inquiring about allergies, I don't think there's much in the way of substitutions. The menu itself is mysterious. Ours said: Eggs, cru, roots, brassica, wild spotted deer, preserved lemon 1:27, chocolate. The wine pairings were hand-written underneath these courses. The "eggs" included a caviar course, a shot glass of trout roe, and then a boiled and prepared chicken egg that, to taste any fresher, would require you to perform an illicit act with a hen.

The cru included bluefin tuna tartare served with some sort of shrimp tortilla chip. The chip was the apotheosis of the dried shrimp I ate as a kid. The tuna was so delicious it would make Nobu's knees buckle. The chef followed that with an oyster from some exotic locale on a half-shell. There was also another fish tartare served in a chicken gelee -- am I remembering that correctly? That required a leap of faith to get from spoon to mouth, but it was yummy.

From there we moved on to roots and brassica -- roasted leaves from the brassica family of greens. That's mustards and cabbages and the like. I had to look that up. A dish might have some impossibly thin roasted leaves packed with flavor, then combined with red quinoa, a quail egg, etc. They also gave us some rolls baked in the hearth with some fresh churned butter. They could shut down the restaurant and open a bakery with those rolls.

I should stop right here to point something out -- this was a meal light on meat. No foie gras, no sweetbreads, only one true meat course, the succulent, not at all gamy deer. But even that consisted of only three small cubes. Nevertheless, by the end of the meal, all we had room for was more Hall and Oates.

The first dessert was called Preserved Lemon 1:27. It is the best lemon dessert the world has ever seen. I see foodies holding signs up saying "Preserved Lemon 1:27" at food and wine festivals the way that rainbow-Afro dude did with "John 3:16" at major sporting events. The 1:27 refers to January 27, 2011, the date the kitchen preserved some Meyer lemons. They're preserved, then rinsed, then candied, then layered into a custard, sorbet, and gelee topped with a Chrysanthemum foam. Out of this world. I found a picture from another food blog:

Lemon has never been put to better use.

The lemon was followed by a chocolate course and then some popcorn ice cream that was smooth and creamy and tasted exactly like buttered popcorn. All told, I think we had 15 or so courses and were there for about 2 1/2 hours. When it was over, the restaurant called us a driver and presented us with two menus (in case we get divorced) and a hand-written thank you note from the kitchen. The thank-you note was in an envelope sealed with a Saison wax seal. We loved that little touch, the way we loved every bite in this remarkable restaurant.

Bridge Work

2011-10-27T07:24:00.000-07:00

From here.

To here.

Then to here.

Well I didn't actually touch the Golden Gate Bridge on Wednesday morning, but I did come close. I ran to within .4 miles, when I reached a set of steep steps that I had no desire to climb. On a previous trip, I had gone over the bridge (on a bike). It was another glorious morning in SF -- Crissy Field was filled with runners and walkers -- and not even the previous night's wine pairings could keep me from putting in about 11 miles at a decent clip. But alas, it was time to say goodbye to SF and move north to the wine country. See you next time, SF.

And I turned around here.

Sausage & Beer

2011-10-26T18:52:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I walked from the part of Golden Gate Park that includes the Japanese Tea Gardens, California Academy of Sciences, and de Young Museum east until I exited the Park. Then I walked up Haight Street for a mile or more. Man, you know you lost the revolution when the first thing you see on Haight Street is a Whole Foods and a McDonald's. If it was any consolation, both establishments' exterior walls were being held up by clusters of sad-looking, dead-eyed kids. Runaways if I had to guess, runaways who need to run back.

But I wasn't there to bemoan the plight of this new iteration of Dharma bum. I was on the hunt for one of the best cheap lunches in SF. So I pressed on through the "lower" Haight to the tonier "upper" Haight, which, for you Ashevillians is like the difference between the College and Patton Street sides of the Drum Circle. Back to lunch. On the recommendation of a friend, I was on the hunt for Rosamunde Grill, where inside a tiny store-front you can order a grilled sausage from the counter and the dude in the pony-tail will pluck it from the glass display to his left, spin around, and grill it for you on a small open-flamed grill. $6 gets you two well-endowed links of andouille, lamb merguez, bratwurst, beer sausage, vegan, boar, and maybe 6 or more other choices. It comes tucked in a soft bun with onions, peppers, or kraut, or all three.

You take your lunch and you exit the Rosamunde and walk next door to the Toronado, which has a line of taps that would make the jaw drop of even the most jaded Asheville beer snob. The music in there is loud, but you don't notice because for an additional $4 ($3 pint plus $1 tip), you are enjoying your lamb merguez with the works and washing down the spiciness with a Drake's "Alpha Session." And then, when you finish lunch and you're really starting to enjoy the heavy metal and the incomparable scene, and you're amazed that no one has kicked your @ss yet, you order a North Coast Old No. 38 Stout -- you know, for dessert.

Time Travels.

2011-10-25T17:46:00.000-07:00

You will know it by this sign.

We started last night at Bourbon and Branch, a "modern" speakeasy not far from Union Square. It's a bar that requires a reservation. And a password. And there's no sign. But despite the quasi-Disney theatrics in their desire to re-create the ambiance of Prohibition-era America, or maybe because of them (to say nothing of the hostess in the flapper dress), the joint (that was our password) is a must-visit if you're serious about cocktails. No cell phones. No cameras. Very little vodka. Great 1920s jazz and folk music. The main bar is small and candle-lit. Think brick walls and pressed-tin ceiling, leather and wood mini-booths. The bartenders, in vests and ties, know how to agitate a cocktail shaker. They were in the vanguard of America's cocktail renaissance and new found love for classic and re-invented cocktails with names that don't end with the suffix -tini. We had elderflower champagne cocktails and then I moved on to "The Clermont Affair" - a brown liquor drink with dominant flavors of pear-infused rye and cloves. Smooth and strong. The TW had a frothy gin-based affair of her own. No snacks inside B&B. Not even a bag of Funyuns. I asked an emaciated hostess if she had any mixed nuts and she begged me to share some with her if we found any. It makes for a dangerous situation with so many enticing cocktails on the menu. That's the only flaw in there. Otherwise, it's a unique temple to the wonderful world of spirits. If you want to do flights of hard-to-get bourbon, this is your place. There's an altar to Pappy Van Winkle in the corner.

From the 20s, our time machine -- a Prius Taxi -- deposited us into the 1980s, specifically whenever it was that they shot the original "Wall Street." I am talking about dinner at Restaurant Gary Danko, the most popular restaurant in SF according to Zagat. If it's the most popular restaurant in SF, it has to be great right? I don't want to say that Gary Danko isn't any good. We thought the food was likable enough -- too rich and buttery for us, but certainly well-prepared. Gary Danko is simply stuck in a time warp. It's like it's 1987 in there, which is weird because I don't think the restaurant is that old. The decor -- lots of mirrors and fake flowers and glowing orange -- makes you wonder if the amuse-bouche is going to be a line of cocaine. The dining room is packed tighter than an NFL goal-line stand and it has to be one of the noisiest restaurants I've ever visited. They had many patrons standing in the bar area, just off the main dining room, and waiters would wade through this hungry crowd with dishes for the diners as the waiting patrons leaned into each place for a better vantage of which round (and many of the dishes were round, as if the craft of cooking means the ability to wield a cookie cutter) dish was going out. It seemed a little awkward to us. The food -- foie gras with figs, lobster tail, pork belly, bison, sea bass -- tasted fine, but it just seemed hopelessly outdated. There was nothing truly interesting on the menu which, though only one page double-sided, came bound in leather. It was standard French-American fare that relied heavily on butter in the accompanying sauces. The dishes were so rich that, after three courses, we had to cancel our dessert orders. We've never done that before. The wait staff was impeccably professional and friendly in their suits with their little lapel pins. Only two pieces of flair per waiter. You can't blame them. They brought us some sad little mignardises and a loaf of banana bread for the road.

Gary Danko is fine for what it is, and it is a value in my opinion. It may be the SF's favorite restaurant, it's just not anywhere near the best.

To Willie Mays and Back

2011-10-25T17:15:00.000-07:00

This morning, I ran down Market Street to the Bay Trail and headed east (or south). It was another beautiful morning in SF and runners and cyclists crowded the promenade. I ran past the Hi-Dive Bar and Red's Java Lounge to AT&T Park, looped around behind it and had the backside of the Park and McCovey Cove to myself. I then ran back to the Ferry Building, past it, and did some hill work on the outskirts of North Beach. Only 50 minutes this morning, but still a joyful 10K, give or take. I followed it up with several miles of walking -- in skinny jeans no less -- in Golden Gate Park and Haight-Ashbury. Tomorrow, we're taking aim at the Golden Gate Bridge.

On a Mission.

2011-10-25T07:14:00.000-07:00

Who pays $20 in cab fare for a shot at $5 worth of the best donuts in San Francisco? I do. But imagine my horror and disappointment when I was deposited deep in the Mission District, far from the comfort of my familiar hotel surroundings, and came face-to-face with Dynamo Donuts clad in an aluminum awning like a knight girded for battle. Closed on Mondays. Oh the inhumanity! How could I not have that in my notes? But not to worry, I always have a Plan B. I walked several blocks to a place called Knead Patisserie only to find a locked door. Closed on Mondays. Why, oh Pastry Gods, do you conspire against me?

I had no Plan C. So I doubled back on 24th Street and went to Philz Coffee Shop (voted best coffee in SF Weekly!) The croissant was unremarkable, but the coffee was excellent. They make it one cup at a time. Three baristas work four cups each, setting a filter into a drip mechanism, filling it with freshly-ground beans, pouring hot water, then letting it drip into your cup. I had the #4 "Jacob's Wonderbar Brew" with cream and sugar and it was a superlative cup of coffee. I retired to a communal table, sipped my coffee, was adopted by a group of hipsters as one of their own, and listened to female-only 80s tunes for an hour or so: "Only in My Dreams." "Opposites Attract." "Papa Don't Preach." "Dress You Up in My Love." "Point of No Return."

"Toy Soldiers" finally chased me from Philz and I hit the streets to find "al pastor" tacos at a tacqueria with plenty of buzz. But the TW called to say she was free from her conference and wanted to reconnoiter at the Ferry Building for ahi burgers and ahi poke tacos at Gott's, the upscale diner formerly known as Taylor's Automatic Refresher. The street cred street food tacos would have to wait for another time.

I would also have to pass on my plan to enjoy the Mission District ice cream triumvirate of Mitchell's, Bi-Rite, and Humphry Slocumbe. I did stop at HS and had a pre-lunch dessert -- a single scoop of "secret breakfast" -- vanilla, bourbon, and corn flakes. It was delicious, as if it could be anything but.

Before Leaving Asheville . . .

2011-10-24T11:28:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, the day before we flew out, I met a friend at 6:15 who needed to bang out 22 miles before tapering for Chickamauga. About 35 or so and dark, the waning gibbous moon (Guess whose so has been doing a Moon Journal for the last month?) the only illumination to light our way, we set out from Weaver and went deep into the heart of Biltmore Forest, around Carrier Park, and back. When it was over, we had negative-split the second half of the course and run 21.6 give or take. I felt like I was getting stronger the longer we were out there. Maybe it was the tights. And this was on the heels of a 9-mile effort on Thursday with 6 at 7:20/mile pace. I believe it was Winston Churchill who said: "Can't keep a man like Flavor down."

San Francisco Chow: The Slanted Door

2011-10-24T11:22:00.000-07:00

The view from the outdoor tables at TSD.

Wildly popular and wildly crowded, I think The Slanted Door is still a great place for a meal in San Francisco, particularly if you can get a table looking out at the illuminated Bay Bridge while you nibble on yellowtail crudo or spring rolls dipped in chili pepper-spiced peanut sauce. It's remarkable that the food and service are as good as they are, given the volume of diners moving through the "new" space in the Ferry Building. Just like the last time we were in SF, the TW said she wanted the "Shaking Beef," to which I replied, "My pleasure. I thought you'd never ask. How about for your entree?" Rim shot! The shaking beef -- the dish that made them famous -- was superb, as was the Japanese eggplant. Heck, even the jasmine rice was hot and delicious. For dessert, caramelized pineapple, pineapple sorbet, and tapioca. Tropical and yummy. We also had a Vietnamese coffee, where the ratio of coffee to condensed milk is 50/50. Crazy tasty.

San Fartlekisco

2011-10-24T09:27:00.000-07:00

Woke up to fog this morning and no Boulevard / Slanted Door hangover could keep me from lacing them up and heading outside. Man, I love running in San Francisco. This morning it was in the 50s and moist. I ran from the hotel through sleepy Chinatown and North Beach to the Bay then along the Bay past Fort Morgan to the Marina District and back. It was the fastest 63 minutes of running that I can recall. I did the second-half fartlek style to shake out the stiffness from yesterday's travels and because I was so giddy that I just wanted to pick it up. Tomorrow, I'm not stopping until I touch the Golden Gate Bridge. But for now, it's off with the Lululemon running outfit, on with skinny jeans and the "boots." I hear there's good eats in the Mission District.

Atlanta-Hartsfield Airport Chow: One Flew South

2011-10-24T09:21:00.000-07:00

Our trip to San Francisco started poorly. Sitting in the Asheville airport, we waited 2 1/2 hours past our scheduled departure while the mechanic (1) arrived and (2) tried to fix the plane. Best lines from the Delta agent who was a dead ringer for Ricky Gervais's partner on the "Ricky Gervais Show" (the one with the glasses): "There's just a bulb that won't light up and the mechanic just needs to get it to light up." One hour later: "we're getting some jumper cables to see if we can't get her started." Forty-five minutes later: "Engines are running and we're just trying to get the smell out of the cabin." Thirty minutes later: "Just going to fill out some paperwork and you'll be on your way."

Needless to say, we missed two connections in Atlanta and had plenty of time to spare before going stand-by on a third. And that's when our fortunes changed. We took the train to Terminal E -- the international hub, as best I could tell -- and had lunch at One Flew South. OFS is, quite simply, the best meal you will ever eat in an airport and a restaurant that will take the Pepsi Challenge against most of the restaurants in your town. I had read about it in "Food and Wine," where it was praised, but I didn't know if it was hype or the real deal. it is the latter. The chef has a pedigree in serious Southern kitchens and he's created a Southern restaurant with Asian influences. I know of no other place where you can get pork belly sliders and sushi. And where both are excellent. The pork belly has a crispy skin but is moist within, served on a toasted bun with a house-made pickle and paper-thin fried parsnips. The sushi chefs are American but they know the craft and they're working with fresh fish. I also had a pulled duck sandwich with scallions, a peanut sauce, and a side of slaw. It was ridiculously succulent and delicious.

We sat down at noon and our waiter said they weren't supposed to serve alcohol until 12:30. But he poured us a glass of wine and a Sweetwater and said he wouldn't ring it up for another 30 minutes. Yes, great food and great service. And a cool dining room too -- wood-slatted walls, modern white chairs, a photo of a trees gracing the wall behind the sushi counter. The place reminded me of Nobu.

It was much more expensive than California Pizza Express, but well worth it. And wouldn't you know that when we left our meal and walked to Gate A29, they had two remaining stand-by seats and let us on the plane.

Profiles in Bonking

2011-10-09T04:37:00.000-07:00

"All or nothin' at all,

half a love never appealed to me."

The sky could not be bluer on Saturday morning, the air could not be crisper, the fall leaves running up and down the mountains that form the valley around Canton could not be more brilliantly colored. It was a perfect morning for racing, a morning when each cold breath felt invigorating and held out the promise of something special. And so it was only natural that I would find a way to screw it up. When asked what I hoped to run at the Bethel 1/2 Marathon, I told my friends 1:35 or 1:45. In other words, I was setting an ambitious goal and -- if I misjudged my fitness -- there would be a brutal reckoning. And that seemed funny at the time, but when I bonked 7 miles into the race and -- having come through the first loop of the course -- had to resist the temptation to step off the course and into my car, I was not laughing. I was muttering to myself that I was a damned idiot.

1:35 is 7:15 pace. I've been doing fairly aggressive speed work and I thought that pace would be challenging but doable. Whenever you set a lofty goal like that, you want to run the first part of the course cautiously. Ease into it. Use the first three miles to cut-down to goal pace. Don't try to go wire-to-wire at pace. And you don't want to go out in just over 14 minutes for the first two miles, then try to muscle up a taxing climb in mile 3. It's just dumb, a lesson I've learned the hard way more times than I care to remember. Although I'm a Masters runner I'm clearly still not a crafty veteran. I'm not even wily. I remember the past, but I'm still doomed to repeat it. So to recap, I set a goal that was too ambitious and then I went out even faster than that goal. Bad plan and worse implementation. Is this why I continue to get passed over for the MacArthur Genius Grant?

By mile 6, I could feel my legs tightening and getting heavier and heavier. By mile 7, I knew I had grossly overestimated what I could do on this course, which should be pointed out is easier than what we have in Asheville, but far from easy. By mile 8, the only question was whether I could shuffle home or would have to walk it in. "1:35 or 1:45! Ha Ha!" "Who is laughing now, you dumb c@ck-sucker?" Let me just suggest that this is not the ideal mantra for a distance runner with 5 miles of rolling hills in front of him. I made it to the finish line in 1:43 after a humiliating Conga line of smarter-pacing runners passed me. I had almost called my shot on the "over." It has been a long time since I suffered like that at the end of a race. It was no fun. But it was a valuable training lesson. Humiliation can lead to motivation. I'll get a chance at redemption in November and then again in December.

We want more Pink Taco.

2011-10-04T17:56:00.000-07:00

In a town with many excellent taco offerings, the Pink Taco Truck stands alone. We love the lineup at Mamacita's, especially the "Super Shrimp" tacos and the rare occasions when James will put Hickory Nut Gap pork belly on the menu. We also love the new White Duck in the River Arts District. White Duck's "Bangkok Shrimp" is the taco P.F. Chang's would make if it made tacos. And we mean that in a good way. We also love the smoky-spicy duck mole.

But the Pink Taco Truck rises above them both. Today I visited them as they idled in front of an abandoned BP station on the culinary corridor of Charlotte Street. They had four tacos on the menu: Chimichurri chicken, chipotle pork, red chile beef, and savory pumpkin. I got the chicken and pork with chips and salsa. $6 with tax. Both tacos were generously stuffed and ridiculously flavorful. They had cooked that meat low and slow for a long time. It was infused with taste and love. I defy you to find a better lunch deal in Asheville.

Fly Boys

2011-10-03T17:30:00.000-07:00

VO2Max and I ran the Asheville Airport Runway 5K on a ridiculously blustery Saturday morning. I don't know if this is a one-time race to celebrate the airport's 50th anniversary, or if they expect to make this an annual event. If the latter, I have to assume that it is causing angina to many TSA agents. Between getting bussed into the bowels of the airport grounds to mulling around on the tarmac, the whole event felt like "Jericho Mile" meets "Three Days of the Condor." I checked our race bag and my trusted Rocky hoodie ended up at LaGuardia. Given the popularity of Saturday's race -- they had to have over 1,000 runners braving the cold -- I suspect they will try to do it again next year. It is an extremely fast course for Asheville. It didn't yield any fast times on Saturday, but only because it was blowing 25-30 MPH. The course is dead flat and feels like it was laid out with an Etch-a-Sketch. You run 1/2 mile in one way then make a 180 and go back another 1/2 mile, then a quick left, then a right for a mile, then a left, then remove all metal objects and walk through the scanner, then a right for another mile back the way you came, then a left and you're done. The first part of the course has you running on the runway -- a neat feature. Before the race, they had airplanes and really big trucks for everyone to check out. VO2Max has two speeds -- full sprint and full stop. In other words, he is exactly like every other recreational runner in America. We used that herky-jerky style to finish the course in just over 40 minutes. I think that was a PR for VO2Max. For me, it was a great morning with the little man.

Laying down the bundt

2011-09-24T10:22:00.000-07:00

Four weeks ago, we were enjoying Cubanos at the Dripolator when VO2Max revealed that he really liked bundt cake. And so, being a good father and decent baker, I have baked a bundt cake per week for the last month for him. We've had cinnamon, chocolate swirl, apple, and banana. We feed it to him for breakfast and as a school snack. No one is going to give us a medal for exemplary childhood nutritional standards, but it could be much worse. I thought the double apple, adapted from Dorie Greenspan's Baking: From My Home to Yours, was the best so far, and is perfect for this time of year.

Double Apple Bundt Cake

Makes 12 servings

2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon salt
10 tablespoons (1 1/4 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 1/2 cups sugar
2 large eggs
1 cup store-bought apple butter, spiced or plain
2 medium apples, peeled, cored and grated

Optional glaze:

1/3 cup confectioners' sugar
about 2 tablespoons lemon juice, orange juice, (or milk or water, whatever you've got)

Position a rack to the center of the oven and preheat it oven to 350 degrees. Butter a 12-cup nonstick Bundt pan, or if yours is not nonstick, butter and flour it, too.

Whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, spices and salt. Set aside.

In the bowl of an electric mixer, cream together the butter and sugar on medium speed until light, fluffy and pale in color, about 3 minutes. Scrape down the bowl. Beat in the eggs one at a time. Scrape down the bowl again. Reduce the speed to low and mix in the apple butter--don't worry if the batter looks curdled at this point. Mix in the grated apples. With the mixer still running on low speed, stir in the dry ingredients gradually. When just a few streaks of flour remain, stir in the nuts and raisins. Stop the mixer and give the batter a few folds by hand just to make sure everything's incorporated.

Scrape the batter into the prepared pan, and bake until a toothpick comes out clean inserted deeply into the center of the cake comes out clean, about 50 to 55 minutes. Let cool on a wire rack for about 10-15 minutes before unmolding it onto the rack to cool completely.

If you want to glaze the cake, stir together the confectioners' sugar and your liquid of choice, a tiny bit at a time, until the glaze falls easily off the end of a spoon. Place the cake on a serving plate. Drizzle the cake generously with the glaze, letting it drip down the sides of the cake. Alternatively, you can dust the cake with confectioners' sugar just before serving. This cake keeps beautifully at room temperature for up to 4 days, or up to 2 months in the freezer.

Pacemaker

2011-09-18T04:43:00.000-07:00

A first for me on Saturday: I was a pace leader in a race. It was the Asheville Citizen-Times Half Marathon (You don't see many pace teams at 5Ks -- why is that?), which with over 2,300 runners (including the un-paced 5K) has rapidly grown into the largest race in Western North Carolina. It amazes me that so many people run this race, because the course is a thrill ride of pain, just unrelenting hills, one after another. You half expect a carnival worker to ask for your ticket before you start the race. I have an eye on running something fast at the Bethel 1/2 in three weeks, so I did not want to put in an all-out effort for the ACT. So I volunteered to pace the 1:50 group -- 8:23/mile -- so I could combine a quality training run with a moving (but no less captive) audience for my stand-up routine. Non-sanctioned port-o-let, ten o'clock! Right, then right, then a sucker punch of a hill! I was paired with J.C., who is local running elite in these parts. So even if I went down, our group was assured to have someone steady and strong to get them home.

It was a great morning for racing, low 50s and overcast at the 7:15 start. We would get a little drizzle at the end, but no one seemed to notice. I have had mixed luck with pacers at races where I was the pacee -- some were too fast, others quit two-thirds into the race -- and so I really wanted to clip through the splits with as much metronome-like consistency as possible. The problem is the course is never flat and it's impossible to run even splits. So we tried to run even effort, opening it up when we could, relaxing and grinding when we had to. There was another problem. The Mile 2 marker was short -- somewhere between 1/4 to 1/2 mile it seemed. Our split through Mile 2 was something like 6:40, simply not possible. The mile distance between the rest of the mile markers was accurate, but we kept waiting for the course to self-correct. It never did. So surprise: one of the most difficult road half-marathons in the country is short by at least 1/4 mile and maybe more. Short but sadistic. They should put that phrase on the promotional literature next year.

We didn't want to miss our goal -- we wanted a whole pack of little 49ers crossing with us -- so we paced on the expectation that the mile markers were short. We also knew that with the course's Tour de France finish, our charges needed a cushion to survive the grind up Broadway and then the final summiting of Walnut. So when the course didn't self-correct, we found ourselves arriving early to the finish line. We reached the top of Walnut in about 1:45 or so and basically walked in to go under the banner at about 1:47. Many of our runners pushed out ahead of us at Mile 11 or so, and they finished with fantastic times. I know two guys at least who ran PRs. For the rest of the group, I hope we weren't too fast. The last thing we wanted to do was push people too hard in the early part fo the race. We had the best intentions and I think if the course was the proper distance, we would have come in right on time at 1:49.

Pacing was fun. It looked like our group was having a great time out there. I felt wonderful. The only time I felt like I was truly exerting myself was on the Lookout climb. As a runner, and an Asheville resident, it's almost a civic obligation to participate in this race. Pacing was a great way to do that. I think the race director can make some improvements to the pace teams that will help future runners. I'll talk to him about it. And maybe next year I'll be in shape to pace the 1:40 crowd.

Creme de la Creme of the Pots de Creme

2011-09-12T15:00:00.000-07:00

Here's a knockout dessert -- one that rocketed into the pantheon of "best salty-sweet treats ever" -- from this month's Food & Wine. If you love butterscotch and if you love pudding or creme brulee, then this is the dessert for you. (This butterscotch version should not be confused with the all-together distasteful Cambodian version, the Pol Pot de Creme.) We thought it was so ridiculously delicious that we made it two weekends in a row. 8 servings, 2 weekends, do the math.

Don't let the water bath scare you. The trick is to set the baking pan on the rack, then pour the water. I learned that lesson the hard way. Actually, VO2Max did, but I'm sure those burn marks will disappear in time. You can also ruin a pot and burn your face off making the caramel sauce if you're not careful and, to be honest, it's not necessary to complete this dish.

Butterscotch Pots de Crème with Caramel Sauce

ACTIVE: 30 MIN
TOTAL TIME: 1 HR 30 MIN PLUS 4 HR COOLING
SERVINGS: 8

INGREDIENTS

Pots de Crème
1 1/2 sticks unsalted butter
1 cup dark brown sugar
5 cups heavy cream
1 scant tablespoon fine sea salt
1 vanilla bean, seeds scraped
6 large egg yolks
Boiling water

Caramel Sauce
1 cup sugar
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
Whipped crème fraîche and Maldon sea salt, for serving

DIRECTIONS

Preheat the oven to 325°. In a large saucepan, melt the butter. Add the brown sugar and cook over moderately high heat, whisking constantly, until smooth and bubbling, about 5 minutes. Gradually whisk in the cream. Return the mixture to a boil, whisking constantly. Add the salt and vanilla seeds.
In a large heatproof bowl, whisk the egg yolks. Gradually whisk in the hot cream mixture. Strain the custard into eight 6-ounce ramekins. Set the ramekins in a small roasting pan and place it in the middle of the oven. Fill the roasting pan with enough boiling water to reach halfway up the sides of the ramekins. Cover with foil and bake for 1 hour, until the custards are set but still slightly wobbly in the center. Transfer the ramekins to a baking sheet and refrigerate until chilled, 4 hours.
In a medium saucepan, mix the sugar with 2 tablespoons of water and cook undisturbed over high heat, until a deep amber caramel forms, 6 minutes. Using a moistened pastry brush, wash down any crystals from the side of the saucepan from time to time. Remove from the heat. Add 2/3 cup of water and stir until smooth. Let the caramel sauce cool, then stir in the vanilla.
Top the pots de crème with the caramel sauce and whipped crème fraîche, sprinkle with Maldon sea salt and serve.

Live-Blogging Boston Marathon Registration

2011-09-12T05:46:00.000-07:00

We are live-blogging registration for the Boston Marathon, which opens today for those runners who beat their qualifying standard by 20 minutes or more. So far, registrants include a passel of runners who ran track in high school and college, several "freaks of nature" from local running clubs, that 55-year old piece of gristle from around the way, and four female friends with a combined body fat percentage under four. Good luck registrants!

Boston Marathon to Require New Essay Section

2011-09-05T08:51:00.001-07:00

With registration for the 2012 Boston Marathon one week away, it's probably a good idea to review the new registration and application requirements. The biggest change this year is the introduction of the new essay section. Boston has not released the topic yet, but there's a rumor circulating that the question is "From Boston Runner to 'Blade Runner': Discuss the meaning and significance of the BAA's unicorn symbol."

Beyond the essay section, we have the new "rolling admission" process whereby you can register earlier if your qualifying time is significantly faster than other registrants. In summary, you can register on the first day if your qualifying time is 20 minutes or more faster than the qualifying standard, n the third day if you were 10 minutes faster, and the fifth day if you were 5 minutes faster. But the BAA has also incorporated these "adjusters" to your qualifying time:

If you ever finished a marathon, then went back out on the course to "run people in," add 15 minutes to your time.
If you've run Boston for 10 years in a row, we're sorry but you're disqualified. Time to give someone else a chance.
If you have ever said "Park the car in Harvard Yard," add 10 minutes to your time.
In the next 45 seconds, name every movie starring Matt Damon, Mark Wahlberg, or Ben Affleck. Subtract 10 seconds per movie from your time.
If you saw "Gigli" with your girlfriend, subtract 5 minutes from your time.
If you saw "Gigli" alone, and you're a dude, congratulations, you have an automatic entry.
If you've listened to "Car Talk" in your car, subtract 1 minute from your time.
If you've listened to "Car Talk" from your house, add 1 minute to your time.
If you ran Boston before, subtract 30 seconds from your time.
If you ran Boston before and purchased one of those Boston jackets, add 1 minute to your time for every local race in which you wore the jacket.
If you ran Boston before and purchased one of those Boston jackets, and wore it to church, add 10 minutes to your time.
If you ran Boston before and got kissed in Wellesley, subtract 45 seconds from your time.
If you ran Boston before and got kissed at Boston College, subtract 45 seconds from your time.
If you ran Boston before and got kissed at Boston College and later pressed charges, subtract 7 minutes from your time.
If you've ever shouted "Nomar!" add 5 minutes to your time.
Look at these two images here and here. Which is John Kelley the Elder? Which is John Kelley the Younger? If you were correct, subtract 2 minutes from you time. If you were incorrect, add 2 minutes to your time.
If you owned a Boston Red Sox cap before 2004, subtract 2 minutes.
If you bought a Boston Red Sox cap after 2004, add 4 minutes.
If you bought a Boston Red Sox cap in pink after 2004, add 14 minutes.
If you watched Jimmy Fallon on "Saturday Night Live," subtract 1 minute.
If you watch "The Jimmy Fallon Show," subtract 3 minutes.
If you have a six-pack of Samuel Adams in your fridge right now, subtract 1 minute. Honor system.
The Boston Massacre is connected with (A) Civil War, (B) American Revolutionary War, or (C) Ultimate Fighting Championship No. 47? If you answered (B), subtract 15 seconds.
If you've ever eaten a lobster roll, subtract 30 seconds.
If you've ever shouted "Let me see your lobster roll!" to the tune of the 69 Boyz song "Tootsie Roll," subtract 2 minutes.
Look away and spell Faneuil Hall. If you were correct, subtract 1 minute.
If you've ever had a conversation about the Boston Marathon, and no one mentioned Heartbreak Hill, subtract 18 minutes.
If you think the Newton Fire Station is where they filmed that one season of "The Real World," add 9 minutes.
Natick, Ashland, Framingham -- which comes first on the course? If you answered Ashland, subtract 1 minute.
If you ran Boston in 2011, and someone in your running club told you that you ran the "Easy Boston," subtract 10 minutes.

Good luck runners. We hope you get in.

BBQ Smackdown: Allen & Son v. Bridges BBQ Lodge

2011-08-30T15:55:00.000-07:00

When you get your driver's license in North Carolina, they also give you a laminated tri-fold map illustrating the North Carolina Historic Barbeque Trail. It looks like the Contract with America, except instead of proposing less taxes, it endorses more outside brown. A couple of weeks ago, work travel included a visit to Allen and Son in Chapel Hill on Monday followed by Bridges Barbeque Lodge in Shelby on Wednesday. Here's how they stack up against each other:

BBQ - Allen & Son was the clear winner, its pork had a deep smoke and hickory flavor. Bridges has a cleaner chop on the pork (My friend got a knuckle in his plate at A&S -- and he didn't even order a knuckle sandwich.), but lacked the depth of flavor I hoped for. My plate was a little dry and a little cold. I had chopped at Bridges. You can also get it sliced.

Sauce - I'm not one who considers liking any sauce other than my own region's apostasy. Both sauces are good. Bridges is tomato-based and A&S's is vinegar-based. I thought A&S had a Goldilocks sauce -- the heat was just right.

Slaw - Allen & Son without a doubt. Bridges serves something called "Red Slaw." I liked it when Hugo Weaving played Red Slaw in Captain America, but I didn't like it as much when it showed up on my plate.

Hushpuppies - Bridges in a landslide. They come out the fryer as franks, not beans. They're crisp on the outside, pillowy inside, a little oil on the fingers. They're unlimited too, the waitress replenishing the basket before you've emptied it.

Dessert - Bridges doesn't have as many options as A&S, but it has excellent banana pudding, and that's really all you need to know.

Sweet Tea - The American Diabetes Association awarded Bridges its "Gold Coma" award for it's shockingly sweet, single-serve pitchers of sweet tea.

Decor - A&S is authentic, faded, wood-paneled, a little dirty. Bridges has a more dipped in amber feel, gorgeous teal booths and a parquet ceiling. Yes, a parquet ceiling. You look up and expect to see the Larry Bird Celtics.

Tastee Memories

2011-08-27T14:16:00.000-07:00

"Put the donuts in the bag and no one gets hurt." When you reach a certain age, your memory starts to falter and, at least in my case, I find myself wondering if a memory is actual history or just my imagination. In those situations, I will turn to other supposed eyewitnesses and ask: "Did that really happen?" I asked that question of my parents and siblings when I was in Louisiana earlier this month, because I wanted to know if this memory was real: Did we, on several childhood evenings, have a large plastic garbage bag filled with stale donuts for dinner? The answer: Yes we did.

I thought so. I distinctly remember my dad -- a burly gentleman crane operator -- coming home with a garbage bag filled with donuts in the flatbed of his pickup truck. I remember us kids running excitedly into the kitchen and fighting over the creme- and jelly-filled choices when he dumped the bag on the formic counter. I remember my mom going: "Whoo hoo! I don't have to cook dinner." I can't remember how often it happened, but if I had to guess, I would say once a week for my entire childhood. The donuts never tasted as good as they would if you'd eaten them at the donut shop or had they arrived in -- oh, I don't know -- a box. We'd put them in the microwave and that usually made matters worse. They'd come out too hard and too hot. But we ate them anyway.

I know where my dad got those donuts -- Tastee Donuts on Barrow Street. It's long gone, just a scarred corner of concrete now. I loved their donuts -- big and yeasty and much bigger and substantial than, say, a Krispy Kreme. Although I know where he got the donuts, I don't know how he got the donuts. I wonder if he accosted some minimum-wage employee in the alley (surely not inside the shop), his tattooed arms menacing under his drilling company uniform, and told him to put the donuts in the bag and no one would get hurt. Did he have to beat the donuts out of him? Surely not every time. Did he have to yell: "It puts the donuts in the basket! I mean garbage bag!" Did the employee resist? Did he say: "Sir, there's a Sunrise Fried Chicken across the street. Wouldn't your family prefer chicken for dinner?" Did my father respond: "Son, I will beat the glaze out of you if you don't do exactly what I say?" Did he say: "Faster! And don't forget those bear claws!"

I don't know the answer to these questions -- maybe I'll never know. All I know is he brought home the bacon and the donuts during my childhood. And we ate both. The irony is that it was probably the most nutritious meal we would have each week. That's why I weighed 105 when I left for college. I asked my dad about all this when I was home, but his eyes just glazed over.

Porkra!

2011-08-23T17:36:00.000-07:00

Hey veggie lover. You, the gardener or the CSA subscriber. Are you being overrun with okra in these waning days of summer? Here's an easy way to put that okra to good use. Marry it with pork (two ways) to create a delicious, slime-free (we promise) "porkra" stew. The recipe is courtesy of Mark Bittman at the New York Times. Serve it over rice or egg noodles.

Okra Stew

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
8 pork ribs, or 4 country-style ribs or pork chops
1/2 pound bacon or ham, cut into chunks
2 small dried red chilies, optional
1 large onion, chopped
2 celery stalks, chopped
1 large carrot, peeled and chopped
2 tablespoons minced garlic
1 pound okra, trimmed and roughly chopped (frozen is fine)
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1/2 cup dry white wine (like Sauvignon Blanc)
1 28-ounce can diced tomatoes with their juice
Chopped fresh parsley leaves for garnish.

Method

1. Put the oil in a deep skillet or large pot over medium-high heat. When it’s hot, add the pork, bacon and chilies, if using, and cook, stirring and turning the pork occasionally, until browned on all sides, 10 to 15 minutes. Remove everything from the pan with a slotted spoon or tongs, leaving the fat behind.
2. Add the onion, celery, carrot, garlic and okra to the pan and sprinkle with some salt and pepper. Cook, stirring occasionally, until soft and brown, 8 to 10 minutes. Add the wine and stir for about a minute to scrape up all the browned bits from the bottom of the pan, then add the tomatoes and 1 cup water.
3. Return the pork, bacon, and chiles to the pot and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat so the mixture bubbles gently, cover the pan and cook, checking every now and then, until the meat is falling off the bone, about 2 hours. Take the pork out of the pan, remove the meat from the bones, roughly chop it, and return it to the pan. Taste and adjust the seasoning, and serve garnished with parsley, if you like.

Running to Manhattan

2011-08-22T17:26:00.000-07:00

It felt like old times on Saturday night, as I celebrated a 2-hour long run with one of my favorite recovery beverages -- the Manhattan. I made this one with Rowan's Creek bourbon, Vya sweet vermouth, a dash of Peychaud's bitters (winking at my Louisiana pedigree), 40 revolutions in a ice-filled shaker, then strained and garnished with two house-brandied cherries. I love a serious cocktail on Saturday night. I'm usually so depleted from the morning effort that mid-way through it, I'm sloshed. I end up having to drink the rest of it with one eye closed, and then I move on to red wine and end up face down in some unfortunate slice of deli cheesecake. I can think of no better way to end the training week.

It wasn't pretty -- the training week, that is -- but it was a start. 37 honest miles. Some sad 400-meter repeats on Tuesday, a tepid tempo run of 2 1/2 miles on Thursday, and 14-plus on Saturday as I hung on for dear life with a couple of much fitter running friends. I'll get back into form, it's just going to take some time. A little speed, a little stamina, a little endurance, a little patience, a little brown liquor or gin. That is the secret to fast racing.

Coincidence in a Cone

2011-08-18T17:20:00.000-07:00

On the day before we left for our "Circle the South" driving tour through North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, and Tennessee (sorry Virginia and Kentucky), I rifled through the August / September issue of Saveur. To refresh our memories, I take Saveur for the pictures, Playboy for the articles. Or is it the other way around? Anyway, Saveur had an article on a fool-proof way to make the creamiest, richest (they used "luscious" as if we were talking about a WWF wrestler) ice cream at home. We're talking ice cream here, not yolk-laden frozen custard. No eggs. The article included a Six-part diagram that involved a stove, sauce pan, corn starch, a bucket of ice, and a resealable Ziploc bag. It's the kind of thing that makes me twitch involuntarily. The technique was courtesy of Jeni Britton Bauer, an ice cream impresario in Ohio and the author of Jeni's Splendid Ice Creams at Home.

Fast forward to Nashville, and we're riding down Eastland in East Nashville, low and slow like the rest of the hipsters, and what do we see across from Rosepepper's, a wallet-on-a-chain toss away from our old condo: Jeni's ice cream shop. It's in a new mixed-use center and all of East Nashville is lined up in there like it's a book signing for Noam Chomsky or a free ticket giveaway for "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me." Guess what? Same Jeni! Apparently, she has one store outside of Ohio and it's in East Nashville. The next day, when the crowd abated, I checked it out for myself. The flavors are exotic (brown butter almond brittle, queen city cayenne, wildberry lavender), the ice cream is -- what's the word -- luscious. I tried sweet corn and raspberry -- yum -- and buttermilk strawberry -- double yum. I'm going to get the cookbook. I'm going to try this at home. If you're in Nashville, I recommend you visit her.

Return to Percy Warner Park

2011-08-15T17:49:00.000-07:00

"How long has it been?" That is what I wondered as I stood outside the stone entrance to Percy Warner Park in Nashville at 5:30 AM on a muggy Saturday morning. Four years plus. May 2007. We had left Louisiana the day before and driven all day to Nashville. I thought about trying to round up a posse of old running friends so I could have some company for my Saturday long run, but given my poor level of fitness, I worried that I would not be able to keep up. But even before we left Louisiana and crossed into Mississippi, I began to think about the 11.2. This was the proving ground when I lived in Nashville, not to mention one of the prettiest courses around, and so I felt that I had to pay my respects.

And so I did. Nashville is a running town, so I was not surprised to find 20 or so runners mustering in the darkness as I arrived. Of course they had the good sense to run away from the park. Daylight was just starting to break when I started. It felt like I had the park to myself. It's a strange thing to return to a once-familiar place after a long absence. As I jogged along, each turn, each rise, each twist brought back old memories. I recognized the park benches and the forks in the road, I knew when to look out for the mile stakes. It was a "total recall" moment as I knew when to expect -- make that dread -- the worst of the climbs. The Park remains a tight roller-coaster challenge, climb following climb, switchbacks leading to more switchbacks, the downhills never quite long enough to compensate for the ascents. I survived the grinds of 3-mile hill and 9-mile (Lunsford) hill. I didn't set the course record -- not even close -- but I completed the 11.2 at a respectable pace and without any walking. It made me wistful, it made me happy. Nashville, I miss you.

New Orleans Chow: Parkway Bakery & Tavern

2011-08-13T13:49:00.001-07:00

On more stop before we leave Louisiana. A friend recommended that I visit Parkway Bakery for po-boys the next time I was in New Orleans. Knowing him to be a man of impeccable culinary credentials, we obliged and sought out the popular neighborhood lunch spot, somewhere in Bayou St. John not too far from City Park. Parkway is one of those classic, oft-flooded New Orleans neighborhood restaurants, bar in front, dining area in back, crowds everywhere. I assume they bake their own French bread, and it's perfect for the task of sandwiching po-boys -- a flaky, forgiving crust without, a soft crumb within. The last thing you want to do when you eat a po-boy is fight to get your teeth through the bread.

While their hot roast beef (debris-style) with gravy sandwich is not quite as good as Price's in Montegut -- the gold standard -- it is still excellent, as exceedingly messy as you would expect, and filling -- the "regular" size sufficient to feed a family of four. When I was finished, it was Po-Boy 1, Lance 0. The fried shrimp po-boy is as good as it gets. The Barq's root beer is available in a bottle or on tap.

I noticed they also sell a fried potato po-boy (likely doused with roast beef gravy). That was one of my favorite sandwiches when I was a kid, and is a blue-collar standard -- and, let's be honest, a fat confrontational middle finger to Dr. Atkins -- in every legitimate sandwich shop from Orleans to Terrebonne Parish.

New Orleans Chow: Tartine Bakery

2011-08-12T14:54:00.001-07:00

I'm just going to come out and say it: The best thing I ate on our trip to Louisiana was a hollowed-out, pillowy soft brioche roll filled with baked eggs and ham. It set me back $6.25 at Tartine Bakery, a little out-of-the-way bakery on Perrier Street, a frisbee throw away from the levee. It was delicious -- a savory, self-contained, one-dish breakfast that could take the Pepsi Challenge against any other. We did not set out to have breakfast at Tartine. We stumbled upon it looking for another breakfast spot, but boy what serendipity. It smelled great in that little one-room bakery, as the chefs (all young women) baked and cooked around us. One gal was grilling flank steak outside on a Weber kettle grill.

The TW had the quiche and it too was awesome. As long as we were carbo-loading, we had a cherry pistachio scone (wonderful) that came with a small glass jar of lemon curd. It comes in a small jar because, if it were any larger, patrons would get their heads stuck in it trying to lick it clean. Next time I'm in town, we're going back.

New Orleans Chow: Sylvain

2011-08-11T18:17:00.000-07:00

Table for three.

Say you're walking through the French Quarter, I mean the heart of the French Quarter, I mean right past Jackson Square with the guy with the giant Voodoo doll and the angry pirate who can't decide if his favorite letter is "R" or the "C," and you're hungry for dinner. If you don't want to go upscale and visit one of the time-warp temples of French-Creole gastronomy (and we love those places), and you don't want to slum it at Crystal on Bourbon either (Crystal Hot Sauce yes, Crystal burgers no thanks), then walk to the 600 block of Chartres and try the neutral ground choice of Sylvain. Sylvain is a really new restaurant in a really old carriage house that serves surprisingly good food at reasonable prices. The menu feels more Southern than it does Louisiana, if you know what I mean -- Louisiana being in the South but not quite Southern like the Carolinas or Mississippi or Alabama. You can get a decent burger and a ridiculous fried chicken breast and house made pickles homage to a Chik-Fil-A sandwich. You can also get chicken liver crostini, "Southern" antipasti, duck confit, and more complicated, locally-sourced fish and meat entrees. It's all quite good. The cocktails sound great but are hit or miss. They all sound intriguing, and some -- like the riff on a Moscow Mule -- were refreshing and delicious. But others, like the gin-driven Pressure Drop, were as undrinkable as anything from the Gem Saloon in "Deadwood." Maybe the bartender / cocktail chef was having an off night. We didn't make it to dessert, but that leaves reason to return the next time we're in town.

Houma Chow: Barrow Street Blowout

2011-08-10T16:18:00.000-07:00

There aren't many restaurants of note in Houma, Louisiana, the place a person from Chauvin would go to when they want to go to "town." I'm not saying you can't find good food in Houma. You can. I have rhapsodized about the chicks from Best Bakery before. Or just visit any Church fair or potluck dinner. With all the seafood and produce available, most people know how to make the most of it at home. As for the restaurant scene, there are seafood restaurants that distinguish themselves by being "almost" as good as what you could do at home. Because everyone in South Louisiana knows how to boil shrimp or crabs or how to deep-fry the life out of anything that once swam in the sea. The restaurants do provide the convenience, however, and they'll clean up the mess and, in the case of boiled crabs, you won't have a pack of feral cats prowling around your garbage cans if you go to town.

So if you do go to town, you could do worse than 1921 Seafood on Barrow Street. We took the family and had huge boiled shrimp and crabs, sausage, corn, potatoes, and dip similar in taste but only slightly thicker than the traditional Chauvin dip. For the person who answers the question "Boiled or Fried?" with "Yes!" you can get a "Trash Bucket" of fried shrimp, oysters, fish, crab claws, frog legs, alligator, french fries, and just about anything else within grabbing distance of the fry chef. It's all seasoned well, spicy but not practical-joke ridiculous, and the prices are reasonable. Service is cheerful and efficient. The decor is camp without being campy, if you know what I mean.

After shoveling down the back fat of that last blue crab, and swearing you could not eat another bite, you can then fold yourself into your car and drive a few blocks to Scarlet Scoop for dessert. Scarlet Scoop was the off-limits ice cream parlor of my youth. We couldn't afford it except on the most special of special occasions. Dad's been paroled again! (Just kidding, Dad.) The bubble gum ice cream I ate there once or twice haunted my memory, a forbidden indulgence that grew only more tastier as the days and months turned to years since the last visit. But now that we're high rollers when it comes to butterfat, we insisted on Scarlet Scoop. The place hasn't changed. You can still get bubble gum ice cream. You can also get super-rich creole cream cheese, probably the best flavor I tasted in there. The sundaes and banana splits are as traditional as they come and best shared.

Chauvin Chow: Mae Mae's Sno-balls

2011-08-09T08:27:00.001-07:00

No trip down the bayou is complete without a visit to Mae Mae's, or Miss Mae's, or Miss Mae Mae's snowball stand, the little wooden shack right off the road and within walking distance of the Chauvin pool, baseball field, and library. For me, it is the taste of childhood. Miss Mae Mae is one of those women who looks exactly the way she did thirty years ago. The snowballs taste the same too. The stand has changed slightly. When I was a kid, the Peanuts characters were painted on the side of the building. Now, it's Tweety Bird. Maybe the Schulz Estate sent her a cease and desist letter. Regardless of the trademark infringement outside, she has a great ice maker within and it produces soft, fluffy ice perfect for snowballs. She is usually generous with the syrup. The flavors all taste artificial -- deliciously artificial. It's a snowball stand -- we don't need cups of artisanal, fresh, hand-squeezed fruit juices over heirloom ice. Nectar. Pineapple. Tom Jones? Best not to ponder what that flavor is supposed to evoke or to lament the use of styrofoam cups. A trip to Miss Mae Mae, whether for a snowball or a "vertical" soft-serve banana split in a cup, does evoke little league baseball wins and losses, swimming lessons at the pool, the fear of the high dive board, the fear of chili Fritos in a bag, reading the Hardy Boys and the Lord of the Rings trilogy at the library, hearing stories from the cool kids about "making out" in the dugout on the first-base line. I've had snowballs, snow cones, sno-cones, and shave ice as far away as Hawaii, and Mae Mae's is my favorite. May her snowball stand last for many more years.

Chicken Runs.

2011-08-08T17:53:00.000-07:00

If you've ever ordered roast chicken at a high-end restaurant and wondered how they could make the skin so crispy while keeping the meat so moist and succulent, well the answer is that they have a variety of tricks. Some of them you can replicate at home, like brining the bird overnight, bringing it to room temperature before cooking, and making sure it is completely dry before going into a hot oven. But restaurants have another advantage: They use these fancy convection steam ovens that not only blast high circulated heat while they cook, they also inject steam into the oven, which helps to keep the meat moist.

Heat and moisture, moisture and heat. Great for chickens, not so great for runners. I felt like one of those chickens last week, when I spent four days in the convection steam oven that is Louisiana. It wasn't quite hot enough here in Asheville, so we drove to South Louisiana for the one-two of 100+ degree temperatures and 100+ percent humidity. I ran twice, five miles each. The first run was along the drag strip that is LA Highway 56 in Chauvin. The highlight of that run was jumping over a disemboweled Zhu Zhu Pet. The second run was in New Orleans after a night of "Hangover"-style excess. Running with a headache worthy of Zeus and only one eyebrow, the highlight of that run was splashing through the suds in the French Quarter. They use soap and water to clean the sidewalks and streets in the Quarter. It's a thoughtful, though Sisyphean, gesture, since no amount of Oxy-Clean can eradicate the peculiar odors of the Quarter, and even the most pristine, jasmine-scented block will soon smell of urine, manure, spilled beer and vomit come sunset. And that's just outside the Catholic churches.

I tip my "They All Asked For Drew!" hat to Louisiana runners. I don't know how anyone can train in that weather. August is as oppressive as it gets, but it is sticky and broiling for about half the year. You can leave the house or hotel before the sun rises and the temperature is already in the 90s. It's so hot -- and the humidity is so thick -- that I found it difficult to breathe. Before I started running. Maybe I should have run with a snorkel, it was that humid. It took all of five minutes to be wetter than Nemo. My run pace was "survival." Technical running gear simply can't wick fast enough. Like the pumping stations in New Orleans during heavy rains, they get inundated quickly and then they give out. And when you're done, you can forget about cooling off. I don't care how many showers you take, or if you take them inside a walk-in freezer, you will need 48 hours to get your core temperature below the blast furnace line.

So only two runs and 10 miles in Louisiana, but hey, two runs and 10 miles in Louisiana in August! And if you don't believe me, I would be happy to show you my moist, succulent thighs and breast meat.

And now for something on the sweet side . . .

2011-07-28T03:11:00.000-07:00

Blueberry sorbet. And if it was warm she wouldn't wear much more?

After devouring your salty-savory appetizer of Kale Crack, fistful by fistful, and then finishing your entree (dealer's choice), you'll want something sweet to finish. This time of year, there's no better way to cleanse the palate and sate the sweet tooth than with a ramekin of sorbet. Even your local high-fructose corny syrup warehouses -- you may know them as your big grocery stores -- have fresh fruit this time of year. And they all lend themselves to excellent sorbets -- a sweet dessert that doesn't require the effort of custard-based ice cream and has fewer calories.

VO2Max and I did blueberry-basil last weekend and will probably move to peach or blackberry this weekend. Simply fill your food processor with one pint of blueberries, 1 banana (optional), 2/3 cup water, 1/3 cup sugar (or a comparable amount of agave nectar or other sugar substitute), and a tablespoon of lemon juice. I added some basil leaves to have a little herbal back talk from the back of the room. Blend until pureed. Cool in refrigerator. Freeze in your ice cream maker. Eat immediately or store in the freezer. If you do the latter, let it soften on the counter (or closely-monitored in the microwave) as it tends to get harder than ice cream. Enjoy.

Crack Kale

2011-07-25T15:37:00.000-07:00

When the sedentary once-a-runner wakes up with an infection in his neck that requires a Sunday trip to the doctor, a procedure the details of which I dare not type, another 10-day regimen of antibiotics, and a re-bandaging of the neck (I feel like Boris Karloff over here.), thereby forestalling his return to the roads and guaranteeing that, should he ever get the opportunity to train again, he will be starting at far less than zero, he can find some solace in a fresh batch of crack kale. What is one to do with all that kale that your local CSA -- Cane Creek Organics, respect yo! I love your country grammar! -- uses to round out your weekly box of fruits and vegetables? I'll tell you what you do. You set your oven to 250 degrees. You position a wire rack in a sheet pan. You grip and rip your kale into a large bowl. You drizzle some olive oil, Worcestershire Sauce, sea salt, and pepper over the kale. You toss with your hands. You pour it onto the rack in a single layer. You put it in the oven and ignore it until it's crispy -- about 1-2 hours. You allow to cool. Then you put it in a Ziploc to snack on all week. But you see, here's the thing. It never gets into the Ziploc. It's too friggin' delicious. You eat the entire batch right there, standing in front of the stove. If you're a potato chip lover, you will lust for crack kale. Try it sometime. But be forewarned. Like crack, the first batch is always free.

Run-Ten-Ten.

2011-07-23T07:40:00.000-07:00

Ten years ago this month, I ran my first miles in my "modern era" of running. I don't count some intermittent jogs in college and law school, a couple of races where I entered in the "walk" category, or the Rex Run around Audubon Park (where tradition dictates that you not run faster than the Queen of Rex. Not that I could, she seemed to draw untold power from the tiara, like some cyclists in the Tour de France when they wear the maillot jaune.). The creation story of this marathoner has him going from no running straight into a marathon training program thanks to TNT, one persuasive colleague, and another competitive one.

I still recall those first runs -- three easy miles on the treadmill at the Pulse Gym, staring out the window, listening to the soundtrack for "O Brother Where Art Thou" on my CD player. It would skip every minute of so from the bounce of the treadmill. I remember my first modern 5K, 24 minutes and change on a dead flat course. I remember training through that late summer and fall, training through 9/11, running the Battleship 1/2 Marathon in Wilmington (1:50:49), and then running the Disney Marathon in January 2002. It was a "Duel in the Rain" that day with my competitive training partner, crossing the line outside Epcot side-by-side in 4:01. The TW and I celebrated at the Flying Fish Cafe.

You blink and ten years of training and racing roll by. Flying Pig. Kiawah I. San Diego. Mayor's Midnight Sun AK. Kiawah II. New York. Ocean City MD. Chicago I. Green Bay. Chicago II. Twin Cities. Kiawah III. SunTrust DC. Chicago III. Boston I. Ridge to Bridge. Boston II.

This morning, I ran three long slow miles on the treadmill. The TV wasn't working. Apparently, if you don't pay your DirecTV bill for long enough, they cut off your service. It was similar to that first run 10 years ago almost to the day. I got my stitches out yesterday and my surgeon cleared me for exercise. My neck is still awfully swollen and sore, and my right jaw is completely numb, but I'm off the fog-inducing meds and eager to start running again. I had to take 10 days off and it felt, ironically, like 10 years. I spent the week with my neck bandaged, and there's only so many times you can quip: "I work in a cutthroat office!" or "Do not see "Sweeney Todd" in 3-D!"

It has been a long 10 days -- how do you fill the time if you're not exercising? -- but a great 10 years. And I'm looking forward to another decade of running. It took me most of the last decade to figure out how to train, eat, and race properly. Although it gets harder to run faster as you age, I believe my best times are ahead of me, not behind me. And that's a good thing, because when that small but select group of marathon groupies squeal: "Who was that middle-aged finisher with the roguish good looks and the sexy neck scar who just won his age group?" I want them to be talking about me.

No Scream for Me.

2011-07-16T11:13:00.000-07:00

Worst hicky ever.

When I planned my Summer schedule, I expected to find myself on Jonas Ridge this morning for 13.1 miles of "terrifying descent" in the inaugural Scream Half-Marathon. I have the registration form to prove it. But life intervened, as it often does, and so instead I found myself in Room 422 at Mission Hospital recovering from yesterday's surgery. The good news is that the surgery was successful. I'm one gland lighter than I was a day ago, and that has to translate into seconds off my next 5K. My surgeon said the gland is supposed to be thin as a needle and mine was as fat as a pinkie finger. Andre the Giant's pinkie finger. It was completely obstructed and that's why it looked like a had a huge low-hanging chaw on my best days this month. It had to come out and all I can say is that I'm gland it's gone.

I am certainly happy to have had the TW holding my hand throughout the process. It was so much the surgery as the anesthesia that had me rattled all week. They say general anesthesia is common and safe, but it's still unsettling for a first-timer. The thing about taking the taxi to the dark side is that you can never be quite certain that you'll be able to get a taxi back. I recall getting wheeled into the operating room and someone saying: "Pick a nice dream." The last thing I remember saying was "Jenna Jameson. High Five!" And the last thing I remember hearing was a nurse say: "If he doesn't make it, I'm totally harvesting those abs." And then I was in recovery with my a heavily bandaged neck and the TW telling someone over the phone: "I'm sorry, it looks like I won't be selling that marathon medal collection after all."

The doctors removed the temporary drain this morning, and now I'm home and it's fog-inducing pain medicine and no strenuous activity for at least a week. I'm going to use the extra time to come up with an appropriate neck tattoo to mask the scar. A sincere thank you to everyone who sent prayers and positive vibes my way.

Asheville Chow: Cucina 24

2011-07-15T03:35:00.000-07:00

I had dinner at Cucina 24 this week. We eat there every six weeks or so, usually on a Wednesday or Thursday night. I thought I'd write a short post because, although they don't have much buzz, I think their food is consistently on point. Is it going to blow you away? Probably not. Is it going to leave you disappointed? Never. It occupies that slim space where restaurants are conscientious, reliable, and worth the price. We could use many more like it. Cucina 24 has a revolving, seasonal, farm-driven menu that offers some of the best appetizers in town. I love their beets and olives and cheeses. There's pig's head and calves liver if you want to do it offal-style. Salads burst with fresh taste. Their pizza crust is accomplished. The pastas are usually intriguing and always house made. Risotto is always creamy. They are not shy with the bacon, usually lardon style, and always it seems from Benton's. They know how to cook a hangar steak and how to sear scallops. They are the only restaurant in town, to my knowledge, that has rice pudding for dessert. It's part of a pistachio trio and it is outstanding.

Dead Legs

2011-07-10T17:33:00.000-07:00

After taking 5 days off this week, followed by two 3-milers on the treadmill, I woke up Saturday with the intention of going "long." It had to be the most humid morning of the year. I plodded my way around North Asheville for an hour twenty. It was just over nine miles. Every step hurt. I took a stretch break and a walk break. During one, at the peak of Lakeshore, an old-timer with his socks hiked to his knees, walked by and said "You are sweaty." I was.

This morning, I woke up and did a wide loop through downtown and Montford. The legs hurt more than the day before. After 45 minutes and about 5 1/2 miles, I was completely wiped out. Unfortunately, I was two miles from home. I walked back. On Edwin Place, one of my running partners rode by on his bike. He gave me a look that said: "Do I remember how to perform CPR?" I made it home safely and have tried to stay off my feet ever since.

Running Life, Interrupted.

2011-07-10T07:39:00.001-07:00

Last weekend, Fourth of July weekend, coincided as it often does with the Wimbledon finals. So perhaps it was fitting that I woke up Saturday with what looked like a tennis ball protruding from the side of my neck. The entire right side of my face hurt when I breathed, chewed, or swallowed. Other than that I was fine. I couldn't run. I took some medicine to deal with the pain, and it helped, but it put me in a fog. I was worthless. By Saturday night, I found myself in the ER, hoping that I could convince someone to fix the problem. But the ER doc diagnosed me with a "Yep. You got a tennis ball sticking out your neck" sent me home with some Percocet and instructions to call a neck surgeon. I took the Percocet, went home groggily, and slept the rest of the weekend. Needless to say, I didn't get my long run in on Sunday and didn't make it to any Firecracker races on Monday.

As it were, I have been seeing a neck surgeon for this problem, as my neck has been swelling and subsiding bullfrog-style for some time. He diagnosed me with an obstructed salivary gland and we have been trying to cure it through a variety of non-surgical methods. These have included sucking on copious quantities of sour candy to create a Biblical amount of saliva to flush out the gland's obstructions the way the Red Sea flushed the Egyptians. he has also dilated the gland and probed inside with a wire as if he were trying to key a lock. Since nothing has worked, we are going to have to go the surgical route. So, on Friday the 15th, I will get general anesthesia and my doctor will go in and remove the gland. Apparently I don't need it. It's a routine operation (for him, not me) that should leave me fixed and with a small scar below my jaw -- nothing like Omar's. I am anxious, but the antibiotics and the pain are not part of my training schedule, so the sooner I can resolve the problem, the better.

30-A Chow

2011-07-02T07:34:00.000-07:00

Here's a brief and non-exhaustive report on the dining scene along Highway 30-A in South Walton County, Florida, as we experienced it last week:

George's

We had a lunch and dinner at George's, the little gray clapboard cottage at the front of the still struggling Alys Beach. Alys Beach has two things going for it -- George's and Charley's Donut Truck. What it doesn't have is much development, with whole swaths of the property -- including much of the beach frontage -- consisting of empty lots with the occasional PVC pipe sticking up. But back to George's and the food. We had lunch inside and dinner outside, and enjoyed both meals. (Especially the dinner, which came with unscripted entertainment in the form of the world's most miserable wife / mother sitting beside us.) It's honest, straightforward Southern beach food driven by the abundance of local seafood available to the kitchen. George's has a bipolar menu -- a "behave" side of lighter, more nutritious fare (think local blue crab and avocado salad) and a "misbehave" side (think fried shrimp and oysters). I misbehaved at both meals. I had a grilled grouper sandwich one day, served with a generous dollop of tartar sauce, and a combo plate of fried oysters and grilled shrimp for dinner. The TW had the more sophisticated fare from the behave side, and it was excellent.

Barefoot BBQ

There is no "behave option" at the food trucks at Seaside, one of which is Barefoot BBQ. We had the chicken sandwich and the pork BBQ nachos. Yes, pork BBQ nachos. The tradition-bound North Carolina BBQ culture needs to take a serious look at this triumph of "fusion" cuisine. We loved it.

The Melt Down on 30-A

Does the world need an Airstream food truck that only serves grilled cheese? According to VO2Max, the answer is yes. Yes it does. Cheesy, but not too buttery or greasy -- just the way he likes it. Had they trimmed the crust, we would have offered to take them public.

Charlie's Donut Truck

Charlie's Donut Truck is still there in front of Alys Beach, still opening at 6:30 AM and still wiped clean of glazed goodness by 8:00 AM. There are plenty of choices -- the blueberry cake seems to be the local favorite -- but I swear by the traditional glazed. It's an exemplar of the class.

Bud & Alley's

Bud & Alley's, the fine-dining option at Seaside, is celebrating 25 years this year. This restaurant has a special place in our heart, having ate their for our first wedding anniversary. We have been back over the years, so we were terribly disappointed to observe that the restaurant is on the decline. It may be that they have a new chef, in which case we hope he or she is temporary, or it may be that they have scaled back ambitions considerably because of the economy. It is possible that the menu is an homage to the original menu from 25 years ago. Let me take that back -- not an homage, the menu from 25 years ago. Whatever happened, the food has regressed since we ate there in 2009. Now, the menu is a single page and it's laminated. Lamination is OK at Applebee's but is never a good sign at a high-end restaurant. So much for letting what's local and seasonal dictate what you cook. The entrees were, well, boring. Beef options included a fillet with potatoes and a "Kansas City" strip steak with potatoes. Come on, B&A, it's 95 degrees outside and this is what you offer your diners for $35. I had grilled red snapper and it came as a sloppily-butchered (and rather chintzy) fillet with a scoop of rice and some asparagus (I'd bet it was from Chile). Appetizers and desserts were not terrible, just dull and predictable (Who ordered the cheesecake?). B&A's has a great location, a captive audience of wealthy vacationers, and the bounty of the Gulf Coast to fill their larder. At the prices they charge, they owe much, much more to their diners. Like the tide on the sugary beach outside their windows, restaurants rise and fall over time. B&A is at ebb tide these days, but I hope it will rise again.

The Great Cleansing

2011-06-28T07:39:00.000-07:00

The great cleansing started yesterday. I ran 15 miles before work, then had mixed berries and a protein drink for breakfast. Chicken breast and pineapple-jicama salad for lunch at Laurey's, one of the few times I've gotten out of there for under $10 and without a Catherine Hepburn brownie in my pocket. For dinner, I worked through our CSA box -- roasting broccoli and sauteing rainbow chard to accompany some seared scallops (from the fishmonger, not the CSA). I also made some crack Kale for snacks. I allowed myself a small bowl of non-fat yogurt for dessert. I did not have an alcohol unit. In the evening, VO2Max tied me to the bed and I sweated, shook uncontrollably, and howled all night.

Beached.

2011-06-26T16:37:00.000-07:00

Beach vacations, that great American ritual, a time to unwind and get away from it all. A time to relax in your lounge chair, slather yourself with SPF 70, tuck into a racy paperback, sip on a sugary rum-based cocktail. And so it was that we found ourselves on Rosemary Beach for the third year in a row, cooking on the white sand, gazing at the azure waters, aaah, isn't this the life? Of course it is? This is so awesome. I can feel the stress evaporating off me even as the sweat beads multiply. Am I getting red? Should I re-apply? Wow, that water is so clear. Hey, is that a dolphin? It is a dolphin! Frolicking in the surf! Wow, what could be better than OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! LEO'S EATING SAND! HE JUST SHOVED A HANDFUL OF SAND INTO HIS MOUTH! HE'S CHOKING ON SAND!

Somehow we forgot that, unlike the past two summers at Rosemary, this one included a six-month old. And that changed the equation considerably. We realized that on the ride down, where he wanted to stop every hour and we wanted to get to Florida before our rental period expired. We eventually compromised and strapped him to the roof like Mitt Romney's dog. So much for that beach book I had squirreled away.

So much for training as well, though Captain L/EO had nothing to do with that. No, I must accept the blame. I did manage to run five times during the week, all short, easy stuff, a couple with some strides thrown in at the end. Nothing serious, nothing meaningful. Between the hangovers, the constant dehydration, and the 100% humidity and 90-plus degree temperatures as early as 6:00 AM, serious running was simply not possible. Or so I told myself. The fact that I got on the 30-A bike path five times, that I did some quasi-fast loops around St. Augustine Green, with a few other hearty souls should count for something. But it really was nothing more than a rear-guard action for my beach diet, as in Rosemary Beach DISsed my diet. D for Donuts, I for Ice Cream, S for Sno-balls. I had one of those food groups each day, sometimes two per day, and yes, sometimes all three in one day. Plus a little beer and pink wine and pina coladas for good measure. The sno-balls weren't even sufficiently juiced. And the condensed milk "sno-cap" seemed to be an exemplification of the vanishing polar caps you keep reading about.

With no schedule committed to writing, there was no incentive to do any serious running. In the past, I have defied the heat and either run long or put in some track work to show my fidelity to the schedule. But this year was different. Nothing was required, so I did nothing.

In the past, we have brought the bikes down to work in some cross-training and take advantage of the flat roads. But they spent more time perched on the roof like a couple of crows on a wire than they did between our legs. So this year, we left them behind. I did ride the cottage's Biria cruiser 4 or 5 mornings, but it was only for the 1-mile round trip to Charley's Donut Truck in Alys beach for an assortment of original glazed, sourdough, Holland cream-filled, long Johns, and twists.

There was plenty of swimming, to be sure, but nothing to qualify as exercise unless you count the VO2Max toss in the pool. I surfed (correction: I tried to surf) one day -- again not exactly exercise but plenty of soreness the next day. The TW and I spent each morning doing stand-up paddling. But then we'd leave the cottage bedroom and go to the beach with the boys. The point is that, by the end of the week, it looked like I was wearing a flesh-colored inner tube. Shameful, I tell you. I need a goal. Something. Anything. I'm spiraling over here. In the wrong direction. Time to get serious again.

We Still Churn.

2011-06-13T11:39:00.000-07:00

When you're not running every day, it frees up time to cross-train, and by cross-train I mean churning homemade ice cream. With cherries in season, this weekend we made almond and candied cherry ice cream. It takes some time, but is more than worth the effort. And for a bonus, as a byproduct of the candied cherries you get a squeeze bottle's worth of cherry syrup. This recipe is adapted from David Lebovitz's "The Perfect Scoop."

Toasted Almond and Candied Cherry Ice Cream

1 cup whole milk

¾ cup granulated sugar
Pinch of salt
2 cups heavy cream, divided
1 1/2 cups whole almonds, toasted and coarsely chopped
5 large egg yolks
¼ teaspoon almond extract
1 cup Candied Cherries, coarsely chopped

1. Warm the milk, sugar, salt and 1 cup of the cream in a medium saucepan. Finely chop 1 cup of the almonds and add them to the warm milk. Cover, remove from the heat, and let steep at room temperature for 1 hour.

2. Strain the almond-infused milk into a separate medium saucepan. Press with a spatula or squeeze with your hands to extract as much flavor from the almonds as possible. Discard the almonds.

3. Rewarm the almond-infused milk. Pour the remaining 1 cup cream into a large bowl and set a mesh strainer on top. In a separate medium bowl, whisk together the egg yolks. Slowly pour the warm mixture into the egg yolks, whisking constantly, then scrape the warmed egg yolks back into the saucepan.

4. Stir the mixture constantly over medium heat with a heatproof spatula, scraping the bottom as you stir, until the mixture thickens and coats the spatula. Pour the custard through the strainer and stir it into the cream. Stir in the almond extract and stir until cool over an ice bath.

5. Chill the mixture thoroughly in the refrigerator, then freeze it in your ice cream maker according to the manufacturer’s instructions. During the last few minutes of churning, add the remaining 1 cup chopped almonds. When you remove the ice cream from the machine, fold in the chopped cherries.

Candied Cherries

1 pound cherries, fresh or frozen

1½ cups water
1 cup granulated sugar
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 drop almond extract

1. Remove the stems and pit the cherries. Heat the cherries, water, sugar and lemon juice in a large, nonreactive saucepan or skillet until the liquid starts to boil.

2. Turn down the heat to a low boil and cook the cherries for 25 minutes, stirring frequently during the last 10 minutes of cooking to make sure they are cooking evenly and not sticking.

3. Once the syrup is reduced to the consistency of maple syrup, remove the pan from the heat, add the almond extract, and let the cherries cool in their syrup.

4. Drain the cherries in a strainer for about 1 hour. Coarsely chop the drained cherries and fold them into the ice cream as you remove it from the machine.

Early Bird Gets the Mileage

2011-06-12T16:43:00.000-07:00

I've said it before, but it is the peculiar condition of the marathoner, or at least this marathoner. to live with self-doubt. With the exception of those 3 1/2 hours every year or so when we run a satisfying race, the rest of our days are plagued by a general feeling that we're not training enough, not running fast enough, not running long enough. Paradoxically, this feeling seems particularly acute in the weeks after a break-out performance. The feeling comes even when, especially when, the "facts" as recorded in my training log would indicate that the feeling is completely illogical. So it is that seven weeks or so since Boston, I feel like I've lost it -- both my fitness and my desire. This is because I am only running four days per week and because my long runs have topped out merely at 13 miles. Of course, I've also raced twice in the last two weeks, but who cares, right?

There is no doubt that I am a long way from peak speed. But desire -- the willingness to do what needs to be done -- still exists. For I not only talk the talk, or write the write, or write the wrongs, or even write the songs that make the whole world sing. I also walks the walk, even when I should be running the run, sometimes running the run until I have to walk the run, and even once crawling the run. But I digress. To present my bona fides, take note that I did 105 minutes on Saturday morning and was finished before 6:30 AM. Pop Tart-fueled and out the door by 4:30, watching the sun rise from Horizon Hill around 5:45, and back home before the boys were awake. (Horizon Hill wanted the human sacrifice and I obliged -- slow up and slow down.)

The highlight of the run: Long before dawn arrived, I visited a port-o-let on Kimberly Avenue. When I emerged, a raccoon sitting on a stool offered me a hand towel and a stick of gum. It was a nice gesture for a varmint and I regretted that I didn't have any change to tip him.

Chamber Challenged

2011-06-08T16:41:00.000-07:00

When I ran the Asheville Chamber Challenge 5K last year, I didn't think you could create a more difficult race if you tried. I was wrong. The Chamber tried and succeeded. This year was definitely worse. For one thing, it was hotter -- it had to be 90 degrees at the Friday afternoon at 4:30 PM start. We won't fault them for the weather, although I'm sure there any any number of Friday afternoons in April or early may that would increase the likelihood of more hospitable temps. Weather aside, they tweaked the course to make it just a little more difficult. Apparently, the steep 1/2 mile climb at Mile 1 and the mile-long grind from 2 to 3 was just not sadistic enough. Come on Chamber -- I know you have some serious, and seriously talented, runners in that building. Why would back up the start line so 1,200 runners can go 10-12 strides before having to take a 90-degree right turn? And why did you send us on a little climbing detour off Pearson? Was that just to add one more hill? Surely it could not have been so that we could finish on the near side of the Chamber building -- because that sharp, knee-crushing downhill was just the final sucker punch on a course filled with them. For an event designed to promote wellness and encourage people to start walking and running, that course could drive the runniest of runners to pick another sport.

But be that as it may, everyone runs the same course, so I happily left work early to run with my company team, giving my best effort under a sizzling sun that had me empathizing with creme brulee before it was over. I ran as fast as I could and that was 22:24. That put me in the Top 50s, a decent finish even if it was a full 3 minutes off my PR, even if my per mile pace was about the same as at the Soldier Field 10-Miler six days earlier. I'm a one speed guy anyway, and that speed is slow when it's blazing like that. I also contributed to our company team's 3rd Place finish in the Men's Division. That was a happy surprise for all of us.

Chamber Challenge, you put on a great event, but like I did last year I implore you on bended knee to change the course. But if you will not change the course, then at least let us run it backwards. Give us a long downhill, then some roll, and then a final climb to the finish with the line in sight. Show some humanity.

Grant Achatz's Chicago - 2011

2011-06-05T12:42:00.000-07:00

No trip to Chicago is complete without experiencing the wonderment coming from Grant Achatz, and though we were not able to secure a reservation to Next (despite much effort and more than a little praying), we did visit Alinea and Aviary. Let me just state right up front that opening a new restaurant and a new high-concept cocktail lounge has not affected the flagship Alinea at all. We ate a late dinner on Sunday -- probably their last cover of the week -- and the meal was just about flawless. They're doing a single menu now with about 18 courses, some classics and some new. So we had black truffle explosion and "hot potato, cold potato" and hamachi tempura on a vanilla bean, dishes we've had before and were eager to eat again. We also had some new courses. About a third into the meal, the waiters set angled chopsticks on the center of the table with red-orange "flags" hanging from them. They told us to ignore them for now -- even though our table now looked like a desk in the United Nations. Later in the meal, we learned that the flags were pasta and we used them to make self-serve short rib burritos with lots of fixins' as only Alinea can present them.

For dessert, as with our last visit in October 2009, a quiet, focused Chef Achatz served us dessert on our table. yes, that's on the table if you didn't read the '09 report. This time, however, he put four hollow glass cylinders on the table and poured a "honey custard" inside. Then he did his Jackson Pollock thing with the "ice cream sundae" we remembered from before. Then he sprinkled some sugar over the custards, removed the cylinders -- the custard was magically set at this point -- and then brulee'd the tops with the world's coolest blowtorch. We splurged on the reserve wine pairings -- glass after glass of extraordinary wine. It was 3 1/2 hours of perfect pacing, flawless service, exquisite food. My only regret was that I didn't ask Chef Achatz to sign his book when he was tableside. I didn't know if that would cross the line and I was certain he was busy with service and didn't want to overreach.

That was Sunday night. On Saturday night, we went to Aviary -- the new "barless" bar featuring high-concept cocktails. It was a blast. Sitting in curved, high-baked banquettes in the sexy space, I had a rye drink that also featured blueberries and verjus and a host of other ingredients. It came in a round glass "flask" and I was provided a little shot glass in which to dispense each drink. As the drink steeped, each pour got a little darker and a little tastier. I also had an old-fashioned "in the rocks," the bourbon coming inside an ice egg, the waitress cracking the egg with a slingshot-like contraption. The TW had a drink called the Rooibos that looked like a miniature meth lab -- two beakers and a heating element. One companion had a drink with sprayed ginger ice and required her to mix it with a lemongrass swizzle stick -- with specific instructions that she work the lemongrass between her palms like she was trying to start a campfire. And despite all this razzle-dazzle, the drinks were affordable -- $14-$18 for everything except the meth lab. The food - one-bite "bites" - was also excellent. You can get foie gras, pork belly, lobster, you name it, all of it impeccably prepared and presented as a single, use your fingers, bite. The only lament about a place like Aviary is that you want to try everything because it all sounds fun and great. This being hard liquor, however, two drinks was my limit. (Other than someone from the set of "Deadwood," who could possibly order the 6- or 7-glass vertical tasting of Van Winkle Bourbon?) But I guess that means we have to start planning our next trip.

If you want to see more of Aviary, check out this short video.

Chicago Chow: Yolk

2011-06-01T17:23:00.000-07:00

You would be hard-pressed to find a better, more satisfying breakfast off Michigan Avenue than the one they serve at the Streeterville branch of Yolk. Don't let the crowds deter you. It's bustling for all the right reasons. One look at the long menu will trigger the conundrum that has bedeviled philosophers for centuries: sweet or savory. To which I answer: Yes. Their cinnamon rolls are so light and melt-in-your-mouth delicious that you hardly notice that you just consumed 6,000 calories before your breakfast "entree" arrives. From there, it's a Popeye fritttata studded with bacon and spinach, on the one hand, and the banana nut bread french toast on the other (because the red velvet cake french toast seemed too indulgent). So many tempting dishes having to be left behind, Yolk demands repeat visits. And for the kids -- s'mores pancakes. Coffee (from Metropolis) is great too.

Skirt Chaser

2011-05-31T16:23:00.000-07:00

Before the race.

"This is the 'runniest' city I've ever been in." I overheard a guy tell that to his companion on Rush Street in Chicago this weekend. I couldn't tell if his comment signaled approval or approbation. I personally like my cities the way I like my eggs -- runny. And I like Chicago, for it is second to none, in my opinion, in its architecture, art, culture, dining, and ability to stage a race. It also happens to be flat. With that in mind, I gathered with 15,000 other runners outside Soldier Field on a foggy, humid Saturday morning for the Soldier Field Ten-Miler. The 10-miler is such a wonderful distance -- satisfyingly substantial but not so long that it requires serious training or recovery. It's a distance all marathoners should be able to cover comfortably on 24 hours' notice. The even ten miles also makes the math easy when calculating pace.

I sort of limped into this race, not feeling particularly swift when I was in Louisiana earlier in the week. In fact, I think I wrote earlier in the week that I would treat it as a fun run. But when I got to Chicago, we rendezvoused with KB, a long-time running friend who now lives in the Show Me state. She announced at a late dinner on Friday that she had dropped a 1:14 on a 10-mile trail race recently and expected to show me and the rest of the field an even faster time in the morning. Well, after hearing that, I realized that I could not lolly-gag my way through 10 8-minute miles for a nice, round 1:20. That just would not do. I would have to put forth some effort and try to keep up.

KB arrived at my hotel at 6:30 AM wearing in a bright-orange race skirt, so embarrassing because I had on the exact same thing. After a quick change, we took a taxi to Soldier Field. If you've never been to Chicago, Soldier Field, which is home to the NFL's Chicago Bears and looks like a flying saucer that landed on the Parthenon, is just south of Grant Park, which itself is along Lake Michigan. We did a two-mile or so warm-up along the lake, and then lined up in the back of a crowded Corral A, on the back side of the stadium. My A goal had gone from 1:20 to 1:15. We had a 1:15 Pacer in our corral, but he was way up front, a good minute ahead of us by my estimation. Although I would have liked to have followed him, there was no way to do so without making enemies with everyone in our corral.

The course is technically a loop, but a long, thin one -- 5 miles straight north, then 5 miles south finishing on the 50-yard line inside the stadium. The gun sounded and KB took off like a tangerine shot from a rocket launcher. I weaved through the congestion, held back pace-wise, and crossed Mile 1 in 7:47. I could see KB on the distant horizon, gliding through the crowd. I increased my pace, knowing I needed to run 7:30s to run 1:15, as we pushed north, going 7:28, 7:26, 7:24, and 7:24. We had the wind in our face on the way out and as we made the turn I noticed it disappear. I went 7:19 for Mile 6, 7:11 for Mile 7, and 7:10 for Mile 8. KB remained in the distance. At one point, I saw her stop alongside the course and I thought, "Ha! I've got her now!" But when I caught up to the point, it turned out to be one of those orange traffic cones. But I was running well regardless and somewhere after Mile 8, I slid by the 1:15 pacer. I went 6:59 for Mile 9 and then 6:58 for Mile 10. KB must have done something similar, for though I could see her as we headed into the stadium, I could not catch up to her.

My finishing time was 1:13:13, or 7:19/mile pace. KB went 1:12:51. Clearly, her memorization of whole chapters of "The Secret Book of Running" had given her an unfair advantage. I was psyched for her and her huge PR. And I was also pleased with my performance as well. It is always a great feeling to run a negative split (37:31 /35:41) and to be pouring it on in the latter miles of a race. After a previous day spent walking Michigan Avenue and the Field Museum, and on a morning when I had neither coffee nor Gatorade, it was hard to complain about the result. It was also really cool to stand inside Soldier Field. We got medals and blankets for our effort, and then took a taxi back to the hotel and the rest of the weekend.

After the race.
(She ran 1:12 carrying that kid the whole way! I had to toss Leo at Mile 3.)

Signs of Chauvin

2011-05-25T19:18:00.000-07:00

In case you never get the opportunity to run on the narrow, litter-strewn shoulder alongside the drag-strip that is LA Highway 56, here are some of the sights along the way.

Who dat say they gonna cross this bridge?

Not too early to be thinking about retirement.

Completely inappropriate.

That sign on the left is an actual quote from "Thor."

Chauvin - 1, Lance - 0

2011-05-25T17:47:00.000-07:00

30-gallon tub of shrimp cocktail sauce not pictured.

To attend the high school graduation of my youngest sister, Captain LE/O and I flew from Asheville to Charlotte to New Orleans, a voyage that I will always remember as "Pee Wee's Not-So-Excellent Blue-Faced Screaming From Takeoff to Touchdown Adventure." And then, upon exiting steamy New Orleans and the murderous stares of my fellow passengers on USAIR FLT 1567 for even steamier Chauvin, the following laid itself out before me: Boiled shrimp. Blackberry dumplings. Strawberry ice box cake. "Pop Rouge" ice cream. Abita beer. Lee Martin's world-famous "LA to L.A." mixed grill. Hubig's pies. Fig wine.

How do you run through such a minefield without been blown to smithereens? Well, you do the best you can. And that was about seven on Monday, with 10 x 100-meter strides back and forth before the homestead to try to loosen these dead legs. It did not work. And then about another 4 1/2 on Tuesday, really easy, on persistently aching legs, before flying back to Asheville. The flight home did not help matters at all, and now I'm having these flashes of back pain in my right flank. This Soldier Field 10-Miler on Saturday has officially become a fun run.

Doing what needs to be done.

2011-05-23T08:51:00.000-07:00

Asheville -- one of the best places in the country to run. A trail system as vast as spaghetti noodles in a colander. Shade, vistas, soft surfaces, water features. But for the married, working father, those trails are nearly inaccesible. But not to worry, running on the road in Asheville affords many of the same features, save for the soft surface. Again, however, sometimes even the road is inaccesible. And so on a splendid Saturday morning, I found myself on the treadmill not getting started until 8:00 AM. That's a time when I like to finish a 2-hour run on the weekend. But I had to work around Leo's schedule and 8:00 AM on the treadmill, staring longingly out the window, beats no running at all. I ran an easy 11 while watching two DVR'd episodes of "Breaking Bad," my new treadmill show.

Later in the day, in keeping with dad doing what needs to be done, I was downtown and I talked the Mighty Thor into putting his cigarette down and taking a picture with VO2Max. You never know about these encounters in Asheville. Thor could be one of the headliners at the Fanaticon Conference, or he could be a hung-ver citizen who has been banging Mjollnir at the Drum Circle all night. Or both. But the little man wanted a picture and he got one.

Biscuits / Shortcakes

2011-05-15T08:10:00.000-07:00

As long as we're not training at full capacity, we may as well make matters worse by making biscuits. This recipe, from Rose Beranbaum's "Pie and Pastry Bible," delivers a ridiculously delicious biscuit that is well worth the bizarre step of mashing boiled egg yolk through a sieve. (Use your pestle.) She recommends them for strawberry shortcakes, which we made on Mother's Day. Simply make the biscuits, toss some stemmed and sliced strawberries with a little sugar, make fresh whipped cream (cream + sugar + vanilla + whisk), and assemble. So tasty you'll eat them before you have time to take a picture.

Butter Biscuits

6 tablespoons unsalted butter, cold

1 ¼ cups all-purpose flour

2/3 cup cake flour

1 tablespoon baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

3 tablespoons sugar

2 large eggs, hard cooked, yolks only

¾ cup heavy cream or buttermilk or a combination of the two

1 tablespoon melted butter, cooled

1. Cut the butter into small bits. Refrigerate for at least 30 minutes, or freeze for 10 minutes.

2. Preheat the oven to 400⁰F for 20 minutes before baking. Have an oven rack at the middle level and place a baking stone or baking sheet on it before preheating.

3. In a large bowl, whisk together the flours, baking powder, salt and sugar. Add the butter and, with your fingertips, press into the flour to make small pieces that resemble coarse meal.

4. Press the egg yolks through a fine strainer into the flour mixture, and whisk to distribute them evenly. Stir in the cream and/or buttermilk, just until the flour is moistened and the dough starts to come together so you can form it into a ball with your hands. Empty it onto a lightly floured counter and knead it a few times until it develops a little elasticity and feels smooth. Dust the dough lightly with flour if it feels a little sticky and pat or roll it ¾” thick.

5. Have a small dish of flour for dipping the cutter. Dip the cutter into the flour before each cut and cut cleanly through the dough, lifting out the cutter without twisting it so that the edges are straight, for the maximum rise, kneading the dough scraps briefly so they won’t get tough, pat or roll out, and cut out more biscuits.

6. For biscuits with soft sides, place the biscuits almost touching (about ¼” apart) on the baking sheet. For crisp sides, place them 1 inch apart. Brush off any excess flour. For a crisp top, brush with the melted butter and sprinkle lightly with the sugar.

7. Place the biscuits in the oven on the hot baking stone or hot baking sheet and bake for 5 minutes. Lower the temperature to 375⁰F and continue baking for 10 to 15 minutes or until golden.

8. Split the biscuits in half, preferably using a three-tined fork to keep them from compressing and to create a rustic rough split.

Something for the Nightstand

2011-05-14T13:38:00.000-07:00

Well, I went and did it. I wrote and published a book. You can read about it here. You can also buy a copy at Amazon. I'm on bended knee -- which is not easy given my lack of flexibility -- imploring all of you to do the following:

Buy a copy. It's only $9.99, so the fiscal investment is minimal.
Read it. It's only 115 pages or so, so the time commitment is minimal.
If you like it, write a review on Amazon and encourage your friends, colleagues, and acquaintances to buy a copy.
Send me feedback. Let me know what, if anything, was funny and what was not. (If anyone asks, or you're perplexed as you read, the book is supposed to be funny.) I'd like to write a second book and your comments would help me tremendously.
I take No. 4 back. Only send feedback if it's positive. As Thumper said in "Bambi," "If you can't say anything nice, don't --OH MY GOD! THE FOREST IS ON FIRE!"

The concept of the book is that it's a training manual, indeed the only training manual a runner will ever need. But it's a training manual written by me. On the one hand, you may not want to follow the advice outlined in its pages to the letter. On the other hand, as Bill Cosby would say on "Fat Albert," "If you're not careful, you just might learn something." It recycles some of the things I've written here over the years, but it also contains plenty of new, original content. It's laid out like most "legitimate" training manuals, so it's easy to dip in and out of, for those times when you come home and say: "Honey, know any good jokes about tempo runs?"

My last post was about goals. With this book, the A goal is to sell 250,000 copies, be the top-ranked book about running on Amazon, get invited by Runners World to be a contributing writer, do a series of lectures and book signings at major marathon expos, have the manuscript optioned by a major Hollywood studio, get my face on the cover of Time (or National Geographic) and, of course, appear on Oprah.

The B goal is to sell 250 copies to cover my editing costs.

I can't accomplish either goal without you.

So get your paperback copy today (The Kindle version will be ready in a couple of weeks.) and start spreading the word. I can say with absolute objectivity that it belongs on the shelf right between "The Lore of Running" and the King James Version of the Bible. It will become a treasured heirloom to be passed down for generations. It will be a loyal, dog-eared companion that you carry everywhere -- much like a dog from the toy group. And if that were not enough, if you actually read it, you will laugh your way to faster running. I promise.

I set up a facebook page to promote the book. So if I'm silent over here, I'm probably doing my shuck and jive over there. Come visit me as I speak truth to PR.

The Goal Standard

2011-05-13T13:48:00.002-07:00

Without goals, there's chaos. Or if not chaos, at least lethargy, sloth, lack of motivation, and excuses that will derail workout after workout. With a goal on the calendar, it takes a bona-fide emergency to miss a workout. Without a goal, the latest developments in Syria are enough to cause you to sleep in. I need a goal. The last two weeks have been unworthy of a two-time Boston finisher and marathon blogger. Four days of easy running last week, about 25 miles total. Three runs so far this week. I need to get back up to five days, with something long and something fast, and stay there. The guilt of "fewer than five" is eating at me like the narrator in "The Tell-Tale Heart." Perhaps I should not have dismembered and hidden my training manual under the floorboards. So maybe that's the project for this week -- figure out a long-term goal so I can mark it down on the calendar and build a plan around it. I have a couple of placeholders in the short term. I'm going to participate in the Soldier Field 10-Miler in Chicago over Memorial Day Weekend. And then six days later, I will run the Chamber Challenge 5K in Asheville. The former is one of those balance events. I put it on the schedule knowing how much I intended to eat and drink during our mini-vacation in Chicago. Doing that race gives me some caloric cover for Alinea and Blackbird. But expectations are low and I'm certainly not trying to do anything more than run a hard effort and find the spot inside Soldier Field where Reggie Bush taunted Brian Urlacher. The Chamber Challenge is a civic obligation and an excuse to cut out early on a Friday. They'll both be fun, and good workouts, but they're not goals. I need something big and something in October or November. Whatever it is, I need to figure it out soon.

Man Cannot Live on Spoonbread Alone.

2011-04-25T15:37:00.000-07:00

"We have got to celebrate." -- Madonna

I love the post-marathon week, particularly after a successful marathon. It's a time to forgo exercise and anesthetize the soreness with extra desserts and beer and liquor drinks. It's double the excess and none of the guilt. This decompression time is absolutely essential to a runner's long-term well-being. And so it has been for the last week, culminating in Easter dinner yesterday.

A week of indulgence is fine, but you can't go much past a week. For there is a fine line between the will to do two workouts per day and the lack of willpower to ever exercise again. Delay getting back into the running routine at your own peril. That is why I dipped my toe in the water today with three easy miles and also eschewed a beer with dinner. I hope to get up early and do five tomorrow. Miles, not beers.

I put together a magazine cover-worthy Easter dinner yesterday -- crunchy spring salad, glazed carrots, rosemary-and-garlic crusted lamb chops, and herbed spoonbread. The spoonbread -- some mutant concoction that combines the best traits of pudding, bread, and souffle -- was incredible. I pulled the recipe from "The Blackberry Farm Cookbook" and re-printed it below. We finished the meal with a coconut custard pie, sipping Peay Syrah throughout the meal.

Herbed Spoonbread

2-1/4 cups whole milk
1 cup plus 1 tablespoon cornmeal
6 tablespoons (3/4 stick) unsalted butter
3 large eggs, separated
1-1/2 tablespoons chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley leaves
1 tablespoon chopped fresh thyme leaves
1-1/2 teaspoons chopped fresh chives
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1-1/2 teaspoons baking powder

Directions:

1. Preheat the oven to 375. Grease a 9x5x3-inch loaf pan and set aside.

2. Bring 1-1/2 cups of the milk to a boil in a medium saucepan. Whisk in the cornmeal and butter and cook, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, for 3 minutes. Remove from the heat and let cool until lukewarm.

3. In a separate bowl, beat the egg yolks with the herbs, salt and pepper. Once the cornmeal has cooled, stir the yolk mixture into it until just combined. Stir the baking powder into the remaining ¾ cup milk and then stir it into the cornmeal mixture as well.

4. In a clean bowl, beat the egg whites until they hold soft peaks, then gently fold them into the cornmeal mixture.

5. Scrape the mixture into the prepared loaf pan and bake for 35-40 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Serve warm.

Serves 4-6

Getting There.

2011-04-21T17:12:00.000-07:00

In preparing for Boston this year, I did something that we runners intuitively know we should do, but rarely actually do: I changed my training plan. I had used the same program -- with success -- for four straight marathons and I wanted something different. After some searching around, I settled on this one by Scott Douglas, which I found at Runner's World. I liked it because it was only 12 weeks long and because it allowed you to tailor it to your own particular mileage goals. I usually like a program that tells to run X workout on Y day, but this time, because of more hectic work and life issues, I appreciated having two assignments per week and the ability to fit them in where convenient or possible without feeling like I was deviating from the schedule. Runner's guilt can be sabotage the best training plans.

I was also intrigued by the idea of doing speed work early, then working on endurance. In the traditional marathon program, you are grass-fed on endurance before being rounded off on corn (speed) for that nice marbling effect at the marathon. This was not an easy program by any standard, and some of the workouts were extremely taxing. I love the 10 x 100 strides, but they can add 2 1/2 miles to any workout. The long goal-pace runs posed challenges given our topography in Asheville.

I did not have the courage to follow the workouts in the taper phase. They looked too intense for my level and so I deviated from the program. I wonder if they would have made me faster on race day? But other than that, I stuck with it except for when Captain LE/O went into the hospital and I got sick. Overall, I have no doubt that this program had me primed to run (and hold) my goal marathon pace for the duration on Patriots' Day.

52 Hours in Boston

2011-04-19T17:58:00.000-07:00

"T" is for terrific.

Saturday, April 16

5:30 AM - If you're flying to your marathon destination, always, repeat always, carry on your race outfit, even if you're arriving a week before the race. Of course, if you pack your race outfit in your carry on, it helps to carry on your carry on. And that is why I found myself doing my final workout of the training session -- a quick sprint to the car and back through a steady pre-dawn rain in Asheville -- fifteen minutes before boarding our flight to Boston.

Noon - Safely arrived in Boston, and checked into the Mandarin, we amble into rambling mall that connects to the Convention Center, where 27,000 runners are vying for free Powergels and Gatorade samples. We stop off at Legal Seafoods, obligatory on any trip to Boston, for lunch. The TW had a glass of white wine and a seafood salad. I asked them to give me what "Ryan Hall orders" and they gave me a lobster roll with onion rings and mashed potatoes.

1:30 PM - I attend the Expo while the TW ventures off on her own. I am not a fan of Boston's expo. Something about the low ceiling and the tight corridors in that convention center, combined with all the high-strung runners, makes for a claustrophobic, unpleasant experience. Those who are frequent readers know that, since Chicago 2009, I will buy the T-shirt before the race. So, brimming with confidence, I picked up my number and goodie bag, bought a few t-shirts, and got the heck out of there.

3:00 PM - Let us now shop. We visited Vineyard Vines to pick up a First Communion outfit for VO2Max (blue blazer and skull-and-crossbones bowtie should be good for First Communion and pledging Sigma Chi). Then we hit Newberry Street where the TW does to our budget what Tyson did to his first ten opponents. The streets are crowded with marauding bands of runners, all in their official Boston Marathon merchandise, most in the official fluorescent green trimmed jackets. After shopping, we visited Sweet, a cupcake shop, where the TW gets the Red Velvet and I get the lemon and raspberry. I pass on the "frosting shot in an edible shot glass."

4:30 PM - I find myself sitting on the floor of the St. Francis Chapel, in the Prudential Center and literally at the gates of the Expo, for a crowded Palm Sunday vigil. Runners comprise most of the congregation. Are you reading this, mom?

8:30 PM - O Ya! We find ourselves in O Ya, which looks like a former fire station. We sit at the bar and order the "Super Omakase" menu -- 21 courses. That's almost one course per mile. Lest you think we are gluttons, most "courses" were one-bite pieces of sushi. I don't think I have ever tasted better sushi. I know I haven't paid more for sushi. The meal was ridiculously expensive. Was it worth it? Yes and no. I have no complaint about the food. Every bite caused my knees to wobble. Every taste was the best "insert course name here" ever. But at that price point, I wanted better service and more pampering and a nicer dining room. We sat at the end of the bar. It was weird to watch the action unfold. To our left, we had the sushi chefs in action. To our right, we could look through a wall and see a guy working a grill and waiters fixing drinks. The open area was messier than it needed to be. I was fixated on some three-ring binders and boxes wedged between a counter and a mini-fridge. Why did I have to look at that? The glass case where the the fish was displayed was dusty on top. All meal long, I had to resist the urge to run my finger across it and leave a streak.

Sometimes the sushi chef would put a dish on the glass in front of him, then a waiter would walk behind us, take it, and bring it to the back kitchen. What the heck were they doing with it? It would come back up looking no different than when it went in. I would have much preferred to get rid of the waitress and simply have the sushi chef serve us.

I noticed the actual chef, Tim Cushman, mulling around in high waters and running shoes. It was hard to tell if he was in control or on his night off. He did not seem to be in control. Our waiter was competent, but needed some polish. Some dishes came in rapid-fire, there were long lulls between others. The TW did sake pairings (That's my girl!) and the pours did not correspond with the menu. With about six dishes to go, and five couples left in the restaurant, the chefs started cleaning the kitchen. needless to say, when we signed up to sit at the exclusive chef's bar, it was not to watch a guy clean his rice cooker. In fact, I think we would have a much better experience -- and lumbar support -- had we simply opted for a table instead of the bar.

At the end of the meal, we expected the front of the house to have a cab lined up for us. It was close to midnight after all -- and raining. But they just pointed us down the street and unceremoniously kicked us to the curb. Trust me, that would never happen at Alinea, where the Tour plus wine costs less than this meal, or any other restaurant at this stratospheric price level. At Alinea, they put you on a gurney and fold you gently into a waiting cab. Nick Kokonas will drive you home if that's what it takes. They would never send you running two blocks through the Leather District in the rain to an empty cab stand. For us, my hand still shaking from signing the bill, it was a bit of a "What have you done for me lately?" moment.

But lest I sound too disappointed, let me just reiterate that the food -- my god, the food -- is pure bliss. A dish of "Santa Barbara Sea Urchin & Black River Ossetra Caviar" with yuzu zest was a triumph of brine and umami. To say that Hamachi Nigiri with spicy banana pepper mousse and Wild Bluefin Chutoro with "Republic of Georgia herb sauce" melted like butter in your mouth is simply insufficient. Butter never melted so smoothly. You savored the bite, and you lamented that the dish was gone. In addition to fish and shellfish (Kumamoto oysters, squid, pen shell clam), house smoked Wagyu beef came in a nigiri treatment, as did foie gras. A real stunner was a simple fingerling potato, deep fried, drizzled with truffle oil, and perched over rice.

The only awkward dish was the fried Madai Shirako with lemon zest and pecorino. Madai is snapper -- so far, so good -- but shirako is "filled" fish sperm sack. Maybe it was the seventeenth sake pairing, but the TW's enthusiasm for this course was more than a little unsettling. When the waitress went to set it down in front of her and she asked: "[RETRACTED UNDER THREAT OF DIVORCE.]" I was thoroughly embarrassed. And then when the waiter said: "Ma'am, [RETRACTED UNDER THREAT OF CASTRATION.]" I was absolutely mortified. Who did I marry? Had I stumbled onto a scene from "Boogie Nights II?" You can take the girl out of Cheatham County, but you can't . . . .

Sunday, April 17

8:30 AM - We enjoyed a long, leisurely breakfast at Trident Bookstore on Newberry, one of so many Boston intellectual hothouses that also serve hot cakes, with some of my old Nashville running friends. I went with the French Toast and a side of Camus.

10:30 AM - I foraged for breakfast for the next morning, picking up bananas and Gatorade at a local market, then a couple of bagels from Finagle-a-Bagle on Boylston Street, within the shadow of the finish line, while the TW took care of unfinished business at several boutique shops.

12:30 PM - Waiting for the T to go to Fenway Park, several train cars come and go. The last time I saw train cars that crowded, I was watching "Schindler's List." We eventually squeeze into one and, before we have gone the two stops to Kenmore Square, I'm yelling "Those aren't pillows!" and the TW is getting another butt massage.

1:30 PM - 4:30 PM - Great seats at Fenway, the weather clears, the sun comes out, and the Red Sox get it going. It's 9-1 in the bottom of the eighth when we leave. I've spent three hours off my feet sipping water and resisting the urge to eat a frank, drink some local brew, or get a hot fudge sundae in a miniature batting helmet. The tickets were an expensive, but smart purchase.

6:30 PM - Back on a less crowded T and headed for the North End, which is marathon central, with lines full of those official jacket-wearing jokers snaking outside of every pizzeria, tratorria, and restaurant in Little Italy. We have a reservation at Trattoria di Monica, a tiny, one-room, absolutely perfect for our purposes restaurant. They squeeze us in right on time and I enjoy well-prepared spaghetti and meatballs, bruschetta, salad, and tiramisu. It's an honest meal, filled with carbs, and exactly what I need the night before the race. After the meal, we hold hands and walk the streets of Little Italy, passing a charming corner market selling "cold ice."

10:00 PM - Back at the Mandarin, the hotel staff has performed turn down service and left me with a chocolate bib number with my number on it. A chocolate bib number with my number on it! Now that is special! But talk about pressure. I want to run well for you, gentle readers, the TW, the boys, myself. But now, I can't let the Mandarin down.

Monday, April 19

5:45 AM - Wake up, get dressed, walk to Boston Commons. Meet up with Bill from Asheville and Donna from Nashville. After some mob unruliness and "policing the line" to get on the bus caravan, we eventually get on our cheese wagon motorcoach to Hopkinton.

9:15 AM - Last year, I lounged in the Athlete's Village for what felt like two hours. This year, I got off the bus, into the port-o-pottie line, and then was in my corral waiting for the start.

10:00 AM - The gun sounds, the crowd surges, nothing happens. Three minutes later, Corral 6 crosses the start line. The race is afoot. It's going to be a good weather day. Temps are in the high 40s and the sun is shining. Although temps would rise to the low 60s, it would be offset by a steady tailwind.

Those who cannot remember the past are doomed to repeat it. I remember last year, and I adjust accordingly. As a full one-third of the field surges past me, I keep it in second gear for the fast first four miles. When we bottom out after the sharp downhill start, I settle into a pace in the mid 7:20s. We are rolling downhill for the most part, so the pace feels easy. I resist the temptation to run faster. You have heard the cliche: "Take what the course gives you." At Boston, you must reject what the course gives you. For the first 10 miles or so are a gag gift and if you take it, you will be gagging once you enter Newton. I press on, averaging about 7:30 pace, feeling fine, and as I enter Wellesley, I can't help but think about how much I love the sweet, beautiful, eternally faithful TW, my bride of 15 years. So I ignore the "Kiss Me I'm a Senior" signs, I waive off the "Kiss Me I'm from Chauvin" signs, I barely register the "Kiss Me I'm from Asheville, I'm Discreet, and I Love Your Blog" signs. But as the Scream Tunnel nears its end, I encounter a sign that reads: "Kiss Me, I'm Particularly Empathetic to Husbands Whose Wives Have Recently Had Butt Massages Using a Groupon You Gave Them While You Had a Trying Day at the Office!" Well, this one was too much to resist. My New Balance 890s skid to a halt and I and that coed have what I can only call a chicken soup moment -- wet, salty, a little sloppy. My decision to go with a French instead of a peck would prove costly, but it was worth it for when I closed my eyes all I could picture was a young Hillary Rodham Clinton.

That act of pace-thwarting infidelity fueled me like no Honey Stinger ever could. I had to get to the finish line to apologize and atone for my endorphin-induced transgression. My caution in the early miles would pay off. I went 1:38:30 through the half, a 7:31 pace and a cautious 7:17 estimated finish. In the second half, I would suffer only minor wiltage. In a subsequent post, I will compare this year to last year, but suffice it to say that when I hit the Newton Hills for miles 15-21, I hit them with strength, determination, and purpose. There was much carnage all around me, but I plowed straight ahead. Heartbreak Hill, with its "Thump! Thump! Thump!" spray-paint graffiti, had its say -- I think it was the only mile that I went over 8 minutes and my second slowest of the day (after Mile 1) -- but it did far less damage than last year's 11-plus-minute effort. From 25K to 35K, I averaged about 7:45 pace. I was crushing it. After cresting HH, I ran like hell through Boston College (Those frat boys are scary.) and into Brookline. My pace dropped into the high 7:20s. It was unfolding better than I could have ever planned it. There is no better feeling in a race to be surging through the late miles, while others (not all others -- a dude in a pink tutu smoked by me at Mile 23) wilt around you. Suddenly, I was in the shadow of the Citgo Sign and only a mile from the finish. And like a Big Papi home run, I was still rising. When I turned on Boylston, I was flying. I passed the Mandarin and saw the TW watching me from a window like Eva Peron. I waved ecstatically. I could not believe how good I felt. I sprinted to the finish and crossed in 3:19:11. It rhymes with "Hey Nineteen," a tune I've always been fond of.

For those who read my prediction in a pre-race post, I had called my shot. I also had just run my third-fastest marathon ever. I also had run a Boston Qualifier for 2012 at the Boston Marathon. I bettered my time from last year by over 25 minutes. I had held back, and then I had held on. Heck, I would have gone 3:17 without the open-mouthed tongue-a-palooza, "Do you got any Cajun in you? Do you want some?" pit stop in Wellesley. Why had I gotten all Tantric with it? I should have had a little more Honey Stinger, a little less Honey, I'm like Sting, er. Talk about leaving time on the course. But still, I didn't need to come back to Boston. Ever. On a day in which Mutai crushed the world record, Hall broke 2:05, and the American women ran beautifully, I had nailed it.

1:30 PM - Quickly past the finishing line, sunburned and chafed, after kissing Boylston Street, doing a push-up, getting my baked potato blanket and medal, I step out of the raucous Mardi Gras Marathon crowd and into the sounds of "Girl from Ipanema" in Copley Place. This is the circuitous route back to the Mandarin on race day. I walk past Hugo Boss, Tiffany and Co., and Thomas Pink. Whoa, wait a second, there's a sale at Thomas Pink. I make it back to the Mandarin where, a little disoriented, I walk into the Spaulding Race for Rehab post-marathon party. Everyone turns and starts clapping for me. A woman puts her arm around my shoulder and says: "I think that's your wife back there waving at you!" I look in the back of the room -- it's the coed from Wellesley. I beat a hasty retreat. I next walk into the Mandarin Race Party, where I encounter more head turning and clapping, but no TW. I take a canape and head up to the room. The TW is there. We embrace. I cry. There ain't gonna be no rematch.

3:00 PM - Showered and stitched into my skinny jeans, we are chauffeured to Logan International. The airport -- believe it or not -- allows runners to cut the security line and move to the front. Waiting for our 5:00 PM flight, which is on time, we celebrate at the Harpoon Pub with IPA, another lobster roll, and a soft pretzel. Goodbye, Boston. See you soon.

Asheville Chow: Curate

2011-04-14T14:50:00.001-07:00

We finally made it over to Curate (pronounced coo - rah -tay), the traditional tapas spot that opened on Biltmore last month. All the foodies in Asheville shared a collective frisson when we learned that someone who once worked in the kitchen at El Bulli was opening a restaurant in Asheville. Would she serve us popcorn clouds, Parmesan marshmallows, or savory Oreos? Would we be eating mango caviar or pink coral chocolate or any of the other hyper-modernist cuisine for which the most famous restaurant in the world is famous? Alas, with the exception of an off-the-menu dessert called the "chocolate napkin," the answer is no. There is no razzle-dazzle, but don't let that keep you away. For what you get instead, at reasonable prices, are flavorful small plates of meat, seafood, and vegetables, and so wonderful Spanish wines to accompany them. We sat at the bar on a busy Saturday night and enjoyed watching the chefs on the line. (We did have the misfortune to sit next to an over-exuberant foodie with little respect for our personal space. She actually offered me advice on what I should order and then did color commentary as each dish came out to us. Her male companion fiddled with his fried marcona almonds silently. I think one or two more comments and the TW would have invited her outside to meet Tiffany.) For a new restaurant, service was pleasantly polished. We look forward to going back.

March 2011

2011-04-14T14:38:00.000-07:00

I ran 222.6 miles in March -- 32 hours and 30 minutes of running. I ran two 16 miles, one 20 miler, and one 22 miler. I did eight speed workouts. I put in a 57-mile week and a 58-mile week. On five days, I rested. April has been about tapering (and staving off illness), but March was all-in, hard-core marathon training. I can't recall many months, indeed any, where I ran that many miles. My only regret is that I didn't get a race in there somewhere. Other than that, I did what had to be done and laid the foundation for Boston. If I run smart, and we have decent weather, I am confident that I will atone for last year's race and run a course record (for me, not for the course). I'm not one for predictions, but the A goal is 3:18 - 3:23. Wish me luck.

Oh, and when I get back from Boston, remind me that I have an announcement to make.

In Defense of Sentiment.

2011-04-12T16:23:00.000-07:00

The final weekend before Boston had me getting what I could when I could on the treadmill because of 14 1/2 chubby-cheeked pounds of selfish that we call Captain LE/O. Not the way I wanted to enter race week, but it was either that or infanticide. And while I am pro-Fantacide, I am anti-infanticide. I had hardly started an 8-miler cum baby-sitting session (Is it baby-sitting when you're the "baby daddy" or is it "being a father"?) on Saturday when I found myself blubbering away mid-stride. Oh God, here come the waterworks! The culprit? "Hoosiers." I just turned on the TV and, before I knew it, I was bawling. And this wasn't even the finals -- this was the scene where a drunk Dennis Hopper stumbles around in the woods. Oh, Dennis, why must you drink so? That movie gets me every time. I don't have to see it, I just have to hear it. The soundtrack, anything out of gene Hackman's mouth, Jimmy saying "I'll make it."

There's nothing wrong with crying, I do it all the time. I like to start sniffling, then wailing, on the elevator at work. The bank teller line is my second favorite place. And third -- somewhere during the marathon. When I ran my first marathon, Disney 2002, I cried in the Magic Kingdom (that was about Mile 7 or so). For the Flying Pig 2002, I cried post-race, post-visit to the medical tent, on the TW's shoulder. At Chicago 2009, when I ran my Boston Qualifier, I damn near started crying in the starting corral. These marathons are emotional, people. Where will I cry on Monday? Will it be Hopkinton or will it be Wellsley? Will it be in the lobby of the Mandarin-Oriental when I get the bill for the TW's spa treatment? $400 for a butt massage -- aw, jeez, do you have any tissues? I don't know where it will happen, I only know that it will happen. And I hope it's on the course, closing in on the Citgo sign, on pace and feeling strong. Those tears don't add many seconds.

Steady, steady.

2011-04-05T16:33:00.000-07:00

When they shoot the movie of my life -- a Lifetime Original, to be sure, and not a Major Motion Picture acquired during furious bidding at Sundance -- it will include this scene: A split-screen, with me on one side, at my office, slouched in a conference room, my head about to explode in fury. On the other side of the screen, the TW at a local day spa, using the Groupon I gave her as a gift to get a series of spa treatments culminating in a "Butt Massage." My job, though it has the effrontery to encroach on my training, social, and family time, is usually stress-free. But last week was an exception, as certain decisions from management were going to radically effect my quality of life in the negative. As I stewed, the TW was being worked like dough for a boule by what I have to assume was the last straight masseuse in Asheville. In my mind's eye, he looks like Fabio . . . or Teardrop from "Winter's Bone." "It wasn't actually my butt," the TW explained, "more like the lower cheek, upper thigh area." Isn't that worse? That's the Red Zone! When you get that close to the hole in golf, you don't have to putt anymore! It's a gimme.

All that is a long way of saying that this has been probably the most distracting marathon cycle in my career. Ever since Captain LE/O went into the hospital, it has been a struggle to maintain focus, to stay on schedule, to run, recover, and repeat. Work requirements, scheduling issues, lingering sickness, they have all crouched for employment. For the last several weeks, I have see-sawed between supreme confidence one day, despondency the next. Such is the marathoner's mind that you can do three workouts over 20 miles and still feel ill-prepared for the race. You can do more goal-pace action than in any cycle since Chicago 2006 and still feel inadequate. You can do, as I did today, 2 x 2 miles at 6:55/mile pace, give or take, with a steady 400 meters between and still feel slow.

It just hasn't felt easy this cycle. I want my training to look like a Mark Rothko canvas but instead I got Jackson Pollock. Nothing has come easy. Everything has been re-scheduled or squeezed in or done out of order. I can't even relax easily. Take Sunday, for instance. A beautiful day in Asheville, so I say, let's go to Carrier Park, walk along the River, then VO2Max can play at the playground on the in-field of the Velodrome. What could go wrong? Carrier Park is so pleasant at 7:00 AM when you have it to yourself. Little did we know that on a sunny Sunday, as you enter the in-field, it's Terminator X yelling: "Welcome to the Terrordome!" I regretted my pink Izod and lavender sweater combo as soon as we passed the basketball courts to "Mother-Effer, get your A off the ball!" And it went down from there. Before VO2 could mount the swing, we encountered clouds of second-hand cigarette smoke, flagrant guzzling of 40 ounces, profanity, morbid obesity, Type-2 diabetes, Bojangles, ill-conceived and poorly-executed tattoos, rampant snot, out-of-wedlock broods, exposed underwear, and Fanta. You could hear the record scratch and go silent when we walked in. I mean, who knew? The only saving grace was that the TW agreed that exposure to this scene counted as a visit to her family.

It just goes to show that nothing has come easily these last few weeks. But what can you do? They're administering the test in Boston a week from Monday. All I can do is show up and take it.

58 Special

2011-03-27T16:48:00.000-07:00

Last Sunday, I felt like I had been trampled by a marching band, so I did that extreme thing that all runners despise: I took a day off. On Monday, I rested. This was the biggest week of my schedule, and I wanted to try to hit my marks, so I back-loaded the workouts. On Tuesday, I ran 5 easy miles. I felt much better than Sunday, though far from great. On Wednesday, I did 5 easy miles but added 10 x 100-meter strides to shake out my legs. That equalled 8 total.

And then Thursday arrived, a day that called for 3 x 3 miles at marathon pace, with an 800-meter "steady" recovery between each interval. It was cold and blustery on Thursday, with gusts hitting 30 miles per hour. I had no desire to go to the track, but I wasn't about to try this workout on the treadmill. I jogged over to the UNCA track and ran 40 laps in just over 1:14, or 7:25 / mile pace give or take. I had the wind to my back on the back stretch and in my face at the end of each lap. I could not have asked for a more perfect workout. Even the steady recoveries were run at 8:15 / mile more or less. Counting the jog to and from the track, it was a 13-mile workout.

On Friday, I put in 5 easy miles, and then on Saturday, 22 1/2 miles. I started that run at 5:30 AM, running 9.4 miles solo downtown and in Montford, then hooking up with a friend for the new ACT course. Overall, I did that run at 8:30 / mile pace, including a fast finish for the last two. On Sunday, 4 1/2 very, very easy miles on the treadmill.

That worked out to 58 miles for the week, besting my previous maximum by a mile. I wanted to run one additional mile so I could title this entry "The 59 Position," but I thought better of it. I'm three weeks out from Boston and, at least in theory, I can start tapering.

O Ya? O Yeah!

2011-03-27T06:36:00.000-07:00

O Ya can you see?

Am I a runner first or a foodie? I was a foodie first and I suspect I will always be a foodie, even after my raggedy bones tell me that my running days are over. So, as Boston approached earlier this week, even though ailments had my training in free-fall, it did not stop me from reserving some world-class dining for our trip. Even if the legs are not ready for the course, my stomach will be ready for the courses.

We're going to eat at O Ya on Saturday night, a tiny Japanese-American restaurant considered one of the Top 10 sushi restaurants in the country. We will probably do it "omakase" style, sitting at the counter, eschewing the menu, and letting the chef and his team whip up all matter of miraculous marine morsels for us. I will likely go easy on what I hear is a stellar sake menu, but I know the TW will pick up the slack.

On Sunday night, the eve of the race, I have found a safe, comfortable Italian spot in the North End called Trattoria di Monica. It is another intimate spot far from the pasta party bustle, and they have spaghetti and meatballs on the menu for me and far more interesting fare for the TW.

Toss in a few carb-forward lunches and snacks, add a bag lunch of banana, bagel, almond butter, and Gatorade for the bus ride to Hopkinton, mix in some Expo browsing, deluxe accommodations at the Mandarin (crawling distance from the finish line), and maybe a Red Sox game (if I'm willing to sell my first born), and a little 26.2 mile dash, and you have the makings of an epic Boston Marathon weekend. With the new time standards, it may be my last. We're not holding back.

Full Stop.

2011-03-20T14:33:00.000-07:00

Boston is less than a month away and I feel terrible. I mean awful. I'm getting it from both sides on my lungs. On the inside, it feels like someone took a rake to them, as if they were bunkers at The Masters. On the outside, it's like a sumo wrestler with cinder-block sandals is standing on my. My throat is the consistency of oyster shells and my voice makes Sam Elliott sound like Mariah Carey. I ache head to toe. I have chills. I am congested. I have no appetite. I can't run.

I assume I have Leo's RSV. I thought it would have passed by now, but it feels like I'm trending in the wrong direction. Could it have something to do with the fact that I ran 16 miles yesterday? When I woke up, I struggled to get out of bed. My head felt as if it were encased in cotton-candy (flavorless, alas). But I had ordered a baby-sitter and I felt guilty about making her wake up so early on a Saturday. Besides, it was the best morning of the year for running, a day when you could comfortably wear shorts and a t-shirt. I figured I would just run by feel and if I truly felt awful or started plodding, I would come home. I actually felt OK. I ran the new 1/2 marathon route (no gimme), dialing back my pace to about 8:45-9:00/minute per mile. Somewhere downtown, with almost two hours to the good, I was rewarded with a path-crossing friend. I was able to tag along with him for a few miles before I called it a day.

It's been all downhill since. I jogged and walked three miles on the treadmill today and it was as if I had never run a step before in my life. The week coming up is the most critical in my training program, but I fear it is going to be a wash. The idea of running "fast" is laughable right now. And the idea that I would run 100% of my mileage -- another 50+ week -- is equally worthy of chuckles. So what do you do? Run easy to try to get some miles in and hope I don't do more damage? Take a few days off entirely. That is probably the wisest choice, but that raises collateral issues of self-loathing and second-guessing.

Injuries and illnesses happen. There's nothing you can do about it. I wish this virus had struck me (and only me) weeks ago. But it didn't and I cruised through Weeks 1-7, overcoming mundane obstacles like workloads and Scouts and out-of-town guests. Week 8 still saw 45 miles go into the books, but I had to scratch my interval workout. I don't know what Weeks 9-12 will look like. One day at a time, Sweet Jesus. Let's see how I feel in the morning.

57.

2011-03-17T17:20:00.000-07:00

"Let us never forget that it is a Constitution we are expounding." I think John Marshall said that, but I know I said, "Let us never forget that it is a marathon we are expounding, I mean training for." And so, for the week of March 7, week 6 of 12 in my Boston training plan, I ran 57 miles. That works out to 8 1/2 hours of running. I did it on 6 training days. Had I realized I was going to rack up that many miles, I would have gone out for an easy 30 minutes so I could break 60. Though I don't have the benefit of clinical trials or double-blind studies, I postulate that the high 50s / low 60s are a red zone for me, right on the cliff's edge where the reward of maximum benefit does a Thelma and Louise towards increased risk of injury. But the body seems to have adapted fine physically. It may, however, have left me immuno-compromised, for as I type this I am struggling through what I assume to the the same virus that put Leo in the hospital for five days.

Here's how I did it: On Monday and Tuesday, I ran 5 easy miles each day. I took Wednesday off. On Thursday, I ran 10. This was my interval workout, 3 x 2 miles at goal marathon pace (7:24) with a steady 1/2 mile recovery. I've been doing these for several weeks now, and my recovery pace is just over 9:00/mile now. Add a warm-up and cool-down, and you get 10 miles. On Friday, I did 8, 5 easy miles, followed by 10 x 100 meter strides with 300 meter recovery. On Saturday, I did 6 in the morning, the the 5K with VO2Max. And on Sunday -- no I did not rest -- I did 21 at an average pace of 8:30/mile, really easy for the first hour and working it down to marathon pace by the last 30 minutes or so.

So when the bell tolls for thee in Boston in just over 30 days, and should I falter, it will not be for lack of effort.

Two Boys, Two Excuses

2011-03-16T17:04:00.000-07:00

Green Machine

I raced in January and I raced in February and I planned to race in March. Last weekend, Asheville Catholic School hosted the Shamrock 5K and 10K. I always seem to be out of town for this race. Last year, we were in town but I think I was sick or injured. Max and I watched the runners pass our house. It was cold, wet, and miserable. The runners, reaching us just after they had climbed Cherokee Road (3/4 of a mile at 10-11%), had contorted, anguished faces. And four miles to go.

This year, the weather was perfect: Sunny and 40. But conditions were terrible for racing. Leo2Max went into the hospital the day before with RSV, a respiratory virus. He was coughing like the Marlboro Man at age 70. There are many ways to spend the day before a race, but watching your three-month old get an IV is not one of them. The nurse said that if they couldn't find a vein in his hand, they were going to have to use his head. I nearly vomited. Fortunately, his hands are veiny. He also had one of those oxygen tubes up his nose. That's fine on a grandparent standing in front of a slot machine, but not on a little baby. The TW and I are not neurotic people, but in situations like this, your mind goes straight to the worst-case-scenario. I was not in a racing mood.

But VO2Max lifted my spirits on Saturday by announcing that, although he had registered for the 1K Fun Run, he intended to bandit the 5K. And he wanted me to be his wing man. So we took a break from the hospital and went to ACS on Saturday morning for VO2's first 5K. What a treat! After loosening his legs in the 1K sprint (That was also the extent of his training, other than some jump-roping around the house.), the little man ran-walked the 5K in 40:00 flat. I didn't know the little guy had it in him. And this was no cupcake of a course. ACS sits in an awkward spot to host a race, and as a result, the course they use is arguably the hardest road 5K in town. In the first minute, you must ascend a 1/4 mile hill with a grade of 20%. It doesn't get much easier from there, rolling and climbing just about the entire way. But VO2 ran and jogged and walked and poured water over his head at one water station and talked the entire way. He had a strong finishing kick, which did not go unnoticed by a little fan club cheering for him.

Racing with Max was a pleasant respite. Afterward, we showered and went back to the hospital to be with Leo. Three days later, he was able to come home, looking much better but still with that two-pack-a-day cough. The doctors say it could linger for a month or so. Let's hope not.

February 2011

2011-03-16T14:25:00.000-07:00

It seems a little shameful to wait until after the Ides of March to report on February's run data. What can I say other than the last few weeks have been busy. Let he who is without sin cast the first comment. I do feel guilty, for I know so many of you anxiously visit this site to find out if I did those 100-meter repeats this week. I imagine so many of you talking amongst yourself, wagering about whether I nailed my weekly long run or stunk up the course. So please accept my apologies.

Unfortunately, I can't even remember February at this point. I know I ran in Charleston one weekend. That was flat and warm and pleasing. I also raced that windy 5K in Black Mountain. Not as pleasing. When I look at my online log, I see that I ran 192.5 miles in February. That works out to 48 miles per week. I put in 8 "quality" workouts of intervals or tempo running. I did long runs of 15, 16, and 20 miles. I ran for over 27 hours. I took three rest days. I think we can all agree that I am training for a marathon.

My Own Private Cooper River

2011-02-24T17:20:00.001-08:00

It wasn't all eating in Charleston. I did manage to put in about 12 easy miles over two days. That is not much, but you have to consider that I did both of them with hangovers. It's tough to get up and out when you've had more than your share of bourbon and wine the night before, but it's a great feeling to offset the libational sabotage with some vacation mileage. Here are some pictures:

Sign of the times.

City chicken.

Signage.

Difficult footing.

Sunrise on the Harbor.

Moon over Broad Street.

Church on Church Street.

The "Silver Gate" up close.

My own private Cooper River Bridge Run.

Sean Brock Double Feature

2011-02-21T17:28:00.001-08:00

We went to Charleston, South Carolina for the weekend, the historic city where they name the boys Ashley and they love their grits. Boy do they love their grits. Our purpose -- beyond just getting away for the weekend -- was to eat at Sean Brock's old restaurant, McCrady's, and his new one, Husk. We have been following Chef Brock since he had diners scratching their heads at the Hermitage Hotel in Nashville. He is no longer a secret, as the accolades and awards pile up. In fact, just a few weeks ago, the New York Times sent a reporter to do the Sean Brock double-dip, and although I will concede that I rely on the Times to tell what to like, dislike, and do, I had this idea first.

We went to Husk first. Husk opened in November, I think, and is a departure from the smoked ham cotton candy razzle-dazzle at McCrady's. Husk is straight-ahead contemporary Southern cooking with a zealot's obsession with local ingredients. The guiding principle at Husk is that if the ingredient can't be found in the South, then it's not on the menu. Olive oil comes from Texas. The one exception is wine -- sorry all you Scuppernong fans and Duplin County devotees. Husk is a big restaurant occupying a 19th century home with porches and piazzas where you can almost here the echos of "Well I declare!" and "Oh Beauregard, fetch me a lemonade!" if you listen closely. There are dining rooms on two floors and what appear to be several private rooms. A floor-to-ceiling chalk board greets you with the provenance of all the ingredients on the seasonal menu.

The food is excellent. We had oyster stew, quail, and duck. We also had a simple and simply delicious dish of baby radishes with salty butter and a vinaigrette for the leaves. We also had Benton's bacon cornbread -- soft and fluffy within, crispy without, buttery and bacony all over. Desserts included a s'mores bread pudding, wonderfully gooey and chocolatey. We also had something that was supposed to be a little miniature bundt crumb cake topped with "Krispy Kreme" ice cream. The ice cream did taste like glaze, but the cake had no taste and was so hard we found it difficult to cut. It was the only misfire of the evening.

Husk has a bar next door, in a narrow, two-story, 19th century brick building. It could be the best bar in America. It is the place where bourbon goes to die. You can get contemporary or historic cocktails and more bourbon (and more Van Winkle bourbon) than anyone could drink in a lifetime. The TW ordered a Corpse Reviver No. 2, popular at the turn of the 20th century and no relation to the Zombie -- chilled Gordon's gin, lillet blanc, cointreau & lemon juice served up with a rinse of absinthe. I had their seasonal riff on an old fashioned --Basil Hayden bourbon, smoked apple juice, Cointreau, Applejack brandy, bitters, demerara sugar cube, and pickled jalepeno over hand chipped ice. One could skip Husk entirely and just drink and nibble at the bar downstairs, or in the attic above, and be quite content.

The next night, we went to McCrady's, a restaurant we last ate at in December 2008. The dining room remains gorgeous, the food remains inventive. We did the Tasting Menu with wine and all the wines were excellent. Even more important to us, the sommelier did not make us drink sherry. We had a scallop course that was accompanied by a bowl of hay smoking in dry ice. We also had a toro of swordfish that came with a slab of 250-degree Himalayan salt. We were asked to use giant tweezers (The TW called them forceps.) to give them a little sear on the salt block, then garnish with fennel and parsnip and a sauce. It was sort of like that scene with Bill Murray and Scarlet Johanssen in "Lost in Translation." They also served us an oyster course (oyster wrapped in an egg souffle with Yuzu dashi and a briny broth) with some dry-ice steaming seaweed that defrosted on contact with the plate. It was all tasty and fun. If I had one quibble, it is that there were no luxury ingredients. We got milk-poached chicken. We did not get foie gras or uni.

Desserts were a disaster. The pastry chef got it in his or her head to deconstruct "ants on a log." Now, don't get me wrong, I like celery. But it belongs in a Bloody Mary, ranch dip, or potato salad. It is not dessert. There is a pernicious trend in haute cuisine towards more vegetal desserts and it has to stop. Find a place for celery sorbet during the savory courses. A small wooden ramekin with sorbet, celery slices, chopped peanuts, and raisins is not dessert -- it's a travesty. This was followed by "white chocolate, fennel, and citrus" that was too precious for it's own good. Citrus was a mandarin orange wedge as best I could tell. No enough chocolate and there's that vegetable again. I know fennel smells like licorice, but if you're going for licorice, give me a Twizzler.

Despite the dessert debacle, we enjoyed the meal. As mentioned before, the wines were excellent and service was top-notch. They even had one of those bicycle rickshaws waiting to pedal us back to the hotel when we left. Chef Brock is definitely having his moment and we are happy to be a part of it.

A Blockbuster News Day for this Blogger.

2011-02-17T05:00:00.000-08:00

It was a bespoke news day yesterday for this humble blogger, a blockbuster for all that "Boston Dreams and Michelin Stars" represents. First, the New York Times reported on the impending opening of Grant Achatz's next restaurant, appropriately named Next. (Next to Next will be a high-concept cocktail bar called Aviary. Search YouTube and look upon the concoctions and despair!) The story came complete with a dozen or so gorgeous photographs of the Escoffier-inspired menu, a menu that will be retired and re-tooled in a completely different direction after three months to keep with the restaurant's shape-shifting goals. Achatz has been on our minds lately. He has a memoir "Life, On the Line" coming out next month that I'm sure I will read. We are also planning a Memorial Day Weekend in Chicago and, we hope, a third trip to Alinea. You can read the article here.

That would have been enough to keep me distracted for the better part of the day, but then the Boston Athletic Association announced new qualifying standards and procedures for the 2012 and 2013 Marathon. The 2012 registration will be rolling and weighted towards entrants who smoked their current qualifying times. For instance, the only people who can register on the first day are runners who bested their qualifying times by 20 minutes or better. In 2013, it looks most people will have to run 5 minutes faster to qualify. I take some small consolation in the fact that my qualifying time would be good enough to register under the new standards. But it wouldn't give me any early-bird benefits, for sure, and it's nowhere near the old standards, when the runners "who walked two miles to school in the snow uphill both ways" had to break 3 hours to qualify. The takeaway for this runner is that if the itch isn't sufficiently scratched this year, I need to be prepared to go sub-3:15 in my next marathon. You can read about this bit of news here.

Hot Chocolate Fat Head. Get Yours Now!

2011-02-15T05:06:00.001-08:00

My BRFF just alerted me to this photo, wherein the Boston Dreamer achingly grinds his way uphill to the Hot Chocolate finish line, on that frigid January morning 3 1/2 weeks ago. I was going for a "New Orleans Saints / Keep me from freezing in the Drew Brees" look that day. Note how the black tights match the black sleeves and mitts, and how the gray Luluemon skull cap matches the gray stitching on the Lululemon top. That's how we do it, baby, all the way back to my Garanimal days. And for the record, my facial expression betrays only about 15% of the pain I'm in at that moment.

Boston. Round Two. Three-Week Assessment.

2011-02-13T17:40:00.000-08:00

The morning of 2/5/11. Warm in the sun, cold in the clouds.

It's hard to complain about the first three weeks of training for Boston. The mileage has increased steadily -- rising from 43 to 46 to 49 miles per week. I have also gradually ratcheted up the intensity. My weekly speed workout went from 2 x 1.5 miles to 2 x 2 miles to 4 miles, all at about 6:58/mile pace. This training plan, by Scott Douglas, is a different plan than the one I have used for my last several marathons. It is an inverted approach, putting the speed on the front-end, so you get plenty of tempo and interval work, and a healthy dose of running at marathon pace. The idea is that you get fast first and then build the endurance necessary to complete the marathon. My old plan was good to me, but it's important to try new approaches. Otherwise, how will you know if you have plateau'd or if you're ready for another breakthrough?

Urban heiroglyphics along the French Broad River green way.

The other unique aspect of this program, and the first three weeks, is that I have been loading up on the mileage on the weekends. Each weekend, I am running close to the marathon distance over two days. I have gone 10 and 13, 17 and 9, and 9 1/2 and 15. Two of those long runs have included significant "We had to destroy the quads to save them" sections. In large part, I have been taking advantage of the TW being on maternity leave. When she goes back to work, it will be difficult -- if not impossible -- to find a babysitter so I can continue this pattern. Finally, so far the body is recovering remarkably well. In the past, these weekend double-downs would have been extremely difficult. But right now, so long as I eschew hard liquor, my body is ready to go each morning. Much can happen in the next nine weeks, but so far, so good.

The view from Town Mountain Road.

Long run - 2/13/11

My Windy Valentine

2011-02-13T09:37:00.001-08:00

Yesterday afternoon, I drove to Black Mountain, 15 miles east of Asheville, to run the Valentine 5K. It was sunny and 46 degrees, and the TW, VO2Max, and the little bad seed entertained the idea of coming cheer me on. I went ahead early to register and warm up and when I got to the park, I realized the perfect weather conditions were anything but. That's because it was blowing with an unsettling ferocity. The gusts when they came, and they came frequently, were enough to stop you in your tracks. I had flashbacks to my participation in the "sandblasted" Ocean City Marathon in 2005. I called the TW and told her to stay home.

Of course I was out there and had paid to register, so there was nothing to be done but race. I had dressed in short-shorts and my Foot Rx Ambassador singlet. Less than ideal for these conditions, but more than ideal for generating goosebumps. At the last moment, I opted for my arm sleeves to provide some measure of defense against hypothermia. You could hear the collective disappointment of the other runners who had paid good money to see my arms.

The Valentine course is mostly green way. You start with a big dirt-and-mulch loop around what has to be the fanciest disk golf course in Buncombe County. One hole had astro-turf in the tee box. We had about 200 or so runners and the it was a bit congested at the start. I fell in behind a bunch of middle-school kids as best I could tell. Those kids were booking. The photographer for the Asheville Citizen-Times caught a shot of my flanked by pigtails and pony-tails in hot pursuit. It was my Justin Beiber moment.

We did the big loop, then went through the finish line arch backwards and were spit out onto a paved green way. I came through Mile 1 in 6:40. That was slower than I had hoped, but I had packed a couple of excuses with me. First, I did a hard tempo effort on Wednesday -- 4 miles at 6:58/mile pace -- and so I was running on fatigued legs. Second, this 2:00 PM start time did not coincide with my optimal biorhythms. I could have come out at 8:00 AM -- an ideal start time for me -- but I would have been alone.

For Western North Carolina standards, this is a flat course. But it is not track flat. Between Mile 1 and Mile 2, you get a short, steep climb. You then proceed at what feels like a slight uphill as you leave the green way and make a right and then two lefts in a neighborhood. Most of the little kids peeled off between Mile 1 and Mile 2 and this grizzled middle-ager passed Mile 2 in 6:40. That's what I cal metronome-like pace. A really slow metronome to be sure, but a metronome nonetheless.

At this point, I could see Bart Smith on the horizon. Bart is 62, a tall, former Olympic speed skater, and a great runner. If I can see him in a race, I feel like I'm doing just fine. I pushed it hard in the last mile, picking off a couple of faders and fending off a hard charger or two. I went through Mile 3 in 6:26 -- that's the pace I was hoping for in Miles 1 and 2. I came through the finish in 20:40 officially, 20:38 on my watch.

My time was good enough for 21st overall and second in my age group. If they had a Master's Category, the 41-year old joker who stumbled out the woods and ran in just over 17 minutes would have won that and cleared a first-place spot for me on the podium. That was a tough break, but I still received a pint glass for my effort. I wanted to try it out down the street at Pisgah Brewing, since they had just tapped a new bacon stout the day before, but the TW promised, over the shrieking of the bad seed, that if I did, my pint glass would be filled with something other than stout when I got home. Genitalia is what I believe I heard her say.

January 2011

2011-02-01T16:38:00.000-08:00

Has it been a month already? Despite uncooperative weather and an uncooperative bad seed second child, I had a good month of running. It ended with the start of my first official training for Boston. The first week included an interval session of 2 x 1.5 miles at 7:00/mile pace with 800 meter steady recovery. It was a quality effort done on the treadmill. I wanted to do three sets, but I had Captain LE/O next to me (in a chair) and his head started to spin at the end of the second interval. I could have pressed through the screaming -- that is what endurance is all about -- but had the TW walked in from the grocery, I would have likely found the treadmill next to the garbage cans in the morning.

I also double-downed this weekend on long runs, doing a 10 miler on Saturday and then 13 on Sunday, because it was just eating at me that my schedule called for 13 but I only ran 10. As you can see, I have made absolutely no progress in the common sense department when it comes to training.

I have also gone to a new online format for recording my workouts in 2011. Check out this cool graph if I can imbed it properly:

Races: 1 (Hot Chocolate 10K, 42:45)

And the Crock Pot Shall Lay Down with the Lamb

2011-01-29T10:11:00.001-08:00

The recipe below is adapted from one I read in Food and Wine. I believe it is based on a dish served at Canlis in Seattle. I have tweaked it so you can cook it in the crock pot. It is outstanding, particularly this time of year. The recipe calls for Israeli couscous, but you can serve the lamb over quinoa, rice, or potatoes -- whatever you have around. As with most meat braises, this dish tastes even better the next day.

Lamb Ragout with Olives and Peppers

INGREDIENTS

1/4 cup canola oil
4 pounds boneless lamb shoulder, cut into 2-inch chunks
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 large white onions, coarsely chopped
4 celery ribs, coarsely chopped
3 carrots, coarsely chopped
1/4 cup tomato paste
1 cup dry red wine
10 cups water
1 tablespoon unsalted butter, softened
1 tablespoon all-purpose flour
3/4 cup sliced pitted Picholine olives
3/4 cup sliced roasted red peppers
2 tablespoons chopped tarragon
2 cups Israeli couscous

DIRECTIONS

In a large enameled cast-iron casserole, heat the oil until shimmering. Season the lamb with salt and black pepper and add it to the casserole. Cook over moderately high heat, turning the pieces once or twice, until deeply browned, 15 to 18 minutes. Transfer the lamb to a crock pot set to low.
Add the onions, celery and carrots to the casserole. Cover and cook over low heat just until softened, about 5 minutes. Add the tomato paste and cook over moderately high heat, stirring until the paste is lightly browned, about 5 minutes. Add the wine and cook, scraping up any browned bits stuck to the pot, until nearly evaporated, about 5 minutes. Add the water, season with salt and bring to a boil. Add everything to the crock pot. Cover and go to work.
Come home from work 8-10 hours later. Transfer the lamb to the platter. Remove any fat and gristle and coarsely shred the meat. Strain the broth and discard the solids. Skim the fat from the surface of the broth. Boil the broth until reduced to 4 cups, about 30 minutes.
In a small bowl, mix the butter with the flour to form a paste; whisk it into the broth and simmer until thickened, about 5 minutes. Return the lamb to the sauce. Add the olives, red peppers and tarragon and keep warm.
Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Add the couscous and cook until tender, about 5 minutes. Drain the couscous and transfer to shallow bowls. Spoon the lamb ragout over the couscous and serve.

"We had to destroy the quads to save them."

2011-01-29T08:26:00.000-08:00

It was the first "long" run of my Boston cycle and so my friend Boston Bill and I decided to try a ten mile Boston simulator. Boston Bill is running his first marathon and trying not to make the mistakes I did and I, of course, am on redemption road (and if I can sabotage Boston Bill in the process, so be it.) We parked one car at Weaver Park before dawn, then took the other all the way up the winding, snaking Elk Mountain Scenic Highway ( a popular proving ground for area cyclists), past Ox Creek Road, to a parking lot near a trail head for Rattlesnake Lodge. The elevation there is about 3,200 feet and they still had a fair amount of snow on the shoulders. Interestingly, it was about 8 degrees warmer than it was at Weaver Park, elevation 2,100.

The idea was to run downhill and give our quads a taste of what they'll get when we leave Hopkinton on April 18. There was one initial problem: I overshot the "start" line, so we started by running 12-15 minutes of pretty significant uphill. But then we caught our breath and dawn was upon us, and we enjoyed a glorious, twisting run back to town with some incredible long-range views to both the east and west. We passed the Sourwood Inn, which sits pretty high on Elk Mountain and merits investigation for anyone looking for a B&B experience near Asheville, and what was to be the "Ciel" development -- all signage and no infrastructure right now. At that early hour, we saw more turkeys than cars. We saw one coming and going and on the return trip he said: "You guys are fast!" That was a car driver, not a turkey. I thought it was a solid starting effort, but of course this was just an appetizer for our quads. Many more substantial courses are to come.

Boston. Round Two.

2011-01-25T12:11:00.001-08:00

I'm picking myself up and getting back in the race.

I stepped onto Redemption Road yesterday, 12 weeks to the day until the 115th running of the Boston Marathon. Last year, it was inevitable that I would founder. That seems to be the curse of the first-timer at Boston. But this year, there will be no excuses -- except weather, a newborn baby, sleep deprivation, erosion of willpower, fidelity to Creme Bakery and Wedge Brewery, work stress, and anything else I can come up with. I start my training program faster and fitter than last year. Let's see where the road leads.

Who Ordered the Frozen Hot Chocolate?

2011-01-23T13:15:00.001-08:00

Never have so many pairs of tights gathered for a single purpose. Isaac Dickson looked like an open casting call for Robin Hood. The men were in tights. The women were in tights. The dogs -- yes the dogs -- were in tights. And who could blame these runners for encasing themselves in stretchy cotton like rice in boudin, for the sun was being less than generous on this frosty Saturday and the thermometer sat stubbornly in the low 20s. The weather was not conducive to a pre-race warm up, but fortunately the school was open and heated, so runners could linger in the halls or auditorium until just before the starting gun. (On a morning this cold, one should be forgiven for wanting to run the minimum mileage required, and not a step more.)

I should point out that this year's race course was longer than the course we ran last year. Rather than starting on Hill Street, we all packed into the school's drive this year, setting up a sharp right turn onto Hill Street. On the way back, and perhaps this was in the fine print in the promotional literature and I don't know if I'm happy or upset that I didn't read it, you had to run all the way up the hill back to the school. I don't know if this year's course was an actual certified 10K and last year's course was short, or last year's course was accurate and this year's course was long. I only know that we had to run further this year, with most of that further coming uphill and at the end.

Despite a tight start, I went through the mostly downhill Mile 1 in a comfortable 6:21, finding time to discuss my newborn son with a friend. On Riverside Drive, I settled into my "Why do I do this?" comfortably painful pace, going 6:47 through Mile 2 and 6:46 through Mile 3. I was 7:02 through Mile 4, a drop off attributable more to the twist and turns in the park than to fatigue. I felt decent, all things considered including a pair of hockey gloves keeping my hands warm but doing me no favors in the weight or aerodynamic categories, and I was steadily passing other runners who went out at 5K, 4-miler, or 8K pace. I passed Mile 5 in 6:55, which put my overall time at 33:56. That is considerably faster than I ran the Apple Festival 8K and one of my fastest 5-mile splits ever. I pressed on back along Riverside Drive and then did the best I could on the brutal half-mile climb up Hill and Greenlee Streets, where the grade, according to MapMyRun, hits 15-20% for certain sections.

I crossed the finish in 42:47, good enough for a Top 50 finish (out of 825 finishers) and 6 of 53 in my age group. That was a 20-second improvement from last year, on a course that I would estimate, for a runner in my pace class, to be 45 seconds to a full minute longer than last year. So, all things considered, I was pleased that I braved the cold with the rest of the Asheville runners and ran the race. And there was plenty of hot chocolate afterwards for everyone.

Nashville Chow: Burger Up

2011-01-17T17:46:00.001-08:00

You can find excellent burgers using locally-sourced beef and fixins' at Burger Up, a new bright, tight space with communal tables and plenty of windows in the 12 South neighborhood. The buns are soft, but not too soft, so the burger holds together while eaten by hand. The burger proper is generous and juicy and cooked exactly the way you order it. I recommend the Woodstock, which comes with Benton's bacon, Tennessee sweetwater white cheddar, and Jack Daniels maple ketchup. Vegetarians will want to try the Marathon, which is heavy on quinoa. Also notable is the five-tiered, ziggurat-style fried vidalia onion tower with spicy lemon-lime aioli and the honestly fresh-cut sweet potato fries. Wash it all down with a Yazoo amber or a lip-scorching bloody Mary.

A Western Run

2011-01-17T15:45:00.000-08:00

The weather's been too inhospitable in Asheville to run long, so I decided to venture westward this weekend to get in my miles. All the way to Nashville. The Trauma Whisperer's family lives in Nashville, but we decided to go for the weekend anyway. We stayed at the new Hutton Hotel on West End in Midtown. The Hutton is one of these new green and eco-conscious boutique hotels, which means your water pressure is at a trickle and housekeeping frowns disapprovingly when you ask for fresh towels. The lobby is impossibly hip -- a plasma screen plays a continuous yule log loop and a scale metal horse grazes next to the concierge desk. We brought the cool quotient down several notches when we strolled in with a one-month old and asked for assistance with the Pack-and-Play. You could hear the record scratch as the hipsters turned, stared, and then went back to sipping their pink drinks.

Honestly, though, the Hutton is a nice hotel, reasonably priced, and with well-appointed rooms. And better yet, it's not very far from the Frothy Monkey, where I met several old running friends for an 11-mile loop. We had a generously representative sample of my old gang on this frosty morning, and our run took us through Belmont, Centennial Park, Vanderbilt, Midtown, downtown, the Gulch, and Music Row. The wind blasted us on streets with lingering dirty snow and ice. The nostalgia buffeted me. Looping around the Parthenon made me so wistful that I went back the next morning as part of an easy five-miler. But not so wistful that I did repeats up the Guy is My Co-Pilot hill. So I got in some quality miles (at a pace a little swifter than what I'm accustomed), I got to catch up with old friends, and I had an excellent counter-service breakfast at the Frothy Monkey afterwards, a place that is to Saturday morning runners as a chum-shoveling skiff is to sharks. Hard to think of a better way to start the day.

One Set of Footprints in the Snow.

2011-01-08T10:13:00.000-08:00

They don't call me "The Big Frosty" for nothing. A weather system dumped several inches of snow last night, and I awoke to a wintery fairyland. It was about 20 degrees outside and blowing. I waited for the sun to rise and set out to see if I could get a few miles in without busting it or turning an ankle. Under normal circumstances, I would have run on the treadmill or waited until tomorrow. But I couldn't go long on the treadmill because I have a bum DirecTV receiver in the basement. No TV equals no treadmiles. And I couldn't wait until tomorrow because the Saints play their Wildcard Playoff game this afternoon -- the greatest trap game in the history of the NFL -- and I may imbibe too heavily to run tomorrow.

So I strapped on my trail shoes, because to run in snow and ice you want what makes for a long marriage -- friction. The roads had been scraped in some places, but there were few signs of life on the streets. I saw one other runner. He said: "You're nuts!" I said: "Takes one to know one!" He said: "I love the way you run and write, Big Frosty!" OK, maybe he didn't say that last part. I also saw two cross-country skiers and their dog. Other than that, even the squirrels were hunkered down in some place warm.

Not wanting to risk a tumble on the hills, I stuck to the scraped roads and the river. I ran to the McDonald's in Biltmore Village, then over to Meadow Road, then to Amboy, around Carrier Park, back, down Riverside, up Broadway, and then home. Somewhere between Amboy and Carrier Park, it started snowing heavily, which made me wish I had a visor. As long as I kept moving, however, I was warm. I was covered everywhere but for my eyeballs. In profile, I looked like someone whose name is appended with the modifier: "the Jackal." Footing was spotty at best and though I never fell, I slipped multiple times and dialed back the pace a good 30 seconds or more per mile.

All of the water fountains on the route were frozen. Remember that line in "Raising Arizona": "When there was no crawdads, we ate sand." Well, when there was no water, we ate snow. I periodically scooped a handful and let it slowly melt in my mouth. It worked well enough.

When I left the house, I would have been happy to put in 4 or 5 miles. But I just kept running and was out there so long that Han Solo came looking for me. (Empire Strikes Back humor.) In the end, I ran over 15 miles and 2 hours, keeping my streak of 2-hour weekend long runs alive. And I earned some "Ain't that tough enough?" points with my running friends.

One Day Later

2011-01-02T10:35:00.000-08:00

Up at 4:30 AM. Feed the baby. Feed myself. Hit the road in the 6:00 AM darkness. Dead quiet outside. Except for the drag strip that is Charlotte Street as employees rush to get to work at the Grove Park Inn. 13 1/2 miles, a quick tour of a still downtown, then weaving through Montford, up Town Mountain from the Griffing side, along Sunset, down Macon and up Cherokee for good measure. What a difference a day makes.