Wine as a Way of Life

Médoc: The Wine Marathon

You can read Part 1 here…

Part 2

🏃 The Marathon That Could Have Happened

The Médoc Marathon is Bordeaux’s famous wine marathon, winding through the vineyards and châteaux of the Médoc. The course covers the classic marathon distance of 26.2 miles (42.195 kilometers), but here athletic competition goes hand in hand with wine, local cuisine, music, festivities, and costumes.

In 2026, the marathon celebrates its 40th edition, with the 1980s chosen as the theme for this anniversary race.

👫 🐕 🦜 Introduction

Everything we have told you so far is true.

Now let us imagine that on September 5, 2026, an American family named Caldwell arrived on the waterfront in Pauillac…

Several years earlier, the Caldwells had moved from California to France and settled in Burgundy, where they gradually learned to understand the local wine, customs, French way of life, and the history of the region.

They had brought their Labrador and parrot with them to Burgundy—both American citizens, one by birth and the other through the adoption of a Jamaican feathered immigrant—and both were full-fledged participants in our earlier stories.

Now the entire household had set off from Burgundy for the Médoc. The owners wanted to get better acquainted with the Bordeaux region, try their hand at the local marathon, and experience the character of the place firsthand. Their four-legged and feathered companions were coming along to see what would become of it all.

👉 All four are entirely products of our imagination. But if the Médoc Marathon allows people to turn themselves into almost anyone they please, why not imagine that, one September morning, our family also arrived in Pauillac?

🚗 On the Road

The Caldwells did not set off for the Médoc alone. Joining them in the big van was the couple we already know from our Burgundy stories—their neighbors [link]. The Caldwells usually entrusted their Labrador and parrot to them whenever they went away, so the question of who would look after the animals during the marathon practically answered itself. The dog was especially fond of the neighbors: they always seemed to have some kind of treat for her.

The big American van devoured the miles of French highway with the indulgent confidence of an older brother and consumed gasoline with equal enthusiasm.

Mr. Caldwell had loved vehicles like this ever since his California youth: a powerful engine, a high driving position, and a cavernous interior capable of swallowing a family, neighbors, pets, luggage—and probably half of a small Burgundy winery as well.

The road from Burgundy to Bordeaux. The Médoc Marathon lies ahead, but for now the people, the Labrador, and the parrot are settling into their roles as one big road-trip team

After yet another stop for gas, Mr. Caldwell stood for a while in silence, staring at the total on the pump.

— When I was young, — he finally said, — an American bought a big car and thought about only two things: how much horsepower it had under the hood and how many seconds it would take to pass the car ahead of him on the highway.

— And now?” — his wife asked.

— Now I wonder whether I’ll have enough money to make it to the next gas station.

He got back behind the wheel and sighed.

— Gas is almost as expensive as milk these days. If this keeps up, I’ll have to buy some ordinary local Citroën.

The economical French option. Four people, a Labrador, a parrot, and the luggage somehow managed to fit inside. Saving fuel requires sacrifices

— At least it would be easier to park, — his wife observed.

Her husband looked at her, almost offended.

— But what about my image?

— What image? We’ve been living in Burgundy for several years now.

— Exactly. You can’t just abandon your American roots. Yes, this van is a gas guzzler, impractical, and much too big for France—but it’s ours. Our very own American van!

His wife was wise enough not to ask exactly how many gallons of gas per hundred miles were required to maintain one’s national identity at a reasonable level.

Outside the van windows, the familiar vineyards of Burgundy stretched past at first. The parrot sat by the window, surveying them with the proprietary air of someone who had personally taken part in at least half their harvests.

— Beautiful, — he said.

The Labrador raised her head.

— Where?

— Burgundy.

— Won’t Bordeaux be like this?

— It’ll be different.

— Worse?

The parrot paused to think. The question called for caution.

— I don’t know yet. But I have my suspicions. In Burgundy, every patch of land knows its ancient history and exactly what it is: a climat, a former monastic plot, or a particular slope—and whether Pinot Noir or Chardonnay grows there. Everything is clear.

— And here?

— Here they take Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Cabernet Franc… and blend them!

The Labrador could not understand why the last two words had been delivered almost like a serious accusation in a courtroom.

— Does it taste good?

The parrot stared at her for a moment.

— Sometimes.

— Then why are you shouting?

— Because there are such things as principles and centuries-old traditions.

Arrival

Our travelers arrived in Pauillac on Friday before noon, checked into a pet-friendly hotel, and set off on a tour they had booked in advance. They had chosen Château Lynch-Bages.

🏛️ Château Lynch-Bages

👉 Château Lynch-Bages is located near Pauillac, on a gravel rise above the Gironde. It is a Grand Cru Classé in the 1855 Classification and has belonged to the Cazes family since 1939. Today, the estate’s vineyards cover more than 250 acres (over 100 hectares).

► “But Where Is the Château?”

At the word château, the American Caldwell family instinctively expected a castle with a colonnade, defensive towers, narrow arrow-slit windows, and a drawbridge over a water-filled moat.

The sign reads: “Do not feed the alligators. They find their own food”

— But where is the château itself? — Mr. Caldwell asked.

The guide smiled.

— You’re standing in it.

Caldwell looked around at the modern buildings.

— I thought there would be towers.

The parrot immediately joined the conversation.

— And they warned us back in Burgundy: never trust Bordeaux labels on wine bottles. Another deception!

But the guide stepped in to explain:

In Bordeaux, a château is first and foremost a wine estate—not necessarily a castle with towers and gates that can be raised and lowered.

👉 A Little History…

The lands of Bages were mentioned as early as the 16th century. In the 17th century, the Déjean family began bringing separate parcels together into a single estate, the Domaine de Bages.

Then came the Irish connection. John Lynch left Galway and settled in Bordeaux in 1691; his son Thomas acquired the Domaine de Bages through marriage in 1750. Michel Lynch later selected grape varieties, systematically drained the soils, and improved vineyard cultivation.

— Draining swamps again! — Mr. Caldwell exclaimed.

The parrot answered first:

— We’re in the Médoc!

— It feels as though half the history of wine around here began with a man holding a shovel, a wheelbarrow, and a profound dislike of wetlands.

The soils of Lynch-Bages consist of deep Garonne gravel deposits: stones and sand drain water efficiently, absorb heat during the day, and release it at night. The estate itself describes its terroir quite unambiguously:

“Where Cabernet Sauvignon is King.”

🍷 Tasting

Everyone tastes the wine. The parrot does too. A pause. Caldwell:

— Well?

The parrot says nothing.

— You spent the whole drive telling us about Burgundy and comparing it with Bordeaux. So?

— I require an additional sample.

A tasting at Château Lynch-Bages. Everyone has their own approach to discovering the wines of Pauillac: three glasses are enough for the humans, while the representative of the Jamaican school of oenology prefers a broader program—five glasses and a generous supply of nuts

The guide pours him just a little more. The parrot fluffs his feathers.

— The famous Jamaican school of oenology does not draw conclusions on the basis of only two observations.

The Labrador:

— Give me some.

— Dogs aren’t allowed to drink wine.

— And parrots are? Being Jamaican doesn’t give you the right to drink alcohol in France before you’re eighteen. In America, you’d have to wait until you were twenty-one! Besides, back where you come from, they only drink rum. They don’t even make wine in Jamaica. What ‘school of oenology’ are you talking about? You say we shouldn’t trust Bordeaux wine labels—but are we supposed to trust your stories?

The parrot let the dog’s biting remark sail past his large beak and merely looked out the window at the gravelly vineyard.

— In Burgundy, wine tells you where it came from. Here, it shows you what people managed to make of that place.

On the way back to the hotel, the parrot, sitting in his cage in the van, suddenly returned to one of his favorite subjects.

— And milk in Burgundy is richer and tastes better than it does in Bordeaux.

— And what exactly is your point?

— There’s no place like home!

— And where exactly is home for you, eternal emigrant? Jamaica, Los Angeles, or Burgundy? Or have you already decided that Bordeaux is home too? A true cosmopolitan!

— Home is the place you want to come back to.

🏛️ Château Beychevelle

That evening, the Caldwells headed to Château Beychevelle on their own. Animals were not allowed at the event, and the neighbors agreed, without much resistance, to stay behind with them at the hotel.

The Labrador watched her owners leave with a reproachful look. She had clearly been unfairly deprived of a delicious dinner.

The parrot demanded an explanation of why France’s much-praised legal system permitted discrimination on the basis of species.

— On Darwin’s evolutionary ladder, we are all equal!

(The Labrador almost asked him which rung of that ladder parrots occupied, but she wisely stopped herself before receiving the inevitable answer: “Definitely one above your canine species.”)

The door closed. For several seconds, the couple walked silently down the hotel corridor.

— Quiet, — Mrs. Caldwell said.

Her husband listened.

— It feels strange. Even a little unsettling.

They reached the elevator.

—You know, — Caldwell said, — I love them, no matter what they may say about everyone and everything.

— So do I.

— But sometimes it’s so nice to love them from a distance.

The Caldwells were on their way to Château Beychevelle, where the marathon organizers were holding the Mille-Pâtes event.

The evening before the start. Mille-Pâtes at Château Beychevelle: wine, music, dancing, and fireworks—the Médoc begins celebrating the marathon before the first kilometre has even been run

👉 Château Beychevelle is one of the famous estates of Saint-Julien, with a history dating back to the 16th century. According to legend, ships sailing along the Gironde would lower their sails as they passed the estate of the powerful Duke of Épernon. The name Beychevelle is said to derive from the Gascon Bécha Véla — “lower the sail.” In the 1855 Bordeaux Classification, the estate was ranked a Fourth Growth (Quatrième Grand Cru Classé).

👉 Mille-Pâtes is a play on words: the French mille-pattes means “centipede,” while pâtes means “pasta.” For one evening, the thousands of legs belonging to tomorrow’s marathoners were matched by thousands of servings of pasta.

Mille-Pâtes at Château Beychevelle. On the eve of the marathon, the evening’s main distance is measured not in kilometres, but in plates of pasta and glasses of Médoc wine

The Caldwells arrived at Château Beychevelle shortly before seven. That morning, they had still been simply two Americans from Burgundy who had come to run their first Médoc Marathon. Now, all around them were people preparing to do exactly the same thing the next day.

Many looked cheerful and determined.

Some were even planning to actually run the marathon—just like our American couple.

At the entrance, staff checked the special wristbands issued along with the runners’ bibs. Attendance was limited: only about 1,500 participants in the marathon weekend could get into Mille-Pâtes.

— So tonight they feed us pasta, — Caldwell said.

— Carbs before a marathon. Makes perfect sense.

— And they pour wine.

— Well, we are in Bordeaux. This isn’t Utah with all its restrictions on alcohol.

— Then music. Dancing. And fireworks?

His wife looked at him.

— Where are you going with this?

— I’m trying to figure out when the preparation for tomorrow’s sporting event is actually supposed to begin.

A noisy group of runners passed by. One of them overheard the last remark, turned around, and laughed.

— Tomorrow at nine-thirty.

— And tonight?

The Frenchman shrugged.

— Tonight, you’re in the Médoc.

— I think I’m beginning to understand. But I’m definitely not dancing.

— Why not?

— Tomorrow I have to conquer 26 miles.

— You’re forgetting the last 385 yards.

— Thank you. Those are exactly the yards I’m most worried about right now.

At the next table sat runners from several different countries. One of them asked:

— First Médoc?

— First.

— So what kind of time are you hoping for?

Caldwell gave him the finishing time he had in mind. The man nodded approvingly.

— Good plan.

— What about you?

The Frenchman thought for a moment.

— Tonight or tomorrow?

— Tomorrow, of course.

— Ask me tomorrow—but not before mile 18.

— Why?

The man raised his glass.

— Because at the Médoc Marathon, the definition of a good result sometimes changes right in the middle of the race—depending on how many miles you’ve covered and how many refreshment stops you’ve passed.

Mrs. Caldwell looked at her husband.

— We are still planning to run this seriously, aren’t we? Or not?

— Of course.

— Wine along the course?

— No.

— Cheese?

— No.

— Oysters?

Caldwell hesitated for a moment.

— What mile are they at?

— Almost at the very end, I think.

— Then we’ll see how things go.

His wife smiled.

— I can already see your definition of a good result beginning to change.

🎭 Costumes

The Caldwells approached the choice of costumes with the kind of seriousness Americans sometimes bring to portraying France as they understand it.

Costumes chosen, team ready. The Eiffel Tower, a serving of “French” fries, a Labrador dressed as a bottle of Bordeaux, and a parrot already prepared to explain to the French why French fries are actually Belgian. The start is almost here

He became the Eiffel Tower.

👉 Gustave Eiffel managed to leave his mark on both sides of the Atlantic: his company created the metal framework for the Statue of Liberty, France’s gift to the United States, and later came the famous Parisian tower that bears his name.

She became an enormous French fry.

Historical accuracy suffered a little in the process. The French may have had very little to do with the invention of French fries, but with the marathon about to begin, it was already too late to correct the geography or rewrite the history of culinary names.

👉 The Belgians consider fries their invention, while the French also lay claim to the famous dish. There is no conclusive historical evidence that would allow us to award the victory once and for all to either side.

Our parrot, however, holding a sign that read “FRENCH FRIES ARE BELGIAN!”, was clearly taking the Belgian side—and doing so quite emphatically.

The animals were not left without costumes either.

The Labrador was dressed as a large baby bottle with a nipple—a reference to the non-alcoholic “wine” and “beer” for dogs that her owners had once discovered in American stores.

The all-knowing parrot was transformed into a bunch of grapes. He was less than thrilled. In his opinion, a Jamaican bird who already knew more about wine than his owners did not require any additional identification.

For now, our heroes are still taking the marathon seriously.

Tomorrow, the Médoc will have plenty of opportunities tomorrow to gradually wear down that resolve.

mbabinskiy@gmail.com

To be continued…