Médoc. The Wine Marathon
Part 5
The Caldwells’ Support Team
The Caldwells had their own enthusiastic support team—their neighbors from Burgundy, who had come along with them, as well as their own dog and parrot. The latter two had never officially agreed to any of this and had signed no paperwork, not even electronically, but they had been drafted onto the support team by a majority vote of the humans.
At first, that morning, their neighbors genuinely believed their job would be simple: get behind the wheel of the rented van, drive with the animals to those points along the course where access was permitted, and cheer on their two runners.
In the morning, the plan looked flawless. It soon became clear that things were not quite so simple out on the course.
The plan:
The Caldwells start together with the other runners to the sound of disco music. Their neighbors travel along the side roads in the van, meet them several times along the course, cheer them on, encourage them, and remind them of the running schedule agreed upon in advance.
The Labrador and the parrot remain under supervision.
Everyone reunites at the finish.
The original plan was flawless: the route, gastronomic stops, meeting points with the neighbours and the van, and even the projected finish time—4:42:00. Only one thing remained: to run the marathon exactly according to plan
Reality:
They chose their first meeting point at around the six-mile mark.
— What time are they supposed to get here?
— If they keep to the planned pace, in about an hour.
An hour passed. No Caldwells. An hour and ten minutes. Still no Caldwells.
— Maybe we took the wrong road?
— There’s only one road here.
— Then they’re running slower than planned. Is there a château or a refreshment station along that stretch?
— But they said they weren’t going to stop.
The parrot spoke up from his cage:
— Human promises are the last thing you should trust. Take it from an experienced tropical bird!
The Labrador offered no comment. He was far more interested in why several thousand people were allowed to run through the Médoc while he alone had been ordered to sit quietly beside the van. He was a dog, after all—a natural hunter, born to chase game!
And it was at precisely that moment that the support team’s original plan began, little by little, to lose its perfection.
🏃
► The neighbors on support duty are responsible for the human logistics. They honestly try to follow the Caldwells’ carefully worked-out plan: the course map, watches, GPS, side roads, police roadblocks, parking, and attempts to predict where the couple will be an hour from now.
Gradually, they realize that trying to calculate a person’s progress through the Médoc Marathon using the ordinary formula of distance divided by speed is pointless: the equation is missing far too many variables—wine, music, a cheerful crowd, and numerous refreshment stations.
— Turn right here.
— We can’t. The police have closed the road.
— Then take the next turn.
— That one’s closed too.
— The GPS says we can get through.
— The GPS didn’t get a race bib. Nobody is going to pour it a glass of local wine or give it an oyster. No wonder it makes so many mistakes!
🏃
At the next meeting point, “Madonna” ran past them, followed by three characters whose origins were impossible to determine and a man who had spent the entire race carrying something that looked like an old cassette player.
Still no Caldwells.
— Maybe something happened?
The parrot confidently turned his head.
— Wine.
A few minutes later, the Eiffel Tower finally appeared among the runners. A serving of French fries was moving alongside it. Both looked perfectly happy and not particularly tired.
— Where have you been?
Mr. Caldwell did not even stop.
— There are some very hospitable châteaux back there!
— We know. There are châteaux everywhere around here!
— Yes, but they were very generous with the wine, served plenty of food, and gave us a fascinating explanation of the local terroir!
And they cheerfully ran on.
The neighbor looked at the schedule he had carefully prepared that morning, neatly crossed out the time of the next planned meeting, and put away his pen.
The Labrador watched his owners disappear down the road. Now he understood what was happening even less than before. They had finally found his owners—and instead of putting them in the van and going home at last for a decent meal, everyone had simply allowed them to run off again. Who knew where? Who knew why? And without him?
The parrot understood everything.
— Wine, — he repeated.
Their own marathon was finally beginning to follow the rules of the Médoc
🐕 The Labrador
From the back seat, the dog carefully watched everything that was happening. So far, he had drawn several important conclusions:
• People had voluntarily come to a place where they couldn’t drive where they needed to go, couldn’t stop where they wanted to stop, and, for some reason, couldn’t let a dog run alongside everyone else.
• Why had they dressed him that morning in a costume shaped like a baby bottle with a nipple? His owners had laughed for ages, taken pictures of him, and explained something to everyone around them about Dogwine and Dogbeer. He put up with it. After all, people often do strange things and assume that their dogs are having just as much fun as they are.
• Thousands of people in ridiculous costumes were running around, eating, drinking water, and receiving all sorts of treats. Why wasn’t he allowed to run with them—and where was his canine refreshment station? This was beginning to look like discrimination.
At one point, the Labrador was taken for a walk along a side road and found himself near an almost-cleared refreshment table beside the course. There he decided to conduct an independent inspection of the area.
He didn’t get far. Just around the bend, he discovered a place that was clearly far more interesting than the van in which he had already spent a couple of hours.
One of the refreshment stations had been there only a short while earlier. Most of the runners had already passed through. Volunteers were clearing empty cups and boxes from the tables.
The dog slowly sniffed the air, and his nose told him far more than any marathon sign or course map ever could:
Not long ago, people had been fed here. There had been plenty of food. Good food. And judging by the smell, very recently.
He moved closer. One of the volunteers noticed the visitor.
— Sorry, buddy. There’s nothing left for you.
The Labrador looked at him. Then at the table. Then back at him. For some reason, the volunteer felt compelled to explain himself.
— The runners ate everything.
Now the entire structure of the Médoc Marathon finally made sense to him. Eight and a half thousand people had deliberately been released onto the course ahead of him so they could eat everything worth eating before he got there.
This was no longer discrimination. This was a malicious human conspiracy. And what had he ever done to deserve it?
A few minutes later, the neighbors caught up with him.
— There you are! We’ve been looking everywhere for you.
The Labrador reluctantly allowed himself to be led back to the van, but several times along the way he turned and looked sadly at the empty tables.
— What a disgrace to the ungrateful human race!
By the next stop, the support team was much better prepared. They quickly made an improvised sign and hung it around the dog’s neck:
DON’T RUSH TO FEED THE PARTICIPANTS. THINK OF THEIR SMALLER BROTHERS!
They regarded it as an addition to his costume.
The first person to read the sign was a French runner passing by. He laughed, stopped, and pointed it out to a friend. Then another runner noticed it.
Within a few minutes, the Labrador was being photographed more often than some of the actual marathon participants.
The Caldwells’ support team arrived at the refreshment station too late. The runners had already received everything on offer. Judging by the Labrador’s expression, he considers the distribution of supplies deeply unfair
He sat calmly beside the van in his baby-bottle costume, accepting his sudden fame as his due.
Dogs, too, can have a taste for the spotlight.
🏃
🦜 The Parrot
As the van made its way along the side roads beside the course, the parrot looked to the right.
A graduate of the Jamaican School of Oenology begins his professional assessment of the wines of the Médoc. For the first time, Burgundy has some serious competition
— Vineyards here. But they’re better in Burgundy.
The neighbor turned his head.
— Who taught you that?
— My owner.
— He’s never said anything like that.
The parrot thought for a moment.
— Not when you’re around. He’s much more open with me.
— Somehow I seriously doubt that!
— At least our roads are open!
— It’s beautiful, — said the neighbor’s wife.
— Burgundy is better.
— Yes, we’ve gathered that.
— Do you even know what Bordeaux is?
— Of course.
— Well?
The parrot answered immediately:
— Expensive, crowded, and far too much unnecessary local pretension.
— All right, but did you like the Bordeaux wine? Is it good? How many Parker points?
The parrot perked up.
— One hundred points!
— You actually tasted it?
— One hundred points!
— Do you even know which wine it was?
— One hundred points!
The neighbor sighed.
— That’s it. Our Jamaican wine critic is ready to hand out top scores to everyone.
The parrot fluffed up his grape-cluster costume and regarded himself with dignity in the side mirror. To launch a professional career as a wine critic, apparently all he still needed was a magazine and a blog of his own.
If the dog explored the Médoc with his nose, the parrot studied and described it with his tongue—which he used with absolutely no sense of responsibility.
The parrot had no complaints about the organization of the marathon. In general, he took everything much more calmly than the Labrador did. No one expected him to run; eating from the runners’ tables was beneath the dignity of an educated tropical bird, and his place in the front passenger seat gave him an excellent view—and allowed his pleasant parrot voice to be heard to full advantage. His grape-cluster costume suited the occasion perfectly.
The main problem lay elsewhere. The Caldwells’ handsome Jamaican bird had already been living in Burgundy for several years. And a parrot who lives in the home of people interested in wine knows considerably more than an ordinary bird really ought to know.
🏃
At the next checkpoint, the Caldwells’ “support team” was already waiting without a stopwatch or the previously approved schedule.
First the Eiffel Tower appeared. Then the French fries emerged beside it. Both costumes were still intact, although the tower was leaning slightly like the one in Pisa, while several of the fries looked as though someone had already chewed on them.
— How are you doing?
— Great!
— Need anything?
— No.
— That’s because they’ve already had some wine and a nice juicy steak at the last refreshment station, — the parrot declared.
The dog’s ears immediately perked up. At the words juicy steak, something rumbled in his stomach.
— And how do you know that? — both runners exclaimed at once.
— I don’t need a breathalyzer to figure that out. Good thing all you have to do from here is run, not drive!
🏃
At the next meeting point, the wait was even longer.
The Caldwells’ support team is still trying to figure out exactly where the plan stopped matching the Médoc
This time, the owners did not appear alone. They were accompanied by a small group of runners whom they had apparently met somewhere between two châteaux. Someone was telling a story. Everyone was laughing.
— You’re late again.
— We’re not late.
— According to the schedule, you’re twenty minutes late.
Mr. Caldwell looked at his watch.
— Then the schedule was obviously too optimistic to begin with!
This had become their new “marathon” philosophy.
That morning, they had intended to run the course with reasonable discipline, avoid unnecessary stops, and approach the wine tastings with caution.
By now, the word “necessary” was gradually acquiring an entirely different meaning.
A beautiful château might turn out to be necessary. So might a photograph with other runners, or a conversation with people they had not even known an hour earlier. And a tiny sip of local wine was increasingly beginning to look less like a violation of athletic discipline and more like a gesture of respect toward the hosts and organizers.
The support team watched this evolution with considerable interest.
— Think they’ll make it to the finish? — the neighbor asked.
— Of course, — his wife replied.
— When?
— Sometime today would be nice.
The parrot immediately joined in:
— One hundred points!
The Labrador took no part in the discussion.
He was interested in a much more practical question: why did his owners keep appearing in places where there had recently been food, yet not once had they brought him anything?
Only a short distance remained before kilometer 37. There, the support team once again spotted the Caldwells. This time, there was no need to search long for the Eiffel Tower and the French fries among the runners.
They were no longer running. They weren’t even walking. They were simply standing beside the oyster table—the very table they had originally planned to pass without stopping.
Mrs. Caldwell already had an oyster in her hand. Her husband was saying something to the volunteer beside him, and a few seconds later, an appetizing shellfish appeared in his hand as well.
Mile 23. The neighbors are still watching the clock; the Caldwells are already watching the oysters. Only the Labrador knows what really deserves attention here. Him!
The parrot stretched his neck with interest.
— What is it this time, more wine? Now with seafood. They look good together!
The Labrador was staring in the same direction.
By now, events had moved completely beyond his understanding. First, thousands of people had eaten everything at the refreshment stations before he could get there. And now his own owners were standing only a few dozen yards away, eating something delicious themselves. Without him!
— And after this, they’re always demanding loyalty and obedience from me!
After a while, the Burgundian couple finally moved away from the table at a leisurely pace. Mr. Caldwell glanced toward the van, spotted his friends, and raised a hand in greeting.
The neighbor pointed very eloquently at his watch.
Mr. Caldwell smiled — and pointed back at the oysters.
That morning, the Caldwells had set out to run the Médoc Marathon properly. By kilometer 37, it had become perfectly clear that the marathon had run through them instead
Only five kilometers remained to the finish… For the final stretch, the support team stopped paying attention to their time altogether. By then, it was obvious that the real goal was no longer measured in minutes and seconds, but in the pleasure of taking part in this extraordinary event.
🏃
A Conversation by the Roadside
Two men were standing beside the course: a well-known wine snob and the host of his own wine podcast. The first was thoughtfully swirling wine in his glass; the second was holding up his phone.
— What do you think of the wine?
— Young. It still needs more depth, structure, and time.
— Wait. Say that again.
— Why?
— I forgot to start recording.
The snob sniffed the wine again.
— On the nose, there’s wet earth after rain, a little leather, tobacco, and old wood.
The podcaster looked at him suspiciously.
— Is there any grape in there?
— Of course.
— Excellent. We’ll keep that. The rest might confuse the subscribers.
A marathon runner dashed past, grabbed a full cup from the table, drank it, and kept running.
The snob watched him in horror.
— He didn’t even give the wine a chance to open up! He should have swirled it in the glass, appreciated the aromas, and then taken a small sip to savor the flavor!
The podcaster looked at the stopwatch.
— Maybe not. But he’s opened up pretty well over the course.
🏃
The van reached a place where they could park and watch the runners finish. Now all they had to do was wait.
How long? No one knew. Not even the all-knowing parrot.
Runners appeared one after another. Some still tried to pick up the pace before crossing the finish line. Others were in no hurry at all. Some finished alone; others alongside people they had met only a few hours earlier somewhere out on the course.
At last, the familiar Eiffel Tower appeared in the distance. Over the course of the marathon, it had developed an even greater lean, raising certain doubts as to whether Gustave Eiffel had properly calculated the tower’s metal structure back in the late nineteenth century.
Beside it came the French fries, which after 26.2 miles had lost some of their famous crispness and appetizing aroma.
— There they are!
The Labrador was the first to leap to his feet. This time, no one tried to keep him beside the van.
The Caldwells crossed the finish line hand in hand.
Mr. Caldwell stopped his watch and looked at the time. Then he showed it to his wife. She laughed.
— This morning, that time would have upset us.
— Yes. But this morning we didn’t know about the “treats” at kilometer 37.
They spotted their friends. The neighbor unfolded the morning schedule, which had been folded into quarters.
— Want to know how far behind schedule you are?
— Absolutely not!
The schedule went straight into the nearest trash can.
The logistical portion of the marathon was now officially over.
The plan had accounted for everything—except the marathon itself. At the finish, the neighbour finally sent it where it had long belonged
The Labrador had already reached his owners and was sniffing them with particular thoroughness. He was especially interested in the small pouches hanging from their waists. But there was nothing tasty left inside. No pâté. No entrecôte. Not even one miserable Arcachon oyster! So where were all those promised marathon delicacies? Was he really going to have to eat kibble from a big bag again?
There had been absolutely no need to leave his beloved Burgundy for that!
The parrot, by contrast, was surprisingly calm. Mrs. Caldwell walked over to him.
— Well? Did you like Bordeaux?
The parrot tilted his head. Everyone waited for the familiar response:
— Burgundy is better.
The parrot thought for a moment.
— Bordeaux… isn’t bad either.
For a bird that had spent several years living in Burgundy, this amounted to almost a diplomatic admission of temporary defeat.
Everyone hurried over to the winners’ ceremony. The winners were being awarded wine from renowned local estates—in quantities corresponding to each winning runner’s body weight. At this point, the parrot could no longer resist offering some of his “valuable” Jamaican advice:
— Put something heavy in your pockets—keys, phones, bottles of water. Hurry up and “gain some weight”! This isn’t a race for seconds anymore. Now it’s a battle for a few extra pounds of wine!
«They should have eaten more along the course. There was certainly plenty there», the Labrador thought enviously.
🏃
The neighbor opened the van door.
— That’s it. Home. Time to rest.
The parrot climbed into his usual place. The Labrador settled down in the back, looking distinctly dissatisfied.
— And they still never fed me properly! Why did we come all this way?
The Caldwells finally removed what was left of the Eiffel Tower and the French fries. For their little group, the Médoc Marathon was over. And that was when they understood something:
In the Médoc, you can try to calculate distance and time in advance. But it’s probably better to leave both up to the Médoc itself
Once everyone was in the van, Mr. Caldwell said:
— Maybe someday we should try the race in Germany’s Palatinate—the Marathon Deutsche Weinstraße. It also runs through wine country, and it’s the same marathon distance—26.2 miles. There are refreshment stations roughly every three miles, additional water stations, and a schedule of cutoff times. If you arrive too late at a certain checkpoint, they pull you from the course and take you to the finish by bus for free, because the road has to be reopened to regular traffic on time.
— But then there won’t be any time to hunt for oysters on the tables, — his wife objected.
Her husband countered:
— True, there won’t be wines from great French estates or sophisticated delicacies—just the local Riesling. But they do have a Rieslingschwamm—a grape-shaped sponge soaked in Riesling—and a wonderful Schorle-Schauer, where anyone who wants to can get sprayed with heavily diluted Riesling before the finish. And the organizers thoughtfully point out that it takes up only part of the road, so anyone who prefers can simply run around it.
The Germans built wine into the marathon. The French built the marathon into wine. Neighbors in Europe, neighbors on the wine map—but each understands the meaning of wine in its own way
The Labrador perked up when he heard the word “Germany” and soon gave the idea his enthusiastic support—but only on one condition: the parrot’s new wine-rating system would have to include a separate hundred-point scale for German sausages and pork knuckles. And unlike wine, he was prepared to conduct repeated tastings of these meat delicacies with no restrictions whatsoever on the number of samples.
— I just hope the German organizers aren’t as stingy as the French, and at least a couple of samples of German meat cuisine make it to the support team!
The parrot regarded him with a certain air of superiority. He was interested in an entirely different aspect of the matter.
— Riesling…
He considered this.
— You can’t really compare Burgundy with Riesling. They’re completely different things. And Parker, by the way, didn’t rate German wines nearly as often as French ones.
— So you don’t think we should go? — Mrs. Caldwell asked.
The parrot stared at her in surprise.
— Why not? Parker is retired now. I’m perfectly capable of replacing him.
The Médoc Marathon was barely over, and the Palatinate was already on the horizon. This time—no costumes and no complicated plans. Just running, Riesling, and German sausages. Everyone had their own part of the programme
🏃
🚐 The Road Home
A while later, the Caldwells’ van finally left Pauillac behind.
The Médoc receded into the distance along with the reopened roads, the deserted refreshment stations, the music that had fallen silent, the wine, the oysters, and several thousand people who that morning had intended to run a marathon—but who by evening could no longer always explain exactly why it had been necessary to do it at a run.
For the first few miles, the discussion continued inside the van.
— Still, we ran a marathon.
— We did.
— All 26.2 miles of it.
The neighbor behind the wheel glanced into the mirror.
— Let’s be fair. You spent part of those miles standing beside tables.
— We were standing on our own two feet, I’ll have you know.
— In that case, I withdraw the objection.
A few minutes later, the van became completely quiet.
The Médoc was behind them. The Caldwells were tired from the marathon, the neighbors from the logistics, and the Labrador from human injustice. Only the parrot was ready to continue the discussion about wine
The Caldwells were tired from running. The neighbors were tired from the GPS, the closed roads, and trying to calculate the whereabouts of people who did not always know themselves where they intended to stop ten minutes later.
The Labrador was justifiably tired of human injustice.
Only the parrot was not tired of anything. He sat in his place and occasionally repeated:
— One hundred points!
Then he thought for a moment and added:
— Bordeaux… isn’t bad either. But the question of the quality of the local wine remains open and requires further research on my part.
After the third repetition, someone gently covered his cage with a cloth.
— Censorship! — came an immediate angry cry from underneath.
👫 The Owners
They arrived home in Burgundy late that evening. The Labrador was the first out of the van. He made a circuit of the familiar yard, carefully inspected several places of particular importance to him, and satisfied himself that Burgundy had not disappeared during his absence and that no strangers had been there. This noticeably improved his mood. As for his appetite, that had never been a problem in the first place.
The Caldwells unloaded their things. What remained of the Eiffel Tower looked as though the structure had survived not the 1889 World’s Fair but a minor earthquake—not exactly what one expects in Burgundy.
The French fries had also completely lost their marketable appearance. By now, neither Belgium nor France would have wanted to claim responsibility for that particular dish.
— Should we keep it? — Mrs. Caldwell asked.
Her husband looked at the tower.
— Of course.
— Why?
He thought for a moment.
— I don’t know yet. But after 26.2 miles, somehow it doesn’t seem right to throw it away. It covered the whole distance too.
And so another object appeared in the house whose purpose its owners could not really explain—but which they no longer had the moral right to throw away.
🐕 The Canine Reform
The next morning, the Labrador woke up considerably earlier than his owners. During the night, he had finally processed everything he had learned from his sporting and culinary experience in Bordeaux and reached a conclusion:
The Médoc Marathon was in urgent need of serious canine reform.
• If humans can organize dozens of refreshment stations for eight and a half thousand runners, it is completely unclear why they cannot provide at least one table at dog-nose height. It could even be without wine or beer, but it should offer four different kinds of pâté, whose importance to life has been confirmed by centuries of canine experience. Surely France isn’t running out of food?
• The oysters can stay with the humans. For now.
• If an owner can calmly eat an entrecôte along the course without offering even a tiny piece to his beloved dog, this should be recognized as a serious violation of the principles of fair play.
• A separate provision of the reform concerned costumes. If the owners consider it necessary to dress a Labrador as a baby bottle with a nipple and then laugh and take pictures, the dog should have an equal right, at least once, to choose his owners’ costumes himself. Wouldn’t that be even funnier?
🦜 The Conclusions of a Graduate of the Jamaican School of Oenology
The parrot approached his conclusions much more seriously. A few days before the trip, there was one main thing he knew about Bordeaux:
Burgundy is always better.
Now things had become somewhat more complicated. He had seen the vineyards of the Médoc, the châteaux, the people with glasses in their hands, and the marathon itself. Most importantly, he had been given the opportunity to become acquainted with some of the local wines considerably more closely than is generally recommended for a tropical bird with a southern temperament.
So that evening, back home, when his owners opened a bottle of Burgundy, the parrot studied the glass carefully.
Back home in Burgundy, the Caldwells opened a bottle of local wine and asked the parrot the most important question of the entire trip: “So which wine is better after all—Bordeaux or Burgundy?” The parrot paused to consider. A graduate of the Jamaican School of Oenology understood that some questions require a second bottle
— Well? — Mr. Caldwell asked.
The parrot remained silent. This was already beginning to worry everyone.
— Is the Burgundy good?
— Good.
A pause followed.
— But they know what they’re doing in Bordeaux too.
Mr. Caldwell slowly put his glass down on the table.
— What exactly do they know how to do?
— Blend. Make blends.
— And?
The parrot perked up.
— Exactly! That’s what I’m saying. They blend grape varieties all the time—and sometimes it turns out pretty well.
The room became suspiciously quiet. Mrs. Caldwell decided to intervene.
— But you still like our wine, don’t you?
The parrot looked at the bottle.
— One hundred points.
Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Apparently, the bird was still oenologically and psychologically sound!
— On Parker’s scale?
The parrot thought about it.
— On mine.
His rating system turned out to be even simpler than Parker’s: if he liked it—one hundred points. If he didn’t—the tasting had to be repeated, because the sample size had clearly been insufficient.
🍷 Instead of an Epilogue
A few days later, life for the Caldwells had returned to normal. The memories found their place. The photographs migrated to phones and computers. What remained of the costumes went into storage in the garage.
The marathon was over. The medals, battered costumes, and running shoes went into the garage. The memories didn’t
The neighbors no longer drew up schedules for the Caldwells’ movements.
The Labrador was back to eating his usual food, although now he did so with the expression of an animal who knew that somewhere in the world a juicy entrecôte existed—but the humans in Bordeaux had been far too stingy to share it.
The parrot continued living in Burgundy, but every now and then he would say the word “Bordeaux” for no reason other than to watch his owner’s reaction.
And the Caldwells themselves gradually understood the most important thing. They had gone to the Médoc to run a marathon. And they really had conquered it. At least, most of it. The rest they had walked, stood around, tasted, eaten their way through, and talked away with complete strangers.
And for some reason, that was the part they remembered best.
A few weeks later, Mr. Caldwell said to his wife:
— Next year, we could try to run it faster.
She looked at him.
— Of course we could.
Then, after a moment’s thought, she added:
— But why?
From the next room came the immediate response:
— One hundred points!
The Labrador raised his head. Perhaps for the first time since returning from the Médoc, he found himself in complete agreement with the parrot.
The Médoc Marathon was over. But, as it turned out, its finish line marked only the end of that year’s course—not the end of the marathon itself.
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