Wade's First Sprint Triathlon

The following is an email from Wade about his first triathlon, the Emerald Pointe Sprint Triathlon on October 8th at Lake Lanier.

It was awesome!

First thing I got my race number marked all over my body with a sharpie (thighs & arms) by cute race volunteers and my age written on my calf. They should institute this in all races, because it makes you feel cool - like a serious competitor. And did I mention the cute volunteers?

The age marking is also good since it really only maters how you do in your own age group and this way you can identify the competition and decide who you NEED to pass. Then again, it can be demoralizing when you get passed by the 64 yr. old. This generally doesn't happen since you race in waves with your age group. Now don't skip ahead.

The swim was both better and worse than expected. I was anticipating a leathal combination of mobs, violence and water. Not a pleasant thought. As it turns out it was pretty tame and not many people got in my way or me in theirs. In fact for much of the swim I had clear water in front of me and I don't think many people got hit/ kicked.

So with all this calm competition, how did I manage to get kicked in the head while I was taking a breath? I don't know, but I looked up when I came to take a breath and saw my life flash before my eyes. I inhaled more water than I ever have before (within a stone throw of the end no less) - I also got an elbow in the face followed by a foot in the nose just for good measure. I thought I was going to die. I finished up in the back stroke / I'm-dying-position for the last bit.

Despite all that, I did very well in this portion and was (according to Ingrid who walked alongside me on the shore) in the #4 position until the water-inhalation incident, but I still finished #11 in the swim.

My transition from swim to bike took me 5 minutes (slow) - the whole swim only took 7:52. So you can imagine that I need to work on my transitions. A good time would be 2 to 3 minutes and would probably not involve getting stuck in my bike shirt's zipper (as I did when I tried to pull my shirt over my head).

The bike was brutal. I got my ass kicked. I watched as the 30 year olds faded into the distance and enjoyed the brief moment of calm before I was passed by mobs of first 40, then 50 then 60+ year olds, who went racing by in modified peloton style (single file and 2.9 bike lengths between, but still a mob). I did horrible in this section, dropping from 11th to 39th in my age group. My only consolation was that anyone who wanted to pass me had to brave the streams of snot that was my body's reaction to the near-death-water-lung incident. I'm certain that my body produced a record amount of the stuff - I'd venture to say, I saw more snot in that 30 minutes then in my entire previous 32 years. I finished the bike in 39th place and with a horrible sinus headache, but I was pleased to still be alive and still in the race. I had done 13 miles in 47:58 (or an average of 16.3 mi/hr).

This transition (from bike to run) only took me 51 seconds, which was very good - the 7th fastest of any of the 600+ participants in the race. As I was leaving the transition area, I heard someone yell, "Helmet! Helmet!" Helmet? I thought, But you don't need your helmet for the run! I instinctively touched my head and realized that I had failed to take my helmet off.

With all the weird and difficult bits done, finally came the run, which should have been my best part. Still somehow it was difficult because someone stole my legs and replaced them with some scrawny weak ones and filled my shoes with lead. I did alright I guess - I ran a 5k in 28:32 (9:13 min / mile) which is pretty mediocre under normal circumstances - but not these. I was only passed by a single competitor in my age group - who I had no hope of catching (#79 blazed past me at a 6:58 min/mile pace). I briefly tried to catch him and then quickly rationalized myself out of it. I passed 10 fellow age groupers during the run (17% of the field).

My legs finally started to feel normal around mile 2 - so I came into the finish against a fellow age grouper with a lot of power and sprinted to the end to the sound of some very exuberant cheering of "Go 101!" I attribute this mainly to having an easy number to shout. Give it a try against, say, "go number 647 and a half" and you'll see what I mean.

Anyway I finished in 1:30:15 (one hour & 30 minutes) which put me dead in the middle of my age group & overall - (#30 of 59 - 30 to 34 yr olds) (#269 of 600+ registered overall). I was very happy to be done and pretty happy to have done as well as I did with minimal training.
There will definitely be a next time and next time I'll do some more bike work before hand (and not inhale water).

New Orleans One Year Later

The following is a three-part story of a two-day road trip I took with my father last month to New Orleans, LA. We traveled together from Atlanta to pick up my stepsister's stuff that she had left after evacuating from Tulane University. Unlike 95 percent of her classmates, she transferred to another school and never looked back.

If you haven't already seen it, try to find Spike Lee's documentary When the Levys Broke.
http://www.hbo.com/docs/programs/whentheleveesbroke/?ntrack_para1=leftnav_category6_show0

Part 1

I have been up since 6:30. I am sitting in my hotel room - it's more of a guest house room, actually. Sitting on my twin bed, listening to my father snore, thinking about everything we saw yesterday.

The hotel is in the Quarter - an old rooming house-type arrangement. You go in the front door into a narrow entryway with un-refinished antique chairs and a chest with fake flowers in a vase. Up a twisty, uneven staircase to a landing, and there you realize that the entryway and the landing used to be outside. You pass huge doors to other rooms that are numbered in no particular order. 3, 17, 12. Then out a door onto a balcony overlooking a cluttered courtyard. It was dark when we arrived, and there were no lights on the balcony. No doors either, only shutters. I examined the shutters and determined that one set covered the door to the room. Inside the room are two lumpy, old twin beds. No chairs. But it is quiet and dark, as the shutters are still closed. Really perfect.

The drive was easy. Down 85 to Montgomery. 65 to Mobile and 10 the rest of the way. I've made the drive a million times on the way to Houston. We stopped at rest stops and picked up maps of each state. Crossed the Louisiana state line at 4:30. Pop perused the New Orleans inset in the atlas and decided we needed a map. I thought about stopping in Slidel, but the exits seemed a little crowded, and I thought we'd have better luck finding an easy-in gas station on the outskirts of NO.

On the I-10 drive, the only sign of storm damage was downed trees and the occasional blown-over billboard. Nothing significant. There are still bridges out on the Coastal Highway, but we figured we'd go that way home to see the damage in the rest of the Gulf. As soon as we crossed the big bridge, New Orleans suburbs started appearing. The first houses, just to the right of the highway, were a maze of blue tarps surrounded by toppled-over brick walls. We came to the first exit and saw signs for gas and fast food, as well as what looked like two large strip malls on either side of the road.

I pulled off the road and gasped. The gas stations were boarded up, the signs still hollow with no glass. There were no working stoplights - only stopsigns at the intersections. A group of Mexicans were standing around a make-shift taco stand set up in the parking lot of an old McDonalds. I'm not sure who they were serving, since the place was deserted. We u-turned and cut through one of the strip mall parking lots. All the businesses were closed. There was still big x's of tape over the windows that were still there. Coastal birds played in the pond-sized puddles that covered the otherwise empty parking lot.

We got back on the expressway, but my father had his head in his hands and wasn't looking up. The sky had taken on that uniquely late-summer blackness. After driving the whole day in relentless sunshine, it looked like we were driving past a line into a darker place. It started to rain. That's where the devastation started. Driving through the eastern suburbs we passed mile after mile after mile of empty homes. Apartment highrises with windows blown out. Empty strip malls. Piles of debris. And this was the view from the expressway. At 5:00 p.m. local time there was no rush hour traffic. With no map, we figured we'd just head to the Garden District and see if we could find the cross streets we needed. We exited St. Bernard.

Again, blocks of shuttered businesses. A Church's Chicken with only the outline of the sign. A church with the roof collapsed and a blue tarp hanging uselessly. More piles of debris. A lone trailer hooked up in front of a beautiful Victorian home. The city looks like it's been bombed. You cannot imagine the extent of the damage. A lump rose in my throat and didn't go away. We passed many, many gas stations, all shuttered. But, as we headed downtown, the damage seemed less and less. There were more cars in front of houses. More people in the street.

As we got paralell to the French Quarter, we saw the first open gas station. It was packed with people. Mostly black folks, but one white guy in a suit. He went in ahead of me and went straight for the cooler and a Budweiser tall boy. The shelves were mostly bare, but they did have maps. And Zapps Crawdadliscious potato chips. I stood in line behind a man who had a $10 and had pulled three Colts out of the cooler. He told the woman at the cash register, "Whatever's leftover, put that on pump 2."

Ah, this is the New Orleans I remember.

As we headed through downtown toward the Distict and the colleges - Tulane and Loyola - my spirits lifted. The damage didn't seem too bad. There were still many shuttered businesses and debris by the road, but many people, and many of the beautiful houses unscathed. The giant oaks that lined Loyola were mostly still there. We stopped at a Walgreens to buy umbrellas. I went inside and Pop got out and joined the group of homeless folks who had taken shelter from the rain under the Walgreens canopy. When I got out, he was talking to a young, good looking but fat black man, who was dressed in a shirt and tie. Presumably the store manager. We chatted for a while about local politics, the rebuilding process and the mood. He was very optimistic. He said his family took the insurance money and paid off their house. The only thing they've done is replace the roof, but no one is going to take their house. As we got in the car, he hollered at us, "It's all good!"

I was starting to feel better myself.

Part II

After cramming the car full of Grace's crap, I tried not to resent the fact that we can no longer see out the back owing to a large pile of papers, too-small clothes and a set of butterfly wings.

I was hungry. Hungry enough that I had eaten a small bag of potato chips. I have never in my life bought a bag of potato chips.

Our hotel required some weaving around the French Quarter, giving us a chance to survey the area. The Quarter got mostly wind damage – no flooding. There were many new roofs and paint jobs, but it looked the same. The only signs of destruction were the trees – some of the oaks in the parks looked like a bad trimming job by the power company. But they were still there.

Getting ready for going out consisted of Pop brushing his hair and me changing from jean shorts into regular jeans. Pop lamented the fact that you could go to a new city now and all you need to pack for an overnight trip is a clean t-shirt. Au contraire, Pop, I brought a pair of clean blue jeans.

We wandered through the Quarter, and though there were plenty of tourists, there were not as many as I remembered. As we passed Bourbon St., though, it was teeming tourists of all ages, carrying silly looking frou-frou drinks in plastic cups shaped like bongs.

Pop gave me several choices for dinner, but when he told me Tujague's was his favorite restaurant in the whole world, how could I choose anything else? It is at the corner of St. Ann's and Decatur, right across from Café Du Monde, with a small neon sign. Peering through the window into the main dining room, you can't tell if that's the actual entrance. There is no hostess stand, and the room is cramped, poorly lit and old. The floor is subway tile, and the walls are covered with badly-executed black and white pictures of celebrities visiting the restaurant.

After we were seated I scanned the place, and there was one other set of tourists in the almost-full dining room. The menu is fixed price, with four choices of entrée. The choice was quite easy – it's not everywhere you can get a good crawfish etoufee. It was five courses, plus coffee. A shrimp remoulade, gumbo that you could smell the sassafras, beef brisket with tomato horseradish that they've been serving for 150 years, and bread pudding for dessert. Before the brisket came, I was already stuffed. We split a bottle of wine, and since my father doesn't drink, that meant I drank a bottle of wine minus one glass.

From there, it seemed appropriate to find a local's dive bar to have a nightcap. I've never been a fan of Bourbon St., or indeed, the "touristy" part of anyplace. We saw an uninviting looking corner bar and went in. Sure enough, it was smoky, quiet and filled with old men slouched over glasses. I ordered a Tanqueray martini, up, with a twist, stirred not shaken. He got it precisely. Everyone, even my favorite bartender, makes martinis with those ice crystals floating on the top. The last thing you want is to dilute good gin with ice.

On the way to the bathroom, there were pictures on the wall of many of the patrons who were in the bar with us. We were the only tourists. We were completely ignored. It was wonderful.

We wandered back toward our hotel, turning for a detour down Bourbon St. It really hasn't changed – it looks like Tijuana, or any foreign place that caters to touristas. Drunk people wandering the streets, club music blasting out of dark basements with people outside offering two-for-one drinks, or pretty girls, or whatever.

Friday morning I got up early and worked for a while, trying to decide whether to go for a run. After most of a bottle of wine and a martini, I wasn't quite feeling myself. At about 8:30 I decided, what the heck, I'd go for a run and just take it slow.

It was probably 90 degrees and 1,000,000-percent humidity when I started. First I headed down St. Ann to Decatur, then on Chartres across Esplanade, then Frenchmen St. I stayed on the side streets to get shade from the buildings. Business owners and workmen were hosing off sidewalks, and I had to dodge pungent garbage from last night's dinner that sat on the sidewalk in hot black bags. Mostly I ran on the street, asking everyone with a hose to spray me. Life looked normal, except for the large number of contractors filling up dumpsters with construction debris. Most of the folks I saw were Hispanic and black. I got a few appreciative smiles and had gestures from the mostly-Mexican work crews, and one Central American young man gave me a "You-go-girl," to the delight of his companions, who were all carrying six-inch copper pipes across a cobbled street.

As I turned up an unknown residential street, I dodged an older white man with a long beard, a top hat, a sleeveless t-shirt, and a conservative brief case coming out of his townhouse.

When I finally roused my father, we strolled to Café Du Monde for beignets and chicory coffee (decaf in my case), and listened to a street musician play and sing old protestant hymns – the good ones, and the old ones. The musician was someone my father had met several years ago when he brought Meg down to look at University of New Orleans. He made probably $200 while we were having our coffee.

Pop asked where he lived and how his house fared. "In the Garden District, with all the white folks." Which, of course, didn't get much damage. We wandered around for a couple of hours, stopping in shops and speaking to the locals. The story, of course, was nothing like what we've heard. Everyone is angry. People have lost everything and are fighting with FEMA and insurance companies for help. There were many uncreative anti-FEMA t-shirts, saying things like, "FEMA Sucks," and "Fuck FEMA." My favorite t-shirt read, "I stayed for Katrina, and all I got was this lousy t-shirt and a flat-screen TV."

We drove out of town on Esplanade, surveying all the old houses. Almost all had fared well.

We made our way to I-10 and Mississippi.

Part III
We left the way we had driven in, but this time I was the passenger. Some of the houses we could see from I-10 were vacant, but still had tape on what windows were still there. That sight, the emptiness, was even more sad to me than the destruction. So many people who left and haven’t looked back.

The damage to the trees on I-10 was more extensive than I thought on the drive in. There were miles upon miles of dead trees and twisted vegetation on either side of the expressway.

Since the Hwy 90 bridge over Bay St. Louis was still out, we headed into Mississippi for a few miles before exiting and heading to the coast on a small road that put us exactly perpendicular to the Gulf. About four miles from the coast road, we started seeing evidence of the damage. There were few houses left standing, but many empty pads and foundations. FEMA trailers set up on slabs. People living in tents surrounded by pilings that once belonged to their homes.

I had expected devastation when we reached the coast, but instead what greeted us was strangely serene. Unlike New Orleans, all the debris is gone. The emptiness that remains is more disturbing than destruction, because it is at once tragic and beautiful. The road was deserted, save for construction vehicles. We would pass miles and miles of nothing, then there would be five old houses facing the beach with varying degrees of damage and repair. That many of the old homes survived was both miraculous and encouraging. The beach was deserted – most of the beaches have been closed for the year, due to post-Katrina debris. The dunes were completely flattened, and there was little evidence of manmade structures in the water. A few broken posts sticking up where a pier or a boardwalk may have been.

Closer to Gulfport, there were miles of signs for gas stations and fast food joints, but no buildings left standing. It made me wonder why it seemed like a good idea to build a Waffle House right across from the beach, or a gas station between the coastal highway and the beach. I thought, “This is what it looked like 50 years ago.” While I was sad for those who lost their homes and businesses and livelihoods, I hoped that the region would use this as an opportunity to return at least some of the land to its natural state.

In Gulfport, all the casinos were closed. Some were gone. One eight- or 10-story high-rise towered over us at a slight angle. There were pilings where condos – probably rentals – used to be. There were some condos where half was gone, and half looked almost undamaged, except the break was right in the middle of a living room. We turned inland to look for some food, and surprisingly, just blocks off the ocean, the damage was much less. Unlike what we had seen on the trek from I-10, there were some shuttered businesses, and still many signs of damage, but most buildings were still there.

We saw a place called “Cajun Buffet,” which was in an old KFC. The restaurant was strangely set up, but when I saw the food (not Cajun at all, but rather plain old Southern - turnip greens, yams, cornbread, fried chicken livers), I knew it would be good. And it was packed. We piled our plates high (I got a plate of nothing but greens and cornbread) and found the an empty booth. The proprietor, a good-looking middle-aged Greek woman, was interviewing potential employees at the table next to us. It seemed that she was struggling to get enough staff.

As I was finishing my second plate of greens, an older man in a Habitat for Humanity polo shirt sat at a nearby table with a plate that had nothing but fried chicken. As he was bringing a chicken thigh to his mouth, my father asked him how the rebuilding is going. He was actually the one in charge of all Habitat houses in the region, and their goal is to build 1,000 within 18 months. They have 400 in process now.

He described the scene in the weeks and months after the storm. He said the piles of debris for some reason reminded him of huge brown snow drifts.

We got back on the coastal highway and took it through Biloxi. One large casino looks almost rebuilt, and has a sign on it proclaiming an 8/29/2006 Grand Opening – exactly one year after the hurricane.

The strange emptiness continued for miles after Biloxi.

Satisfied that we had seen enough, we cut back to I-10 East. And home.

Baby Julian Pictures

Julian Allstrom Kavanaugh,son of Margaret "Meg" Allstrom and Michael Kavanaugh was born June 28, 2006 at 9:51 p.m. He weighed in at an impressive 9 lbs.

So far he seems to be a pretty good baby. He likes going out, loud noises, and deep voices! Some of these pictures are from a party at our friend Arlo's house, where he was passed around to pretty much everyone. He didn't mind a bit!

Here are some pictures of him at one month.

Possum Trot 10K Race Report - A Happy Personal Worst

First posted on Runners World - June 19th, 2006

First, some background. At my peak I am a back-of-the-pack-er. I am not fast, will never be fast, don't care too much about fast. My goal is to be as fast as I can be while still only running 25-30 mpw. Due to patellar tendonitis that flared up during Chicago and THEN breaking an ankle last fall, I couldn't run from October 9th to mid-March. Even though I spent January thru March (after I got off crutches) cross-training like crazy, I managed to put on 25 lbs and get even slower.

I've lost 5 of the 25, and I've worked back up to 15 mpw. I am training for the Peachtree Road Race on July 4th, and I decided it would be fun to do a 10K for a training run. Last year I PR'd at the possum trot with a time just over an hour. This year I was just hoping to finish.

I suggested the race to some friends, and to my surprise they all came! My sister's babydaddy, and a girlfriend of mine have both been training, and then another friend who does not usually run joined us. The four of us started together near the back. We all four stayed together for the first three miles - running about an 11 minute mile pace. The three of them were having fun and obviously not working too hard. At mile three we split up (READ: I slowed down, and they sped up.).

The route was very flat for Atlanta, and took a route along the Chattahoochee, so it was pretty darned cool for ATL summer. There was a nice breeze as well.

Mile six had two short but killer hills, but as I was the only one running (shuffling?) up them, I passed quite a few people. At the end, I passed one girl and told her "You're not going to let me PASS you ARE you??" I had taken it way easier than I intended, so I had quite a bit left at the end. I kicked it up a knotch for the last .2 miles, and at one point I hear Wade and my friends shouting "She's going to pass you!" Apparently the girl I had passed was doing her best to catch me. I sprinted to the finish and didn't let her pass me, and the two of us shared a laugh at the end of the chute. Wade, preggo Meggo, and all my friends were cheering me LOUDLY at the finish! It felt awesome.

Time: 1:13, almost a PW (personal worst). In fact, except for a race I ran with a slower friend, that is my PW. I'm not complaining - I ran it as a training race. I'm fatter and slower than I was last year, but on the bright side, that means I'll see improvement quickly!

New baby (and other news)

Yes, it's been a long time since I've posted. Terribly sorry about that!

Since last posting, here is a rundown of the news.

• It has been extraordinarily hot.
• Wade broke his foot doing something silly.
• I ran two 10Ks - the Possum Trot and the Peachtree.
• Meg had a baby.
• Wade's foot recovered.

Well, that's a lot, isn't it!

I will post a race report or two, as well as pictures.

Love,

I.

Big Frog Wilderness Weekend

I'll post more later, but I wanted to get some photos of last weekend up for everyone. Wade and I did a two-night backpack, followed by one night at Big Canoe and an afternoon of lazy sailing and fishing on Lake Lanier.

Day 1 - In front of the bear-scratched Big Frog Wilderness sign

We ate a mushroom.


Ingrid and waterfall on Grassy Gap trail

LadyslippersIn our tent the first morning. This tent is kind of like sleeping outside, only without bugs.

Wade cooking his wet shoes.
Flame azalea
At Wolf Ridge and Grassy Gap trails
Ingrid under flame azaleas
Purdy view
It's really hard to take a picture of wind. It was super-windy.
VERY windy.
The mayapples didn't like the wind.

Riders in the Sky

Last weekend Wade and I traveled to Athens, GA to see Riders in the Sky, the premier Western band in the world today. They are a strange combination of Western music in the style of Gene Autry, Roy Rogers and The Sons of the Pioneers, and ADD-inspired humor that is funny to the young, and the juvenile. The last time I saw them was in Virginia at a Borders Bookstore with my Pop, and it was one of the most fun shows I've ever been to! At a bookstore!

This show was better-attended. In fact, they played to a full house of geezers and little kids. And us. The audience was a strange mix. As you can see, our seats were on the second row!

Those of you who would love Riders already know about them, so I won't bore the rest of my huge readership. Anyone interested can go to their website http://www.ridersinthesky.com/ .

The show was fantastic. Even after 28 years, they still sound fresh. Ranger Doug's yodeling was superb. They played Ghost Riders in the Sky, Wahoo, I've Got Spurs that Jingle, Woody's Roundup (from their Grammy-winning soundtrack to Toy Story II), Call of the Canyon, Tumblin Tumbleweeds (acoustic), Happy Trails, Davy Crocket, Rawhide (a crowd pleaser), That's How the Yodel Was Born, Early Autumn, Deep in the Heart of Texas, Cowboy Camp Meetin' (in the sky), Biscuit Blues and many others.

Sidemeat the Sidekick's Sidekick made an appearance, but sadly, none of the other alter-egos (Drywall Paul, Charlie & Slocum) were able to make it. Too Slim rapped about meeting Eminem at the Grammys. There were new jokes and old ones, including the one about the circus train crashing in Ranger Doug's "portrait of the America West." I nearly wet my pants I laughed so hard.

I have to say that even though Joey the Cow Polka King has been with them for 10 years, hearing accordian in every tune is a bit strange. It's just not what I'm used to. Joey is a great personality and a gorgeous voice. He doesn't sing much with the other guys ... I don't know if that's because his voice is too close to Doug's in pitch, or whether he sounds too much like Tony Bennett to blend.

After the show we hung out to get autographs and pictures with the band. I really wanted to invite them out for a beer, but since I'm not at all familiar with Athens, I was afraid they'd say yes! It was a good thing, because there wasn't much open by the time we left.

We'll definitely go see them when they get near Atlanta again!

First set Sidemeat the Sidekick's Sidekick
The band

Acoustic number. Very Cool.
Ig with the band, minus Woody Paul.
Ig with Too Slim, Joey the Cow Polka King, Ranger Doug and Woody Paul.

Virginia Wine Weekend Pictures

Here are some pictures in no particular order...

Wade working ...

Wade at the first winery

Greg, Stacy and Wade

Greg swilling ...

Stacy and Greg at Pop & Julie's house

Beautiful Linden Vineyards

"The Hat"

The Gray Ghost sign
Stacy and Greg again

Sheep

The family at breakfast

This time with Scrapple in the picture

Virginia Wine Weekend

Who: Stacy, Greg, Wade, Ingrid
When: March 24-26, 2006
Where: Virginia - from Loudoun County to Charlottesville to Richmond
What: A Virginia Wine Tour

This wine weekend was Stacy's idea. Her birthday was March 24th, and we now have an almost-tradition of going on trips for her birthday. The idea of this trip was to fly into DC, spend one night hanging out with my pop (Eric) and his wife Julie, then drive to Charlottesville, visiting as many wineries as we could along the way. It started off as the three of us, but then she invited along Greg, her current beau. Though I don't believe he was told, this trip was also a way for us to put Greg through a thorough boyfriend-vetting process. The results of the boyfriend vetting are, unfortunately for you, completely confidential. A complete report was presented to Stacy, which she can choose to leak. Or not.

We flew out of Atlanta on Friday morning. Our flight was at 7:30 a.m. - right in the middle of the morning airport rush. Here is a short list of the things I forgot to bring: Wade's contacts, music CDs, mp3 player, underwear, shampoo, my Blackberry and face wash. Fortunately I remembered my Blackberry when we were still on our street, but that and other delays meant we were hurrying to get to the airport on time.

As soon as we got to the airport, we hooked up with Stacy and Greg and headed for security. I opened my wallet to get out my driver's license, and ... it was gone. I had no idea where it could be. After running back and forth between the Delta ticket counter and the security line about 10 times, I managed to get through security with my ATM card and my paper fishing license. They really didn't want to let me through, but I advised them (sounding most professional) that I know the law, and they have to let me through with a government ID. And the Department of Fish and Wildlife is the government. I knew no such thing, but it worked.

During the flight I reached into my pocket to retrieve a mint and found my drivers license. No idea how it go there - whether I unconsciously got it out sometime in the airport, of if it was there from the last time I wore those jeans. Fortunately, the rest of the flight was uneventful.

We landed at Dulles, got our car, and set out for the first winery. On the way to the first winery, we pulled off the expressway to find a grocery store, and the street looked very familiar. We drove around for a few minutes and found Pop's house. Last time I was there was about three or four years ago, so I was surprised that I could find it!

We visited Breaux, Willowcroft, Windham and Hillsboro(ugh?) wineries before picking up Pop and going to the last winery of the day, Crysalis. From there we went back to Pop & Julie's house, where we hung out, drank a nice bottle of wine (thanks, Greg!) and visited. We had dinner at a wonderful Vietnamese place, where Wade and I ordered the same thing that we always order at our Vietnamese place in Decatur. No branching out for us.

Saturday morning we started bright and early with breakfast at the Leesburg Restaurant, one of the strangest places I've seen. The building has been around since about 1492, and the restaurant itself has been operating continuously since around that time. It recently (like, maybe 1932) had a sketchy renovation job done, so it's got this weird art deco thing going on. Pop, maybe you could help out with some history?

Pop observed that one of the place's charms is that the owners, managers and staff don't try to bring attention to its quaintitude. Because they really don't realize that it is quaint. For proof that this is so, Google "leesburg restaurant" or "history of leesburg restaurant." You will come up with nothing.

The highlight of breakfast was that I got to try scrapple. Apparently it wasn't exactly right. It had the consistency of pudding, and I guess it's supposed to be fried harder. For those who don't know what scrapple is, here is a definition from http://www.southernfood.about.com/:

"Scrapple - A dish made from scraps of cooked pork mixed with cornmeal, broth, and seasonings. The cornmeal mixture is cooked, packed into loaf pans, chilled until firm, then cut and fried."

What they don't mention in this definition is the parts of the pig that are used. It should read:

"Scrapple - A dish made from scraps of cooked swine guts mixed with cornmeal, broth, and seasonings...."

It was gross, but not as disgusting as lots of other things I've eaten. Ironic (or at least odd) that I had to leave Georgia and head north to try a purely southern delicacy.

After breakfast, it was off to taste more wines. The first winery of the day was Swedenburg, and when we arrived, the winemaker, a woman who looked to be about 90, told us that we should come back later, because they were redoing their floors. She changed her mind and let us in. All of the wines kind of tasted like paint thinner.

All of the staff at all the wineries we visited up until this point told us we should visit a winery, which we're going to call Winery X. We made it our mission to find Winery X and see what the fuss was about. The only thing was, no one could tell us exactly where they were, and we couldn't find a phone number or map in any of our publications. We finally found someone at a Naked Mountain Winery who knew where Winery X was. He said, "It's, like, at this dude's house."

On the way to Winery X, the ubiquitous grape signs that helped us find the other wineries had paper taped over the arrows. I thought, "This hole in the wall is going to be good!" When we arrived, we found not "some dude's house," but a huge facility and a packed parking lot. The tasting room was full of customers.

Winery X almost defies description. They take snobbery to a whole new level. We knew the winemaker's name before we even started to taste their wine. At the start of every sentence was "Jim says ..." I began to hate Jim before I had seen him.

Here are some things about Winery X:

• Nothing happens without Jim's express approval. Not even employee bathroom breaks.
• They don't ship because then they can't have control of their wine. Something bad could happen to it during shipping, and you would think that Jim's wine was bad, not that it got too hot on the truck.
• They don't "do" marketing. That's why they don't have directions in any publications. They do have a website, but that's not marketing. What???
• They accused other Virginia wineries of using bad grapes from Europe and California, or even importing wines from California and putting Virginia labels on them. No one would name any wineries that do these things.
• They had some very good wine, which we didn't buy, because they were so infuriating.

We were in their cellar for a cellar tasting. Basically a cellar tasting is standing in a cold room on a hard stone floor and listening enraptured while some pompous "expert" pretending not to be pompous lectures you about wine. Anyway, there we were in the cellar. Greg asks how often they spray their vines for bugs. He has asked others and gotten answers around 14 times a year.

Greg: How often do you spray?

Pompous Woman: Not nearly as often as they spray commercial fruits, do you know how much pesticides there are on commercial apples?

Ingrid: But that's not what he asked. He asked how often you spray your vines for bugs.

PW: (very defensive) Not as often as that apple you ate for lunch was sprayed. It doesn't affect the flavor, and anyway, in this climate you would have to hire someone full time to be in the vineyards killing bugs in order to make a dent in them ... blah, blah, blah ....

Ingrid: Just answer the damned question!

PW: (Still defensive) BLAH, blah, blah, blah ....

She went on and on and on, and I'm not sure she ever answered the question.

The same woman told Wade "We don't allow sharing" when he had a sip of my wine.

Greg was able to look past the pomposity of PW and the egomania of Jim and purchase a case or two of wine from Winery X. Stacy, Wade and I were much more juvenile about the experience, and spent the rest of our time at the winery giggling and acting like fools. Stacy found a hat there that she really liked, but after being treated so rudely, she didn't want to spend any money on a hat there.

She put the hat on, and ... a couple of miles down the road she realized that she still had it on. HA! We showed them! Spent several hundred dollars on wine and walked out with a hat! Take that, Winery X!

Our next winery was Gray Ghost, which was a lovely experience. Al, the winemaker, was the one who did our tasting. He was as affable and unassuming as Jim-bo was irritatingly snobbish. And they had a reserve Cab Sav that was to die for.

Saturday night we spent in Charlottesville at the Hampton Inn near UVA. I had never been before - what a cute town. We'll definitely go back. That night we had dinner at Escafe with Stacy's childhood friend Shannon.

Sunday morning Wade and I did a short run around the UVA campus, and we set out to hit several more wineries before flying out Sunday night. Sunday we visited: First Colony, Kluge Estate, Jefferson Vineyards and King Family Estate.

Three days, fifteen tastings and 19 cases of wine later we flew into Atlanta, and drove immediately to Twains ... for a nice, cold beer.