Forty-one
The marathon of the Châteaux of the Médoc and the Graves, routed through the Bordeaux vineyards, was rated among the ten most beautiful of the world. Unlike any other marathon, it was a three-day affair, marked by celebrations both before and after the race, which ended where it began, at the port of St-Estèphe.
The festivities included a gastronomic Great Trade Fair at La Chapelle, a photographic exhibition (to entice people to the Maison du Vin), aeroplane rides and boat trips, boutiques, side shows and amusements set up in Les Allées Marines along the banks of the Gironde, fancy dress and entertainments, jazz bands and bungee jumping, buffet suppers by the dozen, and wine-tastings along the route. By the time the runners had assembled on the quayside on the second day, excitement had reached fever pitch. The entire Médoc was en fête.
Halliday Baines’ technique, which he had put into practice in marathons from Sydney to Fukoka, had been learned the hard way. Scorning the idea of a running coach, he had worked out for himself the best way to optimise his performance. Aware that, as the heart muscle became stronger, the oxygen delivery became more efficient and the blood flow through the muscle fibres was increased, he knew that it was important not to overdo it. The more you overdid it, the more likely you were to crash, and, even if you didn’t actually injure yourself, you’d find that you were actually running more slowly instead of faster. The stronger the muscles, the more effectively they contracted, the faster it was possible to run (using the same amount of energy) before hitting the pain threshold.
While Halliday’s method entailed distinguishing between what the mind perceived and the body perceived, Jamie’s game plan was to put one leg in front of the other for 42.2 kilometres, until he was presented with the T-shirt awarded to all finishers.
With his number, 24, fastened to his singlet with safety pins (courtesy of Sidonie), Jamie was directed to the far reaches of the colourful field, while Halliday was pampered with a private dressing area and given a privileged position near the starting line. Oblivious of the buzz of excitement around him and the broadcast music, interrupted from time to time by announcements – ‘Time spent in wine-tasting will not be deducted from the running time!’ – he concentrated on his strategy. Although ability, training and experience were major factors in the race, and temperature and wind factors also had to be taken into consideration, what distinguished the good runner from the not-so-good was the ability to focus his attention for long periods. While ‘disassociating’ was not advised for beginners, it was recommended for those determined to run fast. Allowing the mind to wander slowed one down. Staying focused concentrated the body systems so that a steady pace could be sustained, energy conserved and running-form maintained.
Dividing the 42.2 kilometres of the race into four, Halliday had worked out exactly how long to spend on each segment and estimated his finishing time. His calibrated ‘pace table’, written on a piece of paper and covered with clingfilm, was taped to the back of his number (7) for easy reference.
Unlike Halliday, Jamie chatted amiably to his running-mates, a practice frowned upon by serious runners, while waiting for the Président du Conseil General to fire the gun. He was concentrating not so much on concentrating as on keeping cool.
For every litre of fluid lost, the heartrate increased by eight beats and the temperature rose accordingly. In the interests of proper hydration, it was recommended that sixteen ounces of water an hour be drunk before the race. For several days now, to the amusement of his students in the hospital, Mr Spence-Jones had been unable to pass a water fountain in the corridor without stopping for a quick drink.
He had downed a litre of Perrier at breakfast, after which, for obvious reasons, he had had nothing to drink until five minutes ago, when he had polished off a can of Fanta which would be absorbed by the body before it reached the kidneys. After that, it was a question of avoiding dehydration by stopping frequently to refuel.
Notwithstanding the physical discomfort of drinking such large quantities, he would replenish his fluids every hour from the refreshment stands, manned by the local population and set up every two kilometres along the route. Remembering his physiology, he knew that it took thirty minutes for the air-conditioning effects of fluids to migrate through the system and be released as sweat. In the unlikely event that he would get as far as the closing stages of the race, it would be a case of fluids ‘on’, rather than fluids ‘in’, and he would use his sunhat as a vessel from which to douse himself with water.
At eleven o’clock sharp, to the accompaniment of martial music, the several-thousand-strong column, serious runners interspersed with clowns, pyramids of balloons and a variety of fancy dress (from cave men to South Sea islanders in grass skirts), moved towards Pauillac via Château Phélan-Ségur and Châteaux Haut-Marbuzet and Marbuzet.
Following the race on her bicycle, for which there were parallel lanes, Clare cycled her way from Jamie in the back row, to Alain Lamotte, who had positioned himself as close to the starting line as possible without blocking faster runners, until she drew level with the élite runners, in whose midst she picked out Halliday, where the punishing pace was rapidly separating the men from the boys.
Two hours into the race, many of the competitors, their faces contorted with pain, had hit the ‘wall’ and dropped out. Having made sure that number 24 was not among them, she cycled to the Maison du Vin, in search of refreshment which was laid on by the Rugby Club.
Delphine Lamotte was queuing up with her two children at the buffet, while at the long bar Harry Balard – who registered Clare’s appearance in the mirror – was buying a drink for his sister Christiane, who had taken a break from the Happy Sandwich Makers.
Making her way towards the food, Clare noticed Harry Balard leave Christiane, whose eyes were glued to the TV screen, presumably for a sight of Halliday, and elbow his way determinedly through the throng in the direction of Delphine Lamotte.
Guessing that Harry was up to no good, Clare intercepted him. Blocking his path she opened Jamie’s coach bag, which was slung across her body, and removed a white plastic packet. She held it in front of her so that it was visible to no one but Harry.
‘Un mot à Delphine Lamotte et vous êtes mort,’ she warned him.
‘Salope!’
Harry Balard turned on his heel, but not before several shocked Médocains almost dropped their loaded trays as they heard him insult Clare de Cluzac.
‘What was all that about?’ Delphine asked innocently at the table where Clare had joined her and the children.
‘It was nothing.’
She was not about to tell blonde Delphine Lamotte, in her blonde designer shorts, her Ray-Bans resting nonchalantly on her streaked hair, that she had stopped Harry Balard from denouncing her husband and thereby saved her marriage.
‘Peu importe…’ Shrugging her shoulders, Delphine removed the paper from two drinking straws and stuck them into the children’s Coca-Cola. ‘Harry Balard is not my favourite person.’
‘Papa! Papa!’
Amélie and Joséphine Lamotte jumped up and down excitedly as they caught sight of their father on the TV screen.
Following their gaze, Clare saw Alain Lamotte, teeth gritted, running as if he had glue on his shoes, and looking as if he were about to drop from exhaustion.
‘Alain won’t give up,’ Delphine said proudly. ‘When he wants something he goes for it.’
Leaving the Maison du Vin, Clare rescued her bicycle and joined the other cyclists, one of whom was dressed as a penguin, pedalling slowly in the midday heat.
Happy to have saved Delphine Lamotte from having her illusions about her husband shattered by Harry Balard, she made her torpid way through the parched countryside; past refreshment stands selling oranges, biscuits and dried fruit; past First Aid stations offering massage and anti-blister blocks; through village squares, criss-crossed with bunting, where brass bands played, runners massaged their cramped limbs, and refreshed themselves in the fountains.<
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Leaving her bicycle near the finishing point, she pushed through the crowd and found herself standing beside Biancarelli, who had closed her shop for three days.
‘What number is your Jamie?’ Biancarelli shouted above the blaring speakers, which were broadcasting a continuous commentary on the race.
‘Twenty-four!’ Clare yelled.
‘Je vous envie.’
Biancarelli looked different somehow. As if the bounce had gone out of her.
‘I thought you had a poor opinion of men. And marriage.’
‘J’ ai changé d’avis.’
‘Anyone in particular?’
‘Oui.’
‘Félicitations.’
‘Félicitations, pfui!’ Biancarelli shouted to the amusement of those around her. ‘I have as much chance of marrying him as marrying the President of France.’
‘He’s already married?’
‘I think so. I don’t know. It’s out of the question.’
The voice of the commentator reached fever pitch as the first runners came within two kilometres of the port. Clare pricked up her ears as the number seven was repeated over and over.
As Halliday Baines, ahead of the field, approached the finishing line, and the crowd behind them surged forward to get a better view, Clare took Biancarelli’s arm.
‘Am I allowed to know who it is?’
‘You would be the last person…’
Having mastered concentration on the fast track, Halliday, looking straight ahead like a blinkered horse, had transferred it to his road runs. For the past forty-one kilometres it had stood him in good stead.
Ignoring his blistered feet, concentrating on overtaking the dozen or so competitors he had strategically allowed to overtake him earlier on in the race (no sooner had he outstripped one of them than with grim determination he concentrated on reeling in the next), managing to convince himself that the world would end immediately after the race, disregarding his sore muscles, matching his thoughts to his pace, straining to think positively, to block out his mind drift, he had passed one runner after another.
He told himself how tough he was. That he had trained hard. That he was nearly through. That he was the greatest. That he deserved to win. How tough he was. That he had trained hard. That he was nearly through. That he was the greatest. That he deserved to win. How tough he was. That he had trained hard. That he was nearly through. That he was the greatest. That he deserved to win. Running steadily, having managed to shake off all but one of his challengers, he was followed at only a very few paces by a six-foot Dane with flaxen hair.
‘Numéro sept. ’Alliday Baines d’Australie. Et numéro quarante-six. Lars Pedersen de Danemark…!’ The voice through the loudspeaker was hoarse with excitement.
Saving his best mental image until last, Halliday thought of Billy. I’m doing this for you, kid. He was half a training shoe in front. I’ve always told you you’ve got to be the best. Half a stride now ahead of the Dane. You want me to teach you the Three Kings, Billy? You’ve got to concentrate on the cards. If you want to get on in life, Billy, you’ve got to give it all you’ve got. Don’t let yourself be pipped at the post, Billy. Never look round. Never check the scenery. It’s where you’re going that’s important, not where you’ve been. Keep going, Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy… Billy!
‘’Alliday! ’Alliday!’
Christiane Balard’s voice came from somewhere in the crowd as Halliday Baines, looking neither to right nor to left, came into view. As he advanced towards the finishing line, where TV cameras, race directors and Red Cross workers with drinks and aluminium blankets waited, Clare willed him to win.
‘’Alliday! ’Alliday!’
Christiane’s voice reached a crescendo.
‘Vite! Vite!’
Cheered on by the crowd, the two finalists, their legs seeming to intermingle, their bodies strained to the limit after forty-two kilometres on the road, scraping the very bottom of their physical barrels, summoned up the final vestiges of their reserves.
Halliday, his legs going like pistons, breasted the tape first. Ignoring Christiane who appeared with his bush hat, ignoring well-wishers with cups of water, ignoring TV interviewers with microphones, looking neither to right nor to left, not slowing his pace, he continued to run.
Forty-two
Two weeks after the marathon, after consultation with their maîtres de chais and their chefs de culture, most of the wine-growers in the Médoc had made their decisions. Picking, at the majority of châteaux, had begun.
With her récolte already decimated by the hailstorm – damage exacerbated by her ill-advised decision to carry out the green harvest – Clare, who inherited her gambling spirit from her father, was determined not to be proved a failure once more by him. Aware of the risk she took by waiting, she stubbornly refused to be browbeaten into picking her grapes in anything but peak condition.
Jean Boyer and Albert Rochas monitored the vines several times daily. They were glued to the météo reports on their TV sets at night. They implored her to get in at least the Merlot, which ripened earlier than the Cabernet, before there was a change in the weather.
The opinion of the cellarmaster and the chef de culture was backed by Halliday Baines. Although the oenologist had been regularly checking the Château de Cluzac grapes in his laboratory, Clare had not seen him since he had run the Marathon des Châteaux du Médoc et des Graves in a record three hours, fifteen minutes and twenty-four seconds.
While Christiane Balard had chased after Halliday, who had beaten the Dane by fifteen seconds, Clare had waited more than an hour for Jamie. Looking anxiously at each runner in turn as they limped up to the finishing line, she had recognised only the anguished face of Alain Lamotte. Leaving Delphine to minister to Alain, who despite his exhaustion had looked at Clare in triumph, as if seeking her approval, as if he had run the race for her, Clare had joined the slow-moving traffic to look for Jamie. She found him guzzling oysters at the thirty-seventh kilometre, where finally beaten by the heat, he had abandoned the race.
Back at the château, he had lain naked on the bed, giving instructions to Clare as she massaged his sore muscles.
‘Begin with the lower back and buttocks to get intramuscular fluids flowing…’
‘Oh yes?’
‘…then work gently on the legs with long, flowing movements towards the heart… Ouch!’
‘Sorry.’
‘If the massage hurts, ask the therapist to be more gentle.’
‘Like so?’
‘Like so.’
‘If it still hurts, thank the therapist graciously and get off the table. Or alternatively’ – he pulled Clare down on top of him – ‘suggest that the therapist gets on to the table…’
Squatting in the Cluzac vineyards, among the beautiful black grapes, which were now almost bursting their skins with sugar, Halliday, who had finally found time to visit the château, narrowed his eyes against the sun, which had been shining constantly on the Médoc for the past six weeks. He squinted up at Clare.
‘These grapes are ninety-five per cent, Clare. You don’t want them overripe.’
‘No.’
‘Then what the fuck are you waiting for?’
Bullied as a child by her father, Clare had been indoctrinated by him with the belief that nothing but the best was good enough.
‘One hundred per cent. I thought winemakers were supposed to take risks?
Halliday straightened up.
‘We’re not stupid! What if it rains?’
‘The thermometer hit the roof today, Halliday. The highest September temperature on record…’
‘This is not Spain, Clare. It’s not California. Bordeaux is like England – the weather can change overnight.’
Clare had done her homework. Alone at night in the Baron’s Room, the old records spread out about her, she had studied the history of past Bordeaux vintages. She knew that an extra half per cent of alcohol in her Cabernet grapes could make all
the difference between a decent wine and a sensational one. The vintage of 1961, which now fetched astronomical prices at auction, had been made from ‘perfectly mature grapes’; the weather in the Médoc, prior to picking, had been as hot as it was now, and the size of the récolte reflected her own decimated vineyards as did the average age of the vines. Pitting weather patterns and laboratory reports against her instincts, she had made up her mind to wait.
‘This vintage…’ she said slowly, ‘my vintage, is going to be better than the eighty-two, better than the seventy, better even than the sixty-one…’
‘You’re taking a big, big chance.’
‘That’s my problem.’
‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
Halliday, in shorts and dusty walking boots, moved away from her towards the end of the row of vines with their brown and curling leaves.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’ve got work to do. I get paid for my advice. Pick your grapes, Mademoiselle de Cluzac!’ He patted Rougemont who had followed him. ‘Don’t keep a dog and bark.’
Taking into account the fact that some of the pickers, who were cooling their heels on the estate, not only had to be housed and fed but paid for doing nothing, and that the oenologist was concerned with guiding and controlling natural phenomena in order to avoid damaging mistakes, Clare was not as sanguine as she seemed.
At Médaillac and Ribagnac troupes of pickers worked their way methodically along the vines, cutting the bunches and placing them in the light wooden panniers to be collected and tipped into the larger hottes on the backs of the stronger workers. At Kilmartin and Estaminet, costly mechanical harvesters, with their containers of inert gas, which would prevent the grapes from oxidising before they reached the vats, flailed noisily and effectively between the rows.
While both Jean Boyer and Albert Rochas, like Halliday Baines, had made it clear to Clare that they thought she was making a big mistake, it was left to Sidonie, who was tired of providing for the bored and disgruntled harvesters, to tell Clare exactly what she thought of her.
Vintage Page 33
