I'm not actively blogging here anymore. But if you got here because you were searching for something about bikes, you might want to check out my latest project, Vermont Goldsprints. In summer of 2014, I bought a used goldsprints racing setup and have made it a mission to get more bikes in more people's faces by putting on fun races in unexpected places. Come join me!
Apple Picking So we came to this old place again to pick apples. The new place down the road now houses the press, the vegetable stand, the honey and cheeses in coolers. The new trees at the new place have fruit, but do not tower over us. We are directed to the old place to pick apples. To pick apples, we came to the old place with the empty shed, we paid, we walked. The old trees are bent and bowed but fly their abundant fruit like a flag. Mouthful of cider doughnut, crisp from hot fat, we pick apples. Cut grass mixed with the silent squish and crack of drops underoot, we pick apples. A pocketknife is produced and we sample, Macoun, MacIntosh, others unamed, with skin dark red or pale pink and tasting of nutmeg in the skin, or dust in the skin. Geese call and vee overhead while we pick apples. The bags fill too fast as fleeting sun patches cross the valley and rise up the Hogback. We pick apples grasping rough bark and standing in trees we have stood in all our lives. Next year it might all be at the new place. Next year we might come to pick apples, to a cardboard sign: "Go to the new place to pick apples." We'll go where we are told to pick apples. Bags full and settled up, too soon, we are home.