Today feels a bit like autumn. My morning ride, tailored to fit the short hour before market, left me with stiff hands and my body covered, trying to be cozy, in a hoodie…two days ago, I rode the same route up Fairmount in a turquoise sports bra and a pair of denim cutoffs. When I got home I switched out of the striped shorts I’d donned upon waking, replacing them with my stone-gray jeans, rolled up just enough to let my ankles breathe. My orange flannel matches the shoes Marta gave me. I feel rather like a molting tree, in terms of color scheme.
Market, as usual, tickled my farmer’s funnybone. I wonder, probably too often, whether or not I’m doing the right thing by heading back to school when I’m pulled so strongly by thoughts of dirty fingernails, stiff joints, sore muslces- trademarks of the harvest season. I talked to a man from Rittman Orchards about a job there this fall, and the prospect of a 12 hour day picking apples made me giddy, almost enough to fade the knowledge smudging my enthusiasm: I’m not going to have the time or a car with which I can pick apples this fall.
Retail therapy, then, for the broken farmer’s heart. I unloaded my bag once home and studded the counter with apples, parsley, broccoli, corn, and a single peach, just under-ripe enough to disappoint me today but surprise me on Monday.
I meant to make it to the Ohio City Bike Co-op today, and so packed my bag with the necessary items: notebook, mug, pens, book- and headed west from the Heights. Storm clouds have delayed my trip somewhat, but I’ve found myself a couch in the window of a local café, sipping a mug of vanilla ceylon tea. Another fall flavor. Fall flavors on my tongue all morning: from a post-ride apple to granola bars and coffee, punctuated by a clove cigarette in my bike-gloved hand, all the way down Fairmount hill.