Fall is such a fleeting, magical time.
Especially for those who partake in the communal culture of running. Colors blaze as the heat subsides. We get to mix long sleeves with short pants until the snow flies.
The conversation had been lively among the four of us, a small contingent of a larger group that has met at 8 a.m. almost every Wednesday morning since I don't know when.
We jokingly refer to ourselves as The Retirement Run Club, despite the fact that most of us are gainfully employed and enjoying flexible hours.
Our greetings last most of 500 feet, the distance between where we park and where we start to run. The same jokes flow about timeliness and the generosity of those who waited for the lolligaggers.
We dispense with the most pressing news by the time my knees stop screeching at me, around about the first half mile when I imagine sheets of rust melting away.
I try not to focus on my lack-luster pace, or the fact that my watch barely acknowledges activity, and take note of the gossip as we pass each house. None of the news would make your hair stand on end; it feels more like an accounting: births, marriages, milestones, illnesses, passages and recoveries.
Each block offers a history lesson: Who lived where, when, and what color the house used to be before it was clad in such a pitiful vinyl. The oldest members of the group have a keen memory, relating details with precision, including how the gigantic tree they used to swing on was once a spindly seedling. Now it’s gone.
I feel a twinge of envy. I hadn’t even noticed the old apple tree that had been cut down since the last time we ran.
My stomach growls as we round the first corner of our course, past the orchards. I recognize the familiar yellow signs affixed to each row. If I squint I can read the names: Jonigold, Honeycrisp, Macintosh, Golden Delicious, Fuji, and Snapdragon.
The knee-jerk response was one of quizzical shock; How could a person even narrow it down to one? Not with all the varieties that seem to blossom into the world and the local farm stands for the first time as the new season gets underway. It’s always a shock when they turn out to be some heritage fruit resurrected by a twee millennial farmer. A bigger shock is when the fruit turns out to be as big as my head.
The signs pass slowly as we savor the change in conversation prompted by the question: “What’s your favorite apple?”
Are we talking about our favorite for eating? For baking? For turning into a sauce?
We each select a different variety: Honeycrisp is one favorite, Fuji is another, Macintosh makes it onto the list as an afterthought. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m always partial to a lunch-boxed sized Pink Lady, I don’t even care if it’s been lounging about in cold storage.
For the next two miles we discuss the delights and disappointments we’ve all felt from having to deal with an unexpectedly mealy mouthful. I still remember when Macintosh apples were my favorite … until a friend explained why they couldn’t stand them. “You know how you bite into the apple, and its skin immediately separates from the meat of the fruit, and gets stuck in your teeth? I hate that.
It hadn’t bothered me until that moment. My friends thank me for letting it bother them, too.
I don’t think I’m ready for “Ludacrisp,” a relative newcomer on the agricultural scene that boasts a flavor resembling Juicy Fruit gum.
Four miles in, and the variety in this running apple conversation seems endless.
It makes the run seem as easy as pie. Mmmmm pie.
