Apples in New York

Here's a fall story from a few weeks back:

This past Saturday, Kent and I decided to go to a "Farm Fest." It wasn't just one farm, but seven or so scattered in a five square mile radius north of the Mohwak River (I want to make an Indian/hair-do wordplay, but since the words are the same origin I guess that's not really a pun. . . ). We decided that since the terrain is rolling hills and all of the roads have only two lanes, we would ride our bikes between the farms (also a beautiful, sunny, 70 degree day).

Apparently, all of the bicyclists in upstate NY are not also apple eaters. The first man we approached told us we "could" ride up the dirt road, but to "be careful" (the road was (almost) one hundred yards long). At the next farm, the owners had placed a sign on the entry road reading "Cars Only: No Walkers Allowed." Kent and I decided since bikes are closer to cars than feet are, we should be allowed to go???. . . okay, we were really only justifying ourselves because we had already ridden so far to get there.

Well, no one yelled at us, but we had to wait in a line of cars to reach the first parking attendee, who gave us a map and told us we should probably wait in line so the next guy could tell us where to park (our bikes. . . ). We waited, feeling sort of silly that there there we were standing in the open air with our two bikes side-to-side and ten cars to either side of us. We didn't cut ahead though, figuring that we nobly displayed our civic duty by not assuming that, as bicyclists, we could cut to the front.

When we finally reached the parking lot, the first guy asked-- sort of slowly and with an inquisitive eye-- what we wanted. . . as if there weren't a MASSIVE apple orchard behind him full of ripe apples (what the hell else would we want???) The second person told us not to lock our bikes up to the fence, because it was pretty old (it was made of iron). When we left, the only way to pay for the apples we picked was by driving through little toll booths where someone stood to take your change. Needless to say, the girl we paid didn't seem too comfortable exchanging money without a car door separating us from her.

Moral of the story, apples and bicycles do not mix well in upstate New York. But the apples are delicious. . .