I’ll never fall for fall because it marks the beginning of a slow layering-up from T-shirts, shorts and sneakers to sweatshirts, jeans, parkas, snow pants and boots. Before long, I’ll be yanking on my ski mask, goggles and gloves before I head out for work on two wheels.
Fall is the season I begin fantasizing about what it would be like to be a cycluter in, say, Daytona Beach, Austin or Malibu. It’s also when I start hearing mainstream New England media invariably present stories predicting hard winters by reporting on the number of rings on wooly caterpillars, the bushiness of squirrels’ tails, or the shape of persimmon seeds.
I know, I know. I can hear the comments now. Native New Englanders typically get as angrily defensive about their autumns as rednecks get about America when faced with war protestors. “Hey, if you don’t like it, buddy, get the h*ll out!”
As a cycluter in New England, maybe my relationship with Mother Nature is just bound to be one with a cycle of abuse.
She’ll beat me up me every winter ... and I’ll put up with it, year after year ... but only because I know how sweetly she apologizes in spring.