Apricots are full of fibre, a fact unwitting derby participants soon find out. Photo / Warren Buckland
Hunter Wells writes for The Weekend Sun and Coast & Country News.
OPINION
The Moorpark Derby doesn’t feature on the New Zealand racing scene.
It doesn’t involve thoroughbreds or training, or any sort of preparation.
A degree of ignorance is a prerequisite, though, as are clenched buttocks and coping with humiliation.
The derby is traditionally held in January in Central Otago when the Moorpark apricots are a deep yellow with an orange blush, have a strong, sweet smell, and are firm with a bit of give when gently squeezed.
Gently because, of course, we don’t want to bruise the fruit.
The derby involves a scattered start, and pimply, smelly, city-bred teenagers coping with surges of hormones and body changes on their first away-from-Mum-and-Dad work adventure, up long ladders amongst the branches of fruit trees in the apricot orchards.
And large holdalls around their necks to hold the pickings.
Of course, it was bound to go bad. And did.
Newbie fruit picker Stobby Longbottom asked the orchardist the obvious question before work started, while we were still at the post and unwittingly warming for the Moorpark Derby.
“Are we allowed to eat the apricots?
“Replied the smirking orchardist to Stobby Longbottom: “You eat as many apricots as you like son”.
Chortle, chuckle, wheeze went the orchardist knowingly.
And on that first day, we all did, we all hooked in.
One apricot for the orchardist, one apricot for me.
Scoff, pick, scoff pick, scoff pick!
Until about mid-afternoon when a bunched field in the Moorpark Derby turned into the straight and headed for home — amid a cacophony of rectal explosions and cries of distress from atop one ladder.
It was Stobby Longbottom — the apricots, with their ample dietary fibre to assist the digestive tract, had run their course, and Stobby was unable to clamp his cheeks sufficiently to check the course of nature.
He whimpered as he scrambled down the ladder, abandoned his bag of harvested apricots and scarpered for the ablution block.
Evidence of his winning the Moorpark Derby oozed down both legs.
What a mess, what a shemozzle.
After about three days Stobby Longbottom had stopped saying sorry, the sad and soiled image of his accident had faded, and we had adjusted our fruit intake.
Said the orchardist: “Another Moorpark Derby, another winner, another lesson learned”.
And off he shuffled, chuckling like Paw Rugg from Hillbilly Bears.
There was a full crop of Moorparks to be picked.
And fewer of them to be scoffed on the job.
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