An Amish Bicyclist Turned Rebel
By: Josh Embry
Old Man Price and I drive down the gravel road, stirring up dust in our tracks. Coming over the bend in the main paved road is an Amish man, his white button-up shirt soaked and stained yellow from sweat.
“That cat better slow down,” Old Man Price says.
“He’s really moving on that thing,” I tell him.
As Old Man Price slows down to turn, the sweat-soaked Amish man speeds up like he just got a swig of Red Bull.
“He’s trying to get out in front of me,” the old man scoffs. “Don’t you do it,” he says behind gritted teeth.
“He’s gonna do it,” I tell him.
And like a streak of lightning, the Amish man zooms past the truck, making Old Man Price slam on the brakes. Dust pours into the cab through our open windows.
“Damn asshole!” Old Man Price says, yanking the gear shifter. “I’ll teach that sorry sap a lesson.”
The Amish man must’ve finished off his metaphorical Red Bull because he’s booking it down the road now, his wet shirt flopping against his skin in the wind tunnel he’s made. Old Man Price screeches the back tires and ducktails onto the road, leaving burn marks like ribbons on the asphalt.
