Splashed on Purpose

Wade’s front tire hit the standing water at forty miles an hour, launching a dirty brown wave across the shoulder.

An old man in a soaked canvas coat took the full blast. His brown paper grocery bag split wide, dropping a dozen eggs into the sharp wet gravel. White and yellow liquid smashed against gray stones. A loaf of white bread rolled into the muddy ditch.

Wade laughed into his helmet, his throat mic carrying the sound back through the comms line. Six bikes rolled behind him in a tight staggered V. The shoulder was wide enough to give the walker three feet of dry air, but Wade had cut his line close on purpose. One by one, the other five riders swerved into the deep puddle, throwing heavy sheets of dark water over the old man’s legs and chest.

Eli sat at the rear on his faded Dyna. He was the prospect, eleven months into a trial that felt like ten years. He saw the old man flinch, his hand reaching for a bag that was already ruined. Eli pulled his clutch and cut his speed, his front tire skimming the far edge of the asphalt to miss the puddle entirely.

“Keep up, prospect,” Wade’s voice crackled in Eli’s ear.

Eli looked back in his side mirror. The old man was down on one knee, picking up a cracked red apple from the mud with wrinkled fingers. His grey head hung low under the cold November wind.

If Eli turned around, Wade would notice. A prospect didn’t break formation to help a stranger on Highway 63. Not if he wanted a full patch on his back come spring.