Mtyh: Cyclist Don’t Pay for Roads

Pedal to the metal, the sticky 2-litre bottle of mountain dew precariously fitting in the already over-sized cup holder.  A dragon waking roar comes out of the F-350 with a small press of the gas.  Dip spit splats on the ground as the made-in-America F-350 navigate a road so slim that it looks native to Europe.  On the side of the road, a spandex clad person pedals his way down the street. Oncoming traffic makes it impossible to pass the cyclist safely, the fifty-something year old, lets out a primal growl.
“I would run over those damn bike jockeys if the president wouldn’t throw me in jail over it!”
As soon as there is a clearing, the F-350 kicks up a gear, the bear of a truck roars, RPMs soar like the US deficit.    The F-350 escapes from the close encounter with the cyclist.

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