How I Almost Killed the Rhythm Chicken

File photos by Rachel Lukas.

I wasn’t prepared for this. 

When my old friend the Rhythm Chicken clucked in my direction in the early days of October of last year, I was happy to answer the floppy chicken’s call. 

“Yes, it would be my greatest honor to act as your driver in your triumphant return to the Fall Fest Parade,” I told him. “And to do so on the seat of the late, great, Freddie K’s tractor would humble me greatly.”

It did not seem too great of an ask. Just a slow ride through the parade, the same thing kids do on bikes and go-karts. But I underestimate the skill it takes to drive a 1958 Massey Ferguson 65 tractor. 

All is well as we roll slowly down Maple Drive, but then my Chicken begins to wail and the crowd erupts. I’m startled but cool – until we make the turn onto Highway 42 and my eyes view the sea of humanity before me. I freeze, lifting my foot off the clutch, jolting the tractor and with it, the contents of my manure spreader. Chicken is nearly thrown off the back, and Mrs. Chicken and his helmeted security detail get jolted as well. 

The shocked faces and “oohhh” from the crowd leave me in fear that I just butchered a chicken. I whip my head to find Chicken quickly resetting his drums. My passengers are startled but unharmed. 

“Cluck it!” Chicken bellows at me. “I’ve been hit harder during a show in the Husby’s bathroom!”

My confidence reassured, we soldier on through the crowd, me hoping the breaks work in this old beast, Chicken hoping I’ve learned how to hold ‘er steady. 

As I drive I gain a new respect for the many moms and dads who have come before me driving a tractor through this parade. Moving slow as kids bolt around you to fetch candy, realizing your tires are taller than some cars. The crowds narrow, the screaming is intense. 

“This,” I think, “is what it felt like for The Beatles!”

Fortunately, my Carharts are tightly secured and the adoring throngs are unable to tear them away. 

Near the bottom of the hill I find my family in the crowd, and my son Connor is spooked by my flowing Fall Fest locks. He spots me on the tractor with a look both scared and quizzical – “What the heck are you doing Daddy!?!”

We make it through the crowds and the Chicken’s adoring fans get what they came for. We cruise home through the orchard and enjoy a Hamm’s before my friend must be on his way back to his coop, and I exhale – for I haven’t killed the Rhythm Chicken today. 

The author earned a callback from the Rhythm Chicken and will once again drive him through the Fall Fest Parade on Saturday, Oct. 14, at 11 am.