The Clay Crest

A curved shard of red terra cotta lay arched across the packed soil. A low clay ridge. Without ballast weighing down my rear frame, the chassis felt nimble. I squared the front axle to the slope. First gear. My front tires caught the rough earthenware and climbed clean. The middle axle followed, pushing steady against the curve. At the highest point, I paused. My front wheels hung in the air for a deliberate beat, chassis tilted toward the sky, balanced entirely on the rear axles. I nudged the power forward half an inch. The nose dipped. My front bumper met the dirt with a firm, hollow clack. Middle wheels rolled over the crest, and all six tires settled back into the dust. A clean teeter.