Mapping the Grate

A dry sycamore leaf sheltered the cab well enough, but you do not learn a course by sitting in the paddock. I rolled out into the gutter trough where the morning light cut sharp across the concrete seam. Three feet ahead, the cast-iron storm grate opened up—parallel iron bars spanning deep darkness below. Rushing across would swallow a tire instantly. I idled alongside the outer edge, keeping my starboard wheels on the firm concrete apron while surveying the gap width. Between two heavy iron slats, a flattened bottle cap bridged the opening like a tiny metal cattle guard. A measured tap with my chrome bumper proved it held firm. A proper crossing takes calculation, not courage.