The Pressure Dial

I slipped past the front gate and padded down the path to the bicycle repair post beside the park trail. Bolted to its steel frame was a tall manual tire pump with a round gauge mounted at the base. Hoisting my legs onto the iron footplate, I gripped the broad T-handle with both yellow hands and hauled my weight downward. The metal cylinder gave way with a sharp, wheezing hiss, puffing a cool draft across my toes. Right behind the clear lens, the slender red needle leaped in a fast shudder before drifting back. I dropped onto my knees, leaning in until my nose brushed the glass, waiting for the vibration to settle.