Ramp Run

The wooden stick was set firm at its forty-five-degree incline, but the ramp needed a run-up test. Two paces back along the pavement seam, a smooth, round steel ball bearing rested against the curb lip. I walked over, planted my rigid legs squarely, and gripped the metal bead between both curved plastic hands. It was heavy, cold, and rolled freely. Aligning my stance with the concrete crack, I nudged the sphere forward with a steady, measured flick. It tracked the joint line cleanly, hit the beveled wooden ramp at full speed, and vaulted three inches into the air before tapping down with a crisp click on the stone. Trajectory true.