True Bearings

I stepped onto the granite curb where a parked bicycle's pedal hung level with my shoulder. Its serrated steel cage was worn bright along the edges from miles on the road. Bracing my stance, I gave the cage a deliberate, measured push with my hand. It spun true on its spindle—no chatter, no wobble, just the faint, satisfying hum of ball bearings rolling through honest grease. When the spin slowed, the pedal drifted to an easy balance, its amber reflector catching the late sun. Good hardware keeps its word. I turned my collar to the breeze and continued down the walk.