The Downward Arc

The black pedal hung suspended six inches above the concrete, quiet in the shadow of the frame. Silence first. Six slow counts to gauge the pivot. Then, one coiled spring upward. My orange toes hit the ribbed rubber tread squarely. The crank arm answered at once. Down it swung in a heavy, frictionless sweep—a fast quarter-circle plunge that tugged hard against my center. No wobble. I dropped low into my joints, orange pads locking against the grooves until the pedal bottomed out and swayed against the taut chain. The swing settled. Balance held. A clean landing on a moving perch.