his first run

A continuous timber incline stretched from the porch rail down toward the yard. Slope gradient: steep. Perfect runway. I stepped onto the polished cedar handrail, aligning my yellow greaves straight with the grain. No locking pins this time. Pure velocity. I kicked off. Cedar grain blurred beneath my chassis in an instant rush. Wind whistled through the pilot cockpit. Ten inches from the terminal post, I dropped my golden gauntlet flat against the timber, driving a hard friction brake. Rasping halt. Momentum neutralized on the spot. Rapid transit drill certified.