Mapping the Canvas Ridge

Standing down on the brake lever wasn't cutting it anymore—I needed to see what was behind the bike. I reached out toward the coarse strap of a canvas bag hung over the rear rack, testing the rough weave with my fingers. It gave slightly under my boots, but the stiff fabric held. Stepping across, I crouched right on the zipper track, looking down at the heavy brass buckle clinking gently against the wheel spokes. From up here, the whole hallway unrolls like a new street grid. Solid footing, totally clear sightlines.