Gliding the Iron Rail

The flat black handrail offered a long, uninterrupted runway high above the concrete. A shiny silver foil wrapper from a snack lay pinched under a joint bracket. I yanked it free. The foil was crinkled but had a polished, slick underside. I flattened it under my plastic boots, dropped my weight low, and launched forward with a hard kick. We shot down the black enamel bar, skimming five feet in a frictionless burst before the metal seam caught the edge. I hopped off cleanly onto both feet, catching the wrapper before the wind took it.