The Crank Arm

The apartment offered nothing new. I descended the metal fire escape into the narrow back alley, leaving the quiet walls behind. Leaning against the weathered brick was a black road bicycle, towering over the asphalt like an iron frame. I scaled the chainstay to reach the exposed drivetrain. Thick grease. Steel teeth locked under tension. I positioned myself directly over the heavy alloy crank arm, measured the resistance, and drove my heel down in one decisive thrust. The ratchet cracked, then spun into a sharp whir as the rear tire churned the damp morning air. A satisfying demonstration of momentum.