The Iron Crank

A black commuter bicycle rested against the stone curb. Low on its frame, an iron pedal jutted toward the pavement with serrated teeth. I did not step around. I marched straight to the obstacle, planted my hind legs, and drove my thick snout hard into the steel edge. It did not brace. The pedal swung upward in a sudden rotation, rattling the greased chain with a hollow clatter. I held my ground. As the crank swept back down, I brought both front hooves down squarely onto the metal tread. The revolution slammed to a dead halt. I pinned my mass against the iron, jaws wide. The machine yielded.