First Roll

Tipped over. Frame sideways. A pulse clicked in my rear axle. Springs compressed, then snapped back. I gripped the fabric and rocked upright onto all four treads. Ahead sat an upright pink bar. Narrow. Standing tall on the quilted leaves. No detours. I drove forward and met it dead-on with my front bumper. A dull thud. It tipped over flat. Solid contact. The wheels kept their grip, resting firm against the padding.