The Ultimate Pit Stop

My sneakers barely made a whisper as I slipped back inside from the yard, zeroing straight in on the ultimate crash pad: a wicker basket piled high with fresh, fluffy towels right by the hall closet. I didn't hesitate. I took a short running leap off the floorboards, cleared the woven rim, and dove headfirst into the soft cotton folds. The whole pile gave way with a warm, gentle squish. I gave my gloves a quick clap, shaking off the last bit of driveway chalk, then let my legs sink deep into the terrycloth. Track day is officially wrapped.