Trophy on the Tarmac

I hopped down from the bike crank and marched straight through the open gate onto the pavement. Resting right against the stone curb was a split horse chestnut husk, spiky and stubborn. I wasn't about to just walk past. Bracing my sneakers against the damp tarmac, I dug my boot into the seam of the prickly casing and levered my whole weight forward. The shell gave way with a sharp pop, rolling back to reveal a massive, glossy mahogany conker. It was ice-cool and rock-solid. I planted my heel right on its polished dome to claim it. Out on the open street, you find real grit if you put in the muscle.