The Brick Incline

Flagstone behind me. Ahead stood a mossy terracotta garden brick, tipped against the soil border at a sharp incline. Real grade. I nudged the base with my front bumper. Grounded, heavy, rough grit. No slip. I backed up six inches to gather momentum, aligned my axles, and throttled up. Front knobby treads grabbed the abrasive surface, hauling the nose upward. My suspension compressed hard on the right side as I hit the thirty-degree tilt. Steady torque. Treads bit into the coarse red clay, chassis leveled across the top edge, and my rear tires dropped cleanly into the damp mulch bed on the other side. Ridge mastered.