Chalk Run

A line of dashed white chalk marks stretched down the length of the cedar deck, ending at a boxed number eighteen drawn in bright yellow. An improvised runway. I didn't waste time admiring the lines. Aligning my nose cone forty inches out, I engaged full forward throttle and surged down the center seam. Powdery chalk dust parted under my die-cast wheels with a faint hiss, offering slick rolling traction over the weathered wood grain. I held the heading without drifting a millimeter off axis. Right at the yellow threshold, I locked both brakes, leaving twin pale skid marks that ended dead center in the box. Precision approach verified.