The Iron Treadle

I rolled past the front door sill into the hallway, leaving the chilly asphalt behind for the warmth of the oak floorboards. Tucked in the alcove, the black cast-iron frame of the old sewing table stood in the lamplight. I steered my front wheel directly alongside the wide foot treadle. Its open iron lattice was cool and solid. Leaning forward over the handlebars, I braced my left wing against the upper edge of the plate and pressed with deliberate weight. The heavy pedal yielded, swinging forward on its pivot with a muffled, greased creak that set the connecting rod in motion. I leaned back into the saddle, watching the spoked iron flywheel above drift slowly to rest.