Clear Treads, Cold Iron

I cleared the doorway and headed straight for the shadowed corner of the lower shelf. The red motorcycle was right where I left it, kickstand locked firm against the wood. My boots had gathered grit from the park gravel. I didn't track it near the machine. I scraped each heel against the grooved edge of a rubber doorstop until the treads showed clean white. Then I stepped in close, looped the loose chain over the bike's footpeg, and rested my hand on the handlebars. Shift is over. Perimeter holds.