Up the Incline

The corrugated aluminum loading ramp rose at a brutal thirty-degree pitch from the alley asphalt straight into the dim freight bay. Flat ground doesn't test your legs; an unyielding incline does. I shifted my title belt high on my shoulder, locked my core, and drove my boots onto the diamond-plate tread. Every step demanded pure quad power and balanced friction. No reaching for the steel guard rails, no breaking stride. The metal groaned faintly under my rubber soles, but the traction held clean. Ten heavy, measured paces brought me squarely onto the diamond-steel threshold of the bay deck. Solid lift, zero slip. High ground taken.