History in the Making

Ballard Street

0600 hrs.

Martin stood poised on the brink of greatness. He always stood on the brink. He had yet to make his mark, but today was the day.

No one was stirring along the whole street. Why should they be—it was a Saturday morning, July 17. Not a day which had any historical significance, at least not any that Martin knew of. Martin wasn’t concerned with what significance the day used to have, however. He was set to make history.

He bent down, tightened his skates on his feet. He checked the fuel level in the tank. He plucked a few blades of grass, checked the wind shear. Light, perhaps two or three knots. Barely a breeze crossing from the left to right.

One hundred yards of clear smooth road stretched out before him.

He inserted his earplugs.

He reached for the pull cord.

The small engine sputtered, coughed, then, on the second pull, started.

Agatha appeared on their porch, near the end of the street. She appeared agitated. Martin could not hear what she was yelling—the engine, combined with the earplugs, made that impossible.

Martin took a deep breath, reached over to release the already straining anchor ropes. His eye twitched.