The silence of the space, and the metal underfoot magnified the sound of his descent. There was a discernible rhythm to his gait, but it wasn't the regular beat he'd expected. He detected a gap after each set had been complete; left, right, pause and then repeat.

When walking on the level, in quiet places, he'd recognised a tempo similar to that of a ticking clock, but here on the stairs it sounded a bit off.

Straining to hear the difference, he thought it sounded more like a heartbeat; lub-dub, lub-dub. Keeping time with both tickers, he noticed that he was coming down harder on his right and softer on the left. The slower left followed with a quicker right.

Adjusting his stride accordingly to even out the sound, the tempo became regular, temporarily, until a minor ache in the left knee escalated quickly, ending the new found rhythm.

Grabbing the handrail, he steadied himself to assess any damage and was pleasantly surprised to find none. In fact it felt normal, or as fine as a well used knee could feel anyway.

Buoyed by this, he tested it out with some squats. The first few were done gingerly but as the knee loosed up, he sank a little lower before rising again.

Giddy up - the knee almost felt new. Could he find his rhythm again?

Letting go of the rail, he squared himself on the step and sighted his line.

Looking down the stairs he became aware of holding his breath, but couldn't halt the utters defying gravity in his guts.

Ah, he'd been here before, and was instantly transported to several distant places at once- back upstream.

Standing on the ledge of the top tower at the local pool; same stance on the pylon over the river; side on stance leaning forward down a sizzling and foamy pulse of Pacific perfection; looking down hill and sighting your lines for board or bike, foot or trike.

The scenes changed but the feel remained the same.

Right - systems check. Are there any cars, boats or trains? Nah. Check.

Any pedestrians, kooks, coppers or parents? Nup. Check.

Right, if there's no nail bets let's hook in. Check.

So, with that he nearly leapt off the step before he'd returned to his present location in time and space. This resulted in his left foot overshooting its mark; so slipping over the edge of the step he immediately complied with gravity.

Falling head first, his right hand shot out and caught a vertical post. Years of climbing trees, fences and swinging from ropes had served him well. But the immediate traction of his top half whipped his lower half into the rail with a loud bong and clatter.

He slowly gathered himself up from the failed stunt, marvelling at his flighty mind.

He was now back in midstream.

Mindful that mindless antics like going back upstream at the wrong time could prevent any further time downstream or in between, he decided to heed his space more thoroughly. And he was due for a damage report, so hastening slowly, something he excelled at these days, the inventory began with those areas crying out for attention and ended with the ones worryingly silent, but there were few of these.

Another escape and he was shocked to realise the only damage suffered had been to his ego, which never stung as much as when witnessed by others.

Sitting down on the step, he waited for the thumping in his chest to settle.

Good old adrenalin, ay? It could pump up your tyres as just fast as it could flatten 'em. Two false starts left him feeling grateful and frustrated, but mostly bemused by how quickly we can lose ground as we flow downstream, navigating today's current with yesterdays rudder.

Ah well, if you weren't flowing with the stream then you're just an obstacle; rigid and unyielding.

But cocooning yourself from obstacles meant not feeling the stream; just flowing on it, not in it.

So how much caution to show when the tighter your grip is, the less you contain.

Third time's a charm? Only one way to know. So he rose with a grunt, stood straight and took some slow breathes.

Undeterred, he checked the system, again. Righto. No obstacles - check. No fun restrictors - check. No fear, maybe just enough - check. Another set of squats - check. Navigator located midstream - check.

Letting go of the rail, he calmly carried on at a clock tempo - clack, clack, clack, clack - on track. The metallic tune lightened his feet and he floated for a fleeting melody before his left knee stole centre stage as the fat lady.

But as fortune favours the brave, the big girl only started out low and was hooked off stage before warbling her finale.

The melody was gone, replaced by a lub-dub, not even a tick-tick; but at least the show would go on.

He descended the last of the stairs/obstacle/launch pad/guiding channel with a decidedly different set of mind.

Down at the bottom and on the flat, the rhythm gap on the stairs was now gone; replaced by no gap.

The tempo was now in synch with one of his favourite tunes, and he sang his song as he stepped along "but if you try sometimes, you might find, you get what you knee-d".

Jason Carswell, of Wallsend, is a finalist in the 2021 Newcastle Herald short story competition.