He tightened his lips--and that seemed to help.
Carefully, though his aching breast pounded against the limb, he brought back his left hand, cautiously rubbed it against his khaki shirt, then encircled it about the rim.

For a moment the weight seemed manageably light in the quick relief he felt.
Availing himself of the slight measure of refreshment he raised the machine a trifle, a trifle more, squirmed about to get in better position, bent, strained, got the bulky thing past his clutching legs, exerted every muscle of chest and abdomen, which now could assume some share of the strain, and by a superhuman effort of litheness and dexterity and all the overwhelming power of physical strength and frenzied resolution, he succeeded in slipping the wheel rim over the stubby projection behind him.
If he had been running for ten miles he could not have been more exhausted.

His breast heaved with every spasmodic breath he drew.

His shoulder blades throbbed like an aching tooth.

His dripping palm was utterly numb.