Uncharacteristically, I leap out of bed at 7:30 a.m., full of the springs of joy; the sun is out, the sky is blue, there’s not a cloud to spoil the view… and I have no demands on my time until about 2:00 p.m.
One of those existential moments: what will I choose? Will it be the barnstrorming Coker - a little handicapped for my style of riding by the 125s I put on it a few weeks ago; or will it be the MUni, and a slog through the forest… or another attempt at My Own Personal Everest, followed by humiliating defeat and retreat? Or will I choose to scuff and bruise my lower legs on the ultimate wheel… or go out to play on the 20… or what about a mad blast on the 24 with the silly short cranks? No, none of these… I choose the 28.
By 8:30, I’m mounting the unicycle at my usual starting place near the half pipes on Trent Fields. Surprisingly, there are no kids there to encourage me on my way with shouts of “Yoooooneeeeeeeemaaaaaaan!” I pause and consider. Of course! It’s 8:30 on a Sunday morning. They’ll be tidying their rooms, then showing their filial gratitude by making breakfast in bed for their mums. Or perhaps they’re all ironing their best cloths before going to church.
Be that as it may, it’s nice to set off without the usual simian chorus. Soon I’m down by the river, and I turn upstream (river on my right) and ride the short distance to the City Ground, then I pass the rowing clubs and dip under the side arch of Trent Bridge. As I pop out the other side, I see dragon boats being launched, and gazebos being pitched. I infer that a dragon boat event is going to be held (“Astounding, Holmes!”). I look but don’t see my brother or sister, who are both heavily involved in this bizarre minority sport, rather than doing unicycling, Morris dancing and fencing like me.
A few of the dragon boaters cat call, but not unpleasantly. I ride past without comment. Soon, I reach the suspension bridge, with its tricky entrance (a sharp turn between iron bollards a bit too close together) its steep paved slope up and it’s uneven slatted deck. On a 700c road tyre at high pressure, and with 110mm cranks, the suspension bridge cannot be taken for granted. However, I make it without incident, then swoop down the sloping apron of mown grass to the tarmac path of the river bank.
From here, it’s a steady ride on uneven and broken tarmac and concrete as far as the Toll Bridge, then I join the marked cycle path that runs alongside the main road. By a combination of good luck and the fact that it’s stupid o’clock on a Sunday mornning, I make it across all the traffic lights without having to dismount, and soon I’m in the underpass, simultaneously admiring and disapproving of the well-executed graffiti. (I may be young at heart, but deep in my wallet, I’m a tax payer.)
The underpass is quite tricky - the slopes are just that bit too steep to take for granted, and some merry japers have richly decorated the floor with irridescent shards of glass - but I get through easily, and soon I’m crossing the road at the entrance to the industrial estate, and riding along the cycle path next to the golf course. A couple of golfers remark upon aspects of my hobby which they consider to be irrational, before returning to the serious business of taking about 2 hours and 3 miles to hit a little white ball about 70 times with a stick.
A couple of years ago, I had a minor ambition to ride from Trent Bridge to Beeston Marina and back on a unicycle. It’s 6 or 7 miles each way. Now I realise that I’m well on my way to riding all the way to the marina without a single dismount. I reflect on the progress I’ve made. UPDs are now the exception rather than the rule, and distance is no object. I let my mind wander, admiring the view, analysing the grammar of some badly worded security notices, and contemplating the route ahead. There is only one serious obstacle between me and the marina: the cobbled hump back bridge.
At this point, the high spirited and skittish 28 decides to punish my complacency. Lacking the weight and momentum of the Coker wheel, a 700c with a road tyre has to be ridden all the time. I’ve allowed myself to forget this. The wheel takes advantage of a localised topographical discontinuity to accelerate ahead of me. I stomp hard on the pedal to correct my balance, but I manage to catch it exactly at top dead centre. The pedal’s going nowhere, so Newton’s laws kick in and I find myself projected upwards with alarming force… freed from the pedals, my feet are able to resume their circular motion… for a moment, I hang cartoon-like in mid air, then time speeds up again and I find myself running down the path. The unicycle sees its opportunity, chases me, chooses its moment to strike, and pecks viciously at the back of my left calf with its seat.
4.1 miles and the first UPD of the day.
A mile or two further and I’ve negotiated the cobbles near the hump backed bridge. I decide not to ride over the bridge, but to carry on along the flood bank to the next one: a pedestrian bridge with many challenges. After that, the next feature is the marina, where I stop at the cafe for a well earned rest.
Another existential moment: it’s hot, I’m 6 miles from the car, I could take the Vespa to the coast… I pick up the unicycle and see what I decide. I turn right and continue up river, into Attenborough Nature Reserve (where I did most of my early unicycling in 1987-1989 ish) and cruise easily along the packed grit path towards Trent Lock. and the next tea room.
It’s May, and the sun is out. The plants are growing as I watch them. Everything is lush and green, except the wild flowers which are pink, yellow, lilac, blue… there are birds, insects… a heron stand sentinel, the water glitters in the sunlight. This is England at its best: a far cry from the city centres full of crime and grime.
Soon, I leave the nature reserve, and I’m on the nasty bit of single track that leads up river for a couple of miles. The ground is well trodden by horses, rutted by bicycles, and then baked by the sun. I’m on a 32mm section tyre with no give in it at all. This calls for care and attention, fencing the trail with delicate touch, planning several moves ahead, picking my route, standing on the pedals, sometimes stopping momentarily. I manage the first section, and part of the second before my second and third UPDs of the day.
This section spits me out onto the canal bank, and I cruise easily up the towpath to Trent Lock, where there are two pubs and a tea shop. I stop there but decide to press on a bit further, so after only a minute or two stretching my legs and resting my buttocks, I remount and return to the river bank. Here, it is hard packed grit and the riding is easy.
The next obstacle is a footbridge which I have never managed to ride before, although I think I’ve only tried it on the Coker. There’s a 90 degree turn into a narrow gap between railings. The ramp up to the bridge is at the limit of rideability (for me) and changes sharply to the flat deck. Then the ramp down is so steep that you need complete control of the unicycle… there’s a 90 degree bend in the ramp half way down, and any loss of control could project me headlong over the railing and into the river. Hmmmmm. The fact that I’m writing this means I survived. The best bit is, I rode the whole bridge without a dismount - another first!
From here, it’s an easy ride up to Sawley Marina, then a bit of a cut through on some single track until I reach The Warren: a network of country lanes used exclusively by cyclists, visitors to the clay pigeon shoot, visitors to the model aeroplane club’s field, and lascivious young male car drivers with sinful plans for their female passengers. Falling into the first of these categories, I ride through, stopping only for a few minutes to chat to another cyclist who has stopped to watch the model planes and helicopters. We agree that model aeronautics and clay pigeon shooting both sound fun, but that if we had been on the planning committee, we wouldn’t have put the two facilities right next to each other…
Out of The Warren, I find myself on normal roads, and I ride with care through Kegworth, then up the hill past The Station Pub (where I bought my 1959 vintage handmade unicycle frame) and over the hill to The Star, the pub where our Morris Men meet each week in the winter. I arrive at The Star at 10:30, so it’s still closed, and after a short rest and a brief chat with the gorgeous Landlady, I ride on.
Soon, I arrive at the start of a steep and difficult bridlepath. As I look for the entrance, a man who has just overtaken me in his 4X4 gets out and tells me I need treatment. He’s being friendly, in an offensively personal sort of way, and I take the opportunity to stop for a rest and a chat. His conversation is pretty much limited to expressing his opinion that I need treatment. I concede that after nearly 20 miles on a Miyata saddle, I might need treatment from a proctologist. He appears to have no idea what a proctologist is, which is surprising considering he’s such an a***hole.
I ask him if I’m in the right place for the bridlepath. He tells me I am, but “You won’t be able to ride it on that.” So, he’s alert enough to have noticed the skinny tyre and short cranks… or is he just making assumptions based on his complete lack of knowledge of unicycling? I tell him I’ve ridden it before, but a year or two ago. I omit to mention that it was on a Coker, and that it nearly killed me. He laughs and tells me I need treatment. I mount and ride off. As I go round the corner, he explains to his girlfriend that I definitely need treatment.
