A week or two ago, my unicycle exploded. There I was, pootling along when Kapowee! The side wall of the rim unpeeled like the skin of an overripe banana, and the inner tube bulged out like an England fan’s beer gut.
A few quick emails later, and the wheel was tranported to BUC where Roger rebuilt it and within a day or two more it was back, as good as new (or, hopefully, better!).
And could I remember how the various spacers went on? There are three pieces for each side of the wheel, one of which is shaped so it can go on two different ways. I make that twelve possible combinations, assuming the two sides of the wheel are mirror images.
I try the ones which seem obvious, but each time I refix the crank and tighten the bolt, something binds and the wheel stops spinning. An email and a frantic call to Roger later, and I soon have it sorted. I’m sure it’s a combination I tried before, but now it works.
So today is a bad day at work, and when I get home, I’m walking from my motorbike when I drop my expensive BMW System 5 helmet in the carpark and ruin it. I need a unicycle ride. I have unspent adrenaline that must be burned off.
I park in the carpark opposite the Ferry Inn at Stoke Bardolph. South Africa have set a total of 149, and Australia are unlikely to be overly concerned.
The reek of the nearby sewage treatment works hangs sickly in the air. But all is not bad: swallows swoop low over the river, feeding on the wing. A pair of mallards flies noisily past. The sky is clear, and it is a nice evening for a ride.
I decide to take a fairly direct route to the “new territory” I discovered a week or so ago. I ride along straight smooth tarmac with the river to my left. The uni is “wandering” a bit. Is the tyre too soft, or is it that I need to “dial in” my legs, after a couple of tough rides on the Holy Roller with its harder tyre and shorter cranks? The KH24 does a lot of things well, but fast cruising on smooth hardtop is not one of them.
The river is silver blue, between banks of fresh green spring grass. On the opposite side, the top edge of the floodbank is silhouetted against bright yellow rape flowers. Two joggers, one in red, one in white, complete the picture. It is all straight lines and splashes of bright colour, like a trendy poster. On the river, great crested grebes mingle with moorhens and coots, while swans cruise sevenely in the distance. A pair of Canada geese fly low over the water, almost central between the river banks, honking like submarines that are about to dive.
I reach the cattle grid and decide to go for it. I always used to ride over the cattle grid until I had a nasty fall and nearly snapped an ankle. Since then, I’ve always dismounted. Today, I ride across, slightly nervous, but with no problems, and the seat buzzes. It reminds me of the two nuns on the tande: “I’ve never come this way before…” “Neither have I. Lovely cobbled streets.”
The uni is still wandering. I remember that Roger remarked that he had not been able to get the wheel perfectly true. He warned me of a barely perceptible wobble in the rim. Without thinking, I look down to see if I can barely perceive it, and I completely fail to perceive the speed hump… it is one of my sillier UPDs. (Note to Roger: the wobble is imperceptible, thanks.)
And then I get bored with doing the sensible thing and divert into the woods for a short blast along a gravel and mud track. Already, the nettles are growing. Only a week or two ago, they were no threat, but now they hang around menacingly. In no time at all, they will be fearless, stepping out in front of unsuspecting cyclists, attacking them without provocation. There will be irate letters in the Daily Express: Blair’s Hoodie Nettle Menace Must Be Stopped. Right now, I feel confident enough to outstare them. There is a moment of concern when I have to divert from the path to pass a fallen tree, but I survive - an unstung hero.
I hear the chainsaw rasp of a two stroke motorbike, and am alert to the possibility that I will be flattened by a 12 year old on a stolen bike. Then I realise it is the motorbike rasp of a two stroke chainsaw! Several trees came down in the storm in January, and someone is finally removing them. He smiles as I pass. “That looks hard work!” he says. So does cutting up logs, I think.
The next section is single track, baked hard mud, with the river close on the left. I have ridden this way a hundred times before, and I cruise it easily. I reach the steep slope up to the top of the bank around the two artificial lakes. A week or two ago, I climbed this on the uni for the first time, and it was a major achievement. Today, knowing it can be done, I ride up easily. It is almsot a non event, with the only difficult bit being a few niggly bumps right at the top.
I now have the first of the artificial lakes to my right. There are water birds everywhere. Two small islands a few metres out from the shore are overgrown with small willow trees, and in the fork of the largest tree a swan is building its nest. A Canada goose comes in to land, noisy during the approach, then falling silent for a moment as it positions its feet ready to waterski to a halt.
The second lake has a large explanse of exposed mud next to it. Signs warn that it is dangerous - I have remarked on it before. In this sanitised nanny state, it is a rare opportunity to do something dangerous, so I go for it. I UPD on a block of stone concealed by the long grass, then I remount and ride out onto the mud. The surface is grey and pale, and laced with cracks. I remember from O level geography that the technical term for these cracks in the mud is “mud cracking”. The surface is dry enough and hard enough that riding on it is perfectly safe, and I cut right across to the far side of the lake and dismount to climb over the barbed wire back to the path.
A quick descent of a steep mud slope, and a wiggle along a narrow path overhung with trees bring me to the entrance to “the new territory”. I have to dismount for a pinch stile then I ride under the brick arch beneath the railway, and as far as I can get before I am stopped by the low branch of a tree. From here it is a short walk through deeply rutted soft mud until I can remount, and I am on the area where mountain bikers, BMXers and motorcyclists play.
The area is not pretty. The track itself is mainly dark grey cinders. The land to each side is untidily overgrown. A wrecked car sits forlornly on its roof. Once, long ago, that car was new, and picking it up from the dealer was the biggest thing that happened to the owner that week - possibly that year. Now it is trashed, upside down, abandoned, destroyed. It certainly hasn’t been properly disposed of in accordance with the relevant environmental legislation!
I spend twenty minutes or so slogging around the course. It is a series of swoopy descents and stiff little climbs, with banked corners and some jumps. I manage to ride more or less all of it, although some bits take several attempts. This is somewhere around the limit of my technical ability, and I wish someone was watching because most of what I’m doing would seem impossible to a non unicyclist.
When I saw the pictures of the trials at BUC (posted in this forum) I realised how mediocre my riding is. Now, alone, and with time to cast my mind back to a time when even freemounting was a challenge, and the easiest sections of today’s ride were the toughest MUni I had attempted, I indulge myself in the luxury of realising that I am doing something that most people in the world couldn’t even imagine attempting. We can’t all be Kris Holm, but that doesn’t make us no hopers.
Moving on from these obstacles, I decide to explore further, climbing a set of stairs (carrying the unicycle, not hopping - I’m 44 you know) I find a wide cinder track that leads me to the railway signal box. This is occupied and I am probably trespassing, so I keep out of sight. Along the side of the track there are piles of railway sleepers, abandoned rails, blocks of concrete and pallets - a perfect (if somewhat illegal) trials course for those who are that way inclined. I am not, but for the first time ever, I half wish I could do a bit of that sort of thing.
There is an old railway signal, with an iron ladder up to a platform at the top. I guess it’s 5 or 6 metres high. Under ancient law, all towers and ladders must be climbed when the opportunity presents, so I do so. When I reach the top, the metal platform is poorly secured, the handrail is rusted through, and a wooden cross piece is so rotten it nearly crumbles to my touch, so I content myself with reaching the top of the ladder. The platform can wait for someone lighter and dafter.
