Your scribe will, I trust, not be without sympathy from the reader as he
sits here, crack-ribbed and somewhat despondent. It is fortunate at
least that, as a man of a certain age who lives alone, I am not without
experience of one-handed typing.
This morning dawned bright and clear. The sky was pale blue, but the
roofs of the bungalows in front of my house were white with frost - an
excellent day for a unicycle ride, and yet, had I known what misfortune
lay ahead, perhaps I would have retired to my armchair with a stiff
whisky and a Laurel & Hardy DVD.
I arrive at the Forest Pines car park to find no sponsored rides,
mountainbike races or car rallies in progress. Instead, there are
large and gaudy signs advertising a Christmas tree sale. Given that it
is mid November, this ought to be one of the deliberate mistakes, but
unformtunately, it is true.
It's still bitterly cold, and I do a few stretches and some half
hearted warm up movements before mounting the KH24. I ride out of the
car park, past the Go Ape! adventure course and soon I am on a long
easy trail through pine forest. Within a couple of hundred metres, I
meet an elderly man walking his dog. He greets me with a cheery
"Hello!" then comments as I ride past, "That's unusual." Maybe for
him; not for me.
At the first opportunity, I turn left, and start to climb an easy path,
my tyre almost silent on the carpet of pine needles. Then I turn right
and ride through broad leafed woodland, losing height until I meet one
of the hard-surfaced main tracks. I go straight across, wallowing a
little in a patch of soft sand, then climb up a rough sand and gravel
path, gaining height fairly rapidly. I hear mountainbikers on the easy
trail behind me, and one of them shouts a comment about me to his
companions.
Just past the top of the hill, I find the pond - I have no idea whether
it is natural or not, but the pond is about the size of a swimming
pool, and has no obvious feeder stream. It is well established, with
reeds and rushes, and a path that goes all the way round it. I ride
round the back of it, looking for a way into the forest, and find one,
and set off down a gentle slope through woodland. The sun is bright,
and the air is clear, so that the tree trunks are quite harshly lit on
one side, and very dark on the other, with clear sharp shadows. The
leaves that are still on the trees are gentle yellow; the ones on the
ground are richer shades of orange and gold. It's a beautiful place to
be.
Half a mile later, I find an unexpected feature: a clearing, with quite
a steep slope down to a broad path below. The grass in the clearing is
long, tussocky and wet. The ground is bumpy, and the long grass makes
it difficult to read. I swoop down the hill, at some moments too
confidently, at others, wrestling to regain control of the uni. I make
it to the bottom with a "Whoop!" of success, and start to plod my way
through the wet grass towards the main path.
Suddenly, the wheel finds a concealed obstacle. I react too late and
UPD. At first I think I can run out of it, then I decide to roll. It
all goes horribly wrong. I fall on my left side, the back of my hand
towards the ground, the palm towards my chest. The hard plastic palm
of the wrist guard hits the buckle of my Camelbak, and as I hit the
ground, the buckle is driven into my rib with the full force of my
fall. I am stunned and winded, and lie on my side panting like a
wounded doe for 30 seconds or more before I realise that the wet is
soaking through my shirt. I clamber to my feet, wincing at the pain in
my rib.
A minute or two later, I remount and carry on my way, taking easy
trails through mixed woodland, struggling a little to regain my rhythm.
It was a silly UPD, at low speed on a soft surface, but it has entered
the charts at about number 5 - which considering this is my 19th year
of unicycling, and I've been in Accident & Emergency twice as a result
of unicycling, is pretty bad.
A mile or so later, I find a familiar junction, and make the effort to
turn the opposite way to usual. That takes me along an easy undulating
path for a few minutes until I pop out onto a wider forest road. As I
consider my options, my wheel finds the only large loose stone for 10
seconds' ride in any direction. The stone is triangular in section, so
it won't roll. It slides for an instant, then stops. I UPD, the shock
of my foot hitting the ground is transmitted up to my bruised rib.
I walk through a gate, then remount and follow an easy ballast path up
the hill, approaching one of the highest points in this area of forest.
Near to the top, things have changed. It appears that forestry
lorries have carved away at the verge on the outside of a right hand
bend. My plan is to turn left onto a narrow path at a junction on the
very crown of the bend. The ramp up is far steeper than I remember it,
and I toy with the idea of carrying on round the bend. I decide to go
for it, and impress myself when I make it up the little ramp very
easily.
But now, a problem: this is beech forest, and there is a uniformly
thick layer of autumn leaves. The path is seldom used, and the fallen
leaves are undisturbed. There are no clues as to the direction the
path takes, and I have to improvise, zigzagging between tree trunks
until my wheel sinks through the dry leaves into deep mud and I UPD. I
stop to get my breath back, and admire the way the sunlight filters
through the trees onto the golden forest floor. Some people see the
beauty; others see dead leaves, the end of summer, and the approaching
winter.
--
Mikefule
If there's one thing I've learned, it's that most people don't.
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