The Fence Ended Before My Confidence Did

My hand went back to the fence after I had already ridden beyond the fence.

That was the problem. Everything below the waist continued towards the garage. Everything above it made a late application to remain attached to the property. I twisted, stepped off sideways, and watched the unicycle strike the concrete with the expensive-sounding clatter of something inexpensive being thoroughly used.

No injury. No distance worth recording. A strong objection from my shoulder.

Since the first evening, I’d managed a few short sessions along the flat rail beside the garage. Getting on had become less of an event. I could travel along the support with one hand resting on it, occasionally light enough that I started entertaining opinions about my progress.

Then the rail ended.

Apparently I had learned to ride a unicycle beside a fence. The geographical qualification was doing considerable work.

For this return I had drawn two columns in a notebook: clean releases and distance. A clean release meant taking my hand away deliberately and keeping it away until I stepped off. Distance began after release. Walking rapidly while a unicycle escaped between my ankles did not qualify.

By the time I fetched the notebook, I already resented its editorial policy.

Along the rail, my hand could slide almost without pressure. Away from it, that same hand immediately wanted to go home. Once, I caught myself reaching before anything had noticeably gone wrong. The prospect of having no support was enough to produce a movement that required support.

Unicycle.com’s teaching guide separates moving along a wall from launching into open space. I had skimmed that distinction earlier. Now it seemed rather pointed. Before launching, it also has learners practise stepping forward off the machine and letting it fall, without trying to catch the saddle.

I had neglected that exercise because I could already fall off.

There turns out to be room for improvement within falling off.

With the fence still available, I practised choosing an exit: stop trying to rescue the ride, put my feet down ahead of the wheel, let the saddle hit the ground. Helmet on, wrist guards fastened, clear concrete ahead. Even then, my hand kept diving towards the seat.

Dropping a juggling ball has never bothered me this much. A ball makes a modest noise and stays approximately where the failure occurred. The unicycle lands with enough drama to suggest witnesses should exchange insurance details.

After several deliberate exits, I could leave it alone. The saddle’s plastic bumper acquired another pale scrape.

Back aboard, I tried counting pedal movements. The Unicycling Society of America calls horizontal cranks the “power position” and suggests a spoken rhythm between successive positions. Half-turn, half-turn. “One. Two.”

Mine came out “One—” followed by a shoe scraping concrete.

On the next attempt, saying “two” occupied enough attention that I looked down to see whether my feet had complied. They had. Looking down introduced a fresh difficulty.

Soon I had too many instructions competing for the same small opening: sit down, eyes ahead, smooth pedals, release, don’t reach back, don’t catch it. Along the fence I could attend to one thing at a time. Beyond it, they all arrived together.

A missing tile in the domino run had let me isolate one section while I worked on another. I kept wishing for an equivalent here. Some way to practise the first unsupported pedal stroke while leaving the subsequent consequences disconnected.

Eventually there was one clean departure. My hand opened. The cranks went around twice. I stepped forward onto both feet and the unicycle dropped behind me.

I stood there grinning, then wrote a tick under clean releases.

No distance. I hadn’t marked the release point, and reconstructing it afterwards offered too much scope for personal growth.

The next attempt ended almost immediately. So did the next. After a rest, I returned to the rail and gripped it hard enough to make my fingers ache.

The USA skill levels actually require a graceful dismount. I appreciate the organization having standards. Mine currently include remaining upright while the vehicle completes its own arrival.

There is one tick in the notebook. It has several attempts’ worth of blank space beneath it. I left the page open on the workbench while I put the unicycle away, still annoyed that I couldn’t reproduce the thing I had just done.