Unicycles are Evil

My wife's mother recently found a silver 20” Torker unicycle in mint condition atop a pile of curbside refuse. "What a waste" she cried, before rescuing this glistening steel siren from its date with the county incinerator. It was indeed a poor reflection on the wastefulness of Americana, to toss such a wonderful, shiny object away with the same reverence as one would a sack of melon rinds. The only thing it lacked was air in its tire, and that we had in plenty. It was summer. The thing was free. We would learn.


We would quickly learn that a unicycle is an evil thing, probably first invented by a sadistic machinist with a spare bike tire and a slow Saturday. Just one look should tell you that this is an impossible device, a mechanical Möbius strip to be mastered only by circus clowns and the curiously devoted. There is just no sense to it, no reason for being other than to bedevil all comers. And the curious nature of the beast lures in all but the most jaded of minds, each justifying the experiment by telling themselves they had never tried one before, and it always looked like fun. How hard could it be?


After pumping the tire I adjusted the seat to what I imagined to be the proper height. Then I took an awkward stance on it and tried to figure out what to do next. What to do next was to have it slip from beneath me. Again. And again. And again. There is simply nothing to hold on to. The first instinct is to drift along slowly like one would on its more sanely apportioned two-wheeled brethren. But the pedals move in lockstep with the tire, there is no coasting. Just a constant, desperate struggle to stay upright, like a Segway deep in the throes of an epileptic fit. One particularly unsuccessful attempt cast it headlong through the porch screening. My final mounting ended with a maneuver that without going into embarrassing detail, succeeded in raising the pitch of my baritone a solid octave. My son laughing at my incompetence tried for himself only to be rushed to the bathroom minutes later nursing a cruel, dripping gash across his left pinky toe.


I asked my mother-in-law if a hobbling figure with a plastered leg was seen anywhere near the vicinity of the disposed unicycle. Perhaps he was watching with binoculars nearby, snickering as she took the bait. How many times had this damnable contraption been pawned off to another unsuspecting soul? Was this a tradition? A mechanical fruitcake that never gets used more than a day, but instead is passed along to someone new each Christmas? If so we were humbled and in no mind to break precedent. The decision to return the thing to the communal no-man's land of the curb was soon made.


With smeared blood over our doorway, we hope the curse will sniff our threshold and move on, sated by our admitted defeat. As I write this I can see its spokes glistening under the light of the moon. Garbage pickup isn't for two more days. Someone will claim it. They too, will learn.