Riding the Unicycle

It is a shameful part of my clown history that I never mastered the unicycle.

At Ringling Clown College the unicycle was taught by an excitable Arabian gentleman who also taught acrobatics. At our first session with unicycles he demonstrated how to mount and stay seated on one. Then he let us all take a turn. Several of the students had already acquired the skill, smugly speeding around the arena. The rest of us gamely used a wall railing to mount and find our balance. Within a week everyone could ride a unicycle to some extent. Everyone but me.

The instructor, Hassan Habibi, came from a long line of tumblers, who had thrived in the querulous Middle East for generations. He was a tough little gamecock, unused to admitting defeat. He did not care for my inability to ride a unicycle, taking it as a personal insult. My problem was I never achieved enough momentum to stay vertical. Once mounted, I always fell over sideways. And let me tell you something, those unicycle seats are unforgiving when you remain on one during a fall. But Habibi would not let me quit.

“Up! Up!” he shouted, his voice rising an octave with each injunction. “You must mount quickly and go forward like a gazelle! You are not trying at all! Why do you shame me like this?”

When the day’s classes were done and the rest of the students went down to the beach for a sunset swim I had to stay behind to take remedial unicycling. Habibi wanted to put on a unicycle exhibition for the Clown College graduation show, featuring all the students wheeling in unison. My willful dereliction would prevent this triumphant display.

Bill Ballantine, the Clown College dean, finally interceded on my behalf. He told Habibi to cease and desist. And just in time, too; I was so bruised and tender that I had to shuffle along sideways, like a crab.  

The unicycle exhibition went on without me. It was a huge success, and became a tradition with succeeding graduation shows.

I put all thoughts of the odious unicycle behind me once I got on the road with the Blue Unit. There was much to learn. How to whip up a batch of shaving soap for pie fights. How to fall on a dozen balloons to burst them simultaneously. The best way to attach a gunpowder squib to my derriere to avoid powder burns when it went off. I mastered all these arcane skills, and many more, the first few weeks of the season.

But then I came down with a bad case of puppy love for one of the showgirls. And she was enamored of the members of the King Charles Troupe -- a Harlem Globetrotters knockoff that rode unicycles. To gain her attention and possibly some of her affection I determined to once again confront my old nemesis, the unicycle.

Since my motivation was carnal rather than theoretical this time around I thought I might succeed. Charlie King and Keywash, two of the stars of the King Charles troupe, had roomettes on the same train car as me; they liked my fresh-scrubbed Minnesota looks and we became friends. So I asked them both to help me get the hang of riding a unicycle. When I told them it was because of my clandestine love of the showgirl Jody, who was one of the last to withhold her favors from anyone on the show, they grinned at me, patted me on the shoulder, and became disgustingly avuncular.

“What you gotta do, Tork” said Keywash, “is never look down once you up on it. You look forward an’ sideways, sure. But not down. Jess like climbing a big mountain. You get me?”

I said I got him.

“My boy” began Charlie King, his arm around my shoulder in a firm grip; his tone that of a manager with his greenest prize fighter. “Don’t let this thing get you down. Who’s the boss, you or the unicycle? Right. You are! Once you mount that unicycle and get her to do your bidding, you can . . . “ he went on with a rather scurrilous analogy about mounting certain other objects which we need not go into here. Needless to say, I was getting hotter to jump on that unicycle by the moment.

Charlie King graciously loaned me his own chrome plated and rhinestone covered unicycle. I leaped on it with gusto and determination and began to pedal like mad. I made it three feet before keeling over, hitting my head on the side of an elephant tub in the process. Charlie and Keywash rushed over to me, hauled me upright, checked for head wounds (none) and immediately lifted me back on the unicycle with encouraging remarks about getting right back on the horse after it bucks you off.  

This time I made it all of five feet before tilting over. I was getting better, but was also experiencing a ringing sensation emanating from inside my skull. Suddenly the thought of a torrid big top romance with Jody seemed ridiculous, a ludicrous pursuit akin to wrangling with windmills.  

“Sorry fellahs” I said to Charlie and Keywash, handing them back the unicycle and shaking my head to deaden the reverberations inside it, “but I don’t think I’m ready to take on a showgirl just yet. I hear they can be awful expensive to satisfy.”

To their credit, Charlie and Keywash did not haze me or tease me about the matter. As experienced and broadminded enthusiasts in the game of love, they agreed with me that perhaps I was wise to put off my first affair amoroso until my physical and financial prowess had ripened a bit more.

Jody eventually hooked up with a candy butcher. After several seasons they married and settled down in Neptune Beach running a frozen yogurt shop. So everything worked out for the best, since I hate frozen yogurt.