The Cycle

An evening ride turns into a flight of freedom for a Saratoga County unicyclist.

The Cycle

by

Chris Doucette

 

 The siren and lights catch me off guard. Bwoowp Bwoop. “Suh, please pull ovah.” The voice commands through, what appears to be a drive through speaker attached to the top of the Saratoga County Community Officer’s vehicle.

I lean my cycle (those of us who ride unicycles, like to call them cycles. Makes us feel tougher.) to the right and pull to the side of the road. I step off the cycle and my feet hit the ground.

“Suh, please stay on your vehicle.” It’s that damn drive through voice again. Isn’t this guy late for his shift at McDonalds?  Not knowing what else to do, I step back up on my bike and begin balancing on the lone wheel.

I hear the car door slam shut as my legs start to burn from the circus balancing act I’m currently performing.

“Suh, do you know why I pulled you over tonight?” 

The “officer’s” twangy voice is dripping with attitude and I can already feel that this guy is just looking for trouble. Great. Of all the community Officer’s I could run into, I get the one who’s profiling unicyclists.

Trying to be cordial, I politely answer “No sir, just out for an evening ride on my cycle.”

“Sir, we’ve had some reports of numerous break-ins around this neighborhood. This thief steals things like big screen TV’s, washers, dryers. One time this guy took a couch. We’re stopping everyone that looks suspicious. You got a license and registration, suh?”

“Ummm…”I reply dumbfounded, the burning sensation in my legs is spreading like wildfire and is causing me to lose focus. This guy needs to hurry up. “Ummm…I have my license. I don’t think you have to have a registration.” I say as I hand him my license.

“Saratoga County Ordinance 87-5623 states that all one wheel vehicles, whether manually or mechanically powered, must be registered to identify safe maintenance and operation of said one wheel vehicles. You haven’t registered this vehicle suh?"

“No, I didn’t know.”

“Ignorance of the law, isn’t an excuse, suh. I’ll be right back. Please stay on your vehicle.” The message is delivered in his slow southern drawl.

My legs feel as if I’m sitting on a bag full of tacks. The prickling sensation running up and down my legs feels like a million little spiders with syringes for legs. Maybe I could just roll forward a little…just enough so that I could move my legs. I roll the uni (another name we unicyclists favor) forward about six inches and the blood fills my legs with feeling. But it's too much!

Dear lord! The flood of feeling washes into my legs like the waters across Earth in the story of Noah. All the feeling that had been held back rushes in in great torrents. The feeling, a mix of pain and relief, frees me from the bonds that have been holding them. My legs instinctually do what feels good and begin pedaling. Freedom! My legs sing like Aretha Franklin hitting the high note.

“Hey, boy! Come back here!” Deputy Drawl yells, but I’m already gone.  Me and Ol’ Cannonball (my uni’s name) are off and running

My hair dances wildly as I pick up speed. My glorious blond mane whipping back and forth in that evening light must have been a sight to see. The freedom each strand experienced, dancing like a hipster at Burning Man, exhilarated me. There was no turning back now. I was an outlaw.

Knowing the stone had been cast, I began pumping my legs for all they were worth. Little fleshy pistons thrusting me towards liberty, cycled up and down, propelling me ever forward.

Paul Blart had jumped in his cruiser and was rapidly catching up. But I had a trick up my sleeve. I knew these roads better than any rent-a-cop and I planned to lose him. Chase on, b***h.

First, I swung Ol’ Cannonball left and wildly jumped the small ditch that ran the length of the Johnson’s front yard. Narrowly missing a small branch that could have ended the chase early.

“Stupid,” I thought to myself. “You have to be more careful, no rookie mistakes.”

I swiveled my cycle around and launched myself up the driveway. The same driveway that Roscoe P. Coltrane had pulled his cruiser down.

Speeding towards his freedom crushing cruiser, I mentally prepared myself for what was coming.

Cruising headlong towards destiny I had to wait for the exact moment. Wait for it…wait for it…wait for it…now!

Flawlessly, I plant my hands on the hood of his car, clench my thighs and push out with my legs, bringing my uni up off the ground and over my head. Did I mention that I clenched my thighs? The sudden change in direction causing my splendid tresses to wrap around my face.

Completely inverted, I dip slightly to gain momentum and give a massive shove off the hood, flipping my body upright, I land with a satisfying thud on the hood of the trunk and roll Ol’ Cannonball off the back and onto the road. Heading the way Smokey had just come.

He never saw it coming, but he reacted better than I thought he would.

I looked over my shoulder to see Batman spinning the car around in a glorious fanning display of gravel, dirt through the freshly laid lawn sod. The Johnson’s would not be happy about that, but I didn’t care about the Johnson’s lawn problems anymore because I was running from the law. Desperadoes don’t worry about lawns.

The low, flat land that I had chosen for my escape route had helped me put some distance between me and the 5-0 that was trying to kill my buzz of independence, but I knew that Peterson’s hill was coming. Knowing that I would need speed to conquer what many had called the largest hill in Southwestern Saratoga County, I leaned into the wind, pushing my already screaming muscles even harder.

I could hear the siren of Barney Fife gaining on me in the distance. It wouldn’t be long and he would be on me.

I sped around the long bend, hitting speeds that no uni had ever felt before. Ol’ Cannonball whined beneath me, her chain loving the challenge. Finally, arriving at the foot of Peterson’s Hill I knew this was the moment that would decide freedom or captivity.

Continuing on, I pedaled as hard as my legs would take me and I hit that hill full on.

Pumping wildly, my hands flailing at my side as if I were performing some kind of epileptic running man, I attacked the hill with everything I had. I continued that way for almost fifty feet of pure uphill battle. Legs pumping, arms undulating in a rhythmic manner, my locks of manliness blowing gracefully to the sides of my head, irrevocably leading me to the summit of my greatest mountain.

The setting sun splashed across my face and the crisp clean air that you can only get at almost 30 feet of elevation filled my lungs. I smiled. The unicycle Gods (why there was more than one God for a one-wheeled vehicle I didn’t understand) were smiling on me. The Saratoga County Road Improvement Division had just installed safety rails for the hill. This beautiful but deadly, one-eighth mile strip of tree lined hill had caused many a heart break and it was about time those safety rails had been put up.

Pumping my fists in celebration of the Saratoga County Road Improvement Division’s wise use of tax payer dollars, I was thrown off balance and towards those glorious, silver-colored safety rails.

Screeching like Mariah Carey going full diva, I hurtled towards the rails. Installed to save lives, it looked to end mine.

Wobbling dangerously I finally lost Ol’ Cannonball from underneath me and she landed on the rail, my beautiful curls pinned back from the excessive amounts of wind.

Ol’ Cannonball landed sideways on the rail, I landed with one foot on the seat and the other on the wheel and began to slide down the other side of the hill increasing the distance between me and Andy Griffith.

Standing there, on Ol’ Cannonball, I could see for almost a quarter mile and it dawned on me. This freedom I had found suited me. It tasted good in my mouth and I wanted more.

A sly smile cracked my face and I prepared for my departure from the rail. Sliding my toe under the seat and pushing down on the wheel, I flipped the cycle up, found my feet on the pedals and landed at full speed, leaving Kojak at the top of the hill where the rails of freedom had stopped him from taking mine. Shaking his fist he yelled 

“This isn’t over…this isn’t ovvveeerrrr. Boyyyyyy”

Laughing, I pedaled off with Ol’ Cannonball into the evening. My beautiful mane of Sampson-like hair blowing in the cool Saratoga County breeze. I knew that it was over. Finally, it was over.