Further on, I find myself back on the "yeller brick" (as someone once
called the pale ballast tracks that criss-cross the forest) then I turn
left at a cross roads, having to swerve off the good surface onto rough
grass and mud because it would be rude to force the group of fit young
men on 21 speed twin suspension mountain bikes to do this and get their
tyres dirty. Then I find myself at the top of one of the official "off
road cycle tracks".
Welcome to Blair's nanny state: in an area of many square miles of
forest, with possibly hundreds of miles of single track and double
track, there is a half mile section marked, "Off road cycling course:
experienced riders only." I ride it every time, not so much because it
is that challenging, but because I find it amusing to ride it on a
unicycle while the mountain bikers - almost without exception - ride
straight past and keep on the straight and wide.
As it happens, I UPD twice on the official off road cycling course, but
they are only step-offs, brought about as much by fatigue and lack of
concentration as anything else. I ride all the most difficult bits,
with small drops into mud and piles of autumn leaves, without a hitch,
and then slog my way up the steep and root-infested hill at the other
end quite easily.
Back on the level, I UPD again. I've been riding for an hour or so,
without a stop except for a few seconds on each of about five UPDs in
total. I need a break, but my obsessive personality makes it
difficult. I ride on, me on a narrow bumpy and muddy foot path, a few
feet into the forest, while all the charity riders potter past on the
yeller brick, parallel to me.
My path takes me under dark and low conifers, and I have to concentrate
as I pedal in individual strokes from root to root and mud hole to mud
hole. Then there is a short, steep and winding descent of a few metres
which spits me out onto a wider path. I hear some of the riders on the
charity ride whooping and commenting as they see me.
I ride the short distance to the next little area of mountain bike
humps and hollows. There are two or three people there playing half
heartedly on the obstacles. I ride my usual route, taking a few
diversions onto the steeper bits just for the look of the thing then
ride back out and across the trail to a path I know well. As I cross
the trail, a small boy on his mountain bike smiles his friendly
amazement. Being good with kids, I wink and say hello. I will no
doubt be arrested within the week.
100 metres into the forest, I meet a group of three lads on bikes.
They make friendly noises, and one comments, "That is the craziest
thing I have ever seen!" I reflect that perhaps he doesn't watch the
news or he would have seen the war in Iraq, the fuss over the Queen's
bad back, the advertisements for Christmas presents in August, and
realised that unicycling is way down the list of crazy things,
somewhere below having a 21 speed mountain bike and riding it like my
granny would. However, I detect a note of approbation in his tone, and
I smile and thank him for his good wishes.
As I ride away up the hill, he says, "I'd love to see you ride that
downhill section there." I am familiar with most of the paths here,
and I answer, "Not likely, it's way too steep for me," but then pride
takes over, and I zigzag my way to the top of a small hill, and choose
my descent carefully. I reason that, like a dog walking on its hind
legs, it is not so much remarkable for being done well, but remarkable
that it is done at all, so I make a bit of a performance of riding down
a very easy little hill, and get an ill-deserved round of applause. At
the bottom, I do an involuntary step-off and take the opportunity to
stop for a breather and a chat.
The three lads are friendly enough, and have some reasonably good
questions about the uni. One remarks that, "That tyre is f***ing
mental!" (It's a three inch section and his looks like a 1.95".)
Predictably, one of them asks for a go. I warn him about the pinned
pedals. With the help of his two mates, he manages to mount and they
support him as he wobbles for about two pedal strokes, leaning heavily
on them. With perfect comic timing, one of them asks, "Are you ready
for us to let you go on your own yet?" and they all collapse with
laughter.
The short break, a bit of friendly chat, and the chance to laugh with
some decent lads has rested me both physically and mentally, and when I
remount, it is with renewed vigour. With a cheery wave, I set off up
the sand and gravel path, picking my way between and over the tree
roots, and fully in command of my steed.
Over the next hill, I meet more mountain bikers - again, stationary -
and I swerve to get past them zooming up and over a low muddy hummock
in the process. One or two whoop encouragement and one says
knowledgeably, "Training for the Mountain Mayhem." So, those of you
who have actually ridden in the Mountain Mayhem have done something to
boost the profile of MUni as a proper sport. Well done!
From here, the route back to the car park is fairly familiar. I am now
in an area of mainly deciduous woodland, and the trail is thick with
dry golden leaves - mainly beech and oak, with some chestnut. There
are two tricky ascents and I make them both, despite the leaves hiding
the sand, gravel and ruts of the surface of the path. I don't think
I've ever ridden both without a UPD in the same ride, so I must be
improving with all this not-riding that I've been doing over recent
weeks.
I get to a very narrow section of footpath, blocked by a walker who
appears to be lighting a cigarette. I politely ask him to excuse me
and he turns, throws the butt of his old cigarette into the dry leaves
some distance from the path (d'oh!) and steps grumpily out of my way.
I ride past carefully, as I have bare legs, and there are gorse bushes
nearby!
Up the hill, and ahead of me, I see the watch tower. This is a regular
feature of my rides. I only found out recently that it was originally
a military watch tower - presumably associated with the nearby Proteus
Camp, and was used in the war when the authorities were afraid of the
Germans using the cover of Sherwood Forest as a landing ground for a
glider-borne invasion force. 60 odd years later, it is now either a
fire lookout point or a bird watching tower (I've never been sure
which).
Either way, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a young man in
want of a bit of excitement will always climb any available tower, so
I do. To be frank, the view is always disappointing - just the tops of
some low conifers nearby, and some taller conifers in the distance. I
get my breath back, watch a light aircraft overhead, struggling against
a strong head wind, then climb back down and resume my ride.
A few hundred metres later, I see a young couple with a tandem -
presumably hired from the Visitor Centre. The boy is posing with the
tandem while the girl takes his photograph. She steps back politely
and smiles as I ride past. Charmed, I show a rare glimpse of my
common humanity, and turn back and offer to photograph them together.
The girl is pleased. She doesn't particularly want the tandem in the
picture, but does want the two of them, and the forest. She flutters
about prettily for a while trying to work out where best to stand to
get the forest in the background (there are trees for miles in all
directions!) then decides to pose near the tandem after all.
As I line up the shot, she drapes herself lovingly around the boy,
gazing up at him with such doe eyed adoration that it is clear that as
long as he makes no huge mistakes this afternoon, he's on a promise for
tonight. Meanwhile, he stares confidently at the camera, ignoring her
attentions in a way which suggests, sadly, that she has already made a
huge mistake. After the photo is taken, the girl asks me to pose for
her on the unicycle, which I do. She thanks me sincerely; he thanks me
politely. I resist the temptation to throw her over my shoulder and
rescue her from his grasp and I ride away alone with a cheery wave. I
think that's two cheery waves today - I must be softening in my old
age.
It is only a few minutes before I find myself passing hordes of
cyclists, and I know that I am near to the car park. There is some
sort of inverse square law about how many cyclists you see as you get
further from the car park. Here, near to the seat of the radiation, I
am in danger of a lethal dose, as families and groups of lads wobble
inexpertly past, paying minimal attention to what they are doing, where
they are doing it, or whom it might affect. To my left, I see a few
young boys building a den in the forest, piling fir branches against
each other in a sort of tepee shape. It's good to see kids doing
"proper kids' stuff" like I used to do.
I zigzag my way past the café, and am nearly back at the car when I
hear a young girl - maybe aged about 10 - say with awe, "He's got no
chain." Assuming that she's talking about me (rather than an
inadequately restrained large dog, or someone struggling to flush a
poorly designed toilet) I chuckle to myself. It isn't just another
"Where's you other wheel/cross bar/handlebars/brakes?" comment, because
it wasn't intended either for my hearing or, apparently, for anyone
else's. The absence of a chain: the defining characteristic of the
KH24 MUni!
Back to the car after about 1.5 to 2 hours' enjoyable and varied ride.
As I'm putting my Camelbak in the car, I find my GPS, Velcroed to the
carrying strap!
--
Mikefule
The journey's always easy when you've got no place to go,
No trouble when you've nothing much to do
When you've left some place behind, just to see what you might find,
And you're travelling just to get to somewhere new.
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