It Was a Lot Scarier Looking Down

When falling is the only option

Photo by Erik Lucatero on Unsplash

I was trying to get comfortable with the idea that I was about to walk off the roof out into empty space. Dizzy with fear, I stood at the edge of the garage, peering over the leaf-filled gutter to the pavement sixteen feet below. But I couldn’t make myself do it—for obvious reasons—having to do with pesky urges about avoiding death and such.

The thing was, I knew that I had to do this eventually. The prospect of meeting this challenge was too damn thrilling to pass up. “What challenge?”—you’re probably wondering.

Riding a unicycle that was taller than the roof I was standing on.

I was a 17-year-old athlete and daredevil. Obsessed with showing off in any way I could I had mastered a six-foot-high unicycle and over-confidently wanted a bigger one. I scoured back issues of juggling, unicycling, and stunt magazines looking at ads for circus equipment without success. And then, by chance, a friend of my mother mentioned having seen a “giant” unicycle collecting dust in the garage of a neighbor.

It sounded too good to be true, but in fact, a kid like me had convinced his parents to order a custom-built, 12-foot-tall, unicycle. It was shipped to his home and he intended to ride it, but when the moment came he was too afraid to get on it.

Hearing the story I immediately stood in judgment of his fear. I would be the one to tame the beast. I was sure of it.

A meeting was arranged. I may not have even slept the night before. Finally laying eyes on it leaning up against the side of the kid’s garage—a freakish pole with a single skinny seat that hovered at the level of the black-shingle roof—my adrenals started priming my nervous system for the challenge. I walked up to it in awe and finally took the dream machine into my hands. The jutting perch above my head was the Everest I was about to conquer.

Cocky and assured, I followed the kid into his house, up to the second floor, out his bedroom window, and over to the roof of the garage, where the seat could be mounted.

But, oh . . . shit.

I hadn’t expected the one-wheeled machine to look three times taller from above than it did from the ground. Now I knew why the kid had bailed, and if I’d had any sense of my own, I would’ve traced my way back through his window and down a sane set of stairs. But my judgment was impaired as I had been drinking excessive amounts of pride and all four of our parents were on the ground watching. So, I hemmed and hawed, shaking inside, pretending to survey angles and wind speed and such, but—in actuality—stalling.

Managing to straddle the seat with one foot still on the roof and the other on one pedal of the monster, my head was now 16 feet above the cement. As I considered how to push off, catch my balance, and ride it down the concrete driveway—there was nothing but unyielding terror.

At the risk of sounding like a dust jacket for Zen and the Art of Unicycle Maintenance—unicycling is just like life. The activity of unicycling, as a process, can only occur under one circumstance. While falling.

The first thing you have to do on a unicycle is literally—fall off of it. Its movement is born of instability.

It’s the commitment to being off-balance, leaning into the void, that grants you the privilege of motion as you pedal to catch up with your off balance self; attempting to restore the order of uprightness to your teetering form, but never quite succeeding. The moment you regain your balance, the process stops. Once you’re in a safe and perfect equilibrium—your adventure comes to an end.

In the realm of trying and learning new things, balance is overrated. And yet my brain clung to the sense of security like a marsupial to the belly of its mother; my mind creating a prison of safety that my spirit wanted to transcend.

There were long jagged cracks in the aging driveway. I imagined how my body would create a new web of fissures upon impact if I fell. I had to get a grip. I took a deep breath, trying to find an ember of excitement in the ashes of my dread.

Minutes earlier, I’d pictured myself parading down the street with my head held high. If only I could find the courage to push off, I’d be in charge of my own flight, soaring above the ant-people who’d stand agape as I passed, awed by my bravery and skill.

As with all dreams passionately pursued, I had reached the moment of maximum tension—like before the writer hits publish, before the groom says “I do,” before a speaker takes the stage—where anything resembling control and balance must be sacrificed for entry into the hallowed halls of one’s future. Here I’d have to push my way over a last hard edge with the grit of my own resolve, without a final affirmation or guarantee—of anything—and commit to the fall.

The more I thought about it, the worse the shaking in my body was going to get, eventually compromising my motor system beyond hope of meeting the challenge. So, in a final act of blind faith, I pushed off the roof and into the void.

Fortunately, my body knew what to do. At first I over-compensated and quickly discovered that the process was easeful and leisurely. The physics of being up so high meant I had ample time to correct my drift. Ironically, riding a 12-foot unicycle is a lot easier than riding one that hugs the ground.

I reached the end of the driveway and had one more moment of panic as I had to suddenly drop the wheel over the curb, but was soon sailing down the suburban street looking directly into the second-story windows of neighboring homes. Residents stared slack-jawed while I floated by.

As it turned out, it wasn’t a tall unicycle I had to tame. It was my own mind. Pride and bravado might get us started, but it’s the willingness to shake and tremble in the dark corridor of uncertainty that fuels follow through.

Learning to ride the unicycle opened doors that led over time to world travel as a performer and corporate speaker.

I found ways to re-stage the thrill of that moment, mounting the unicycle in public street shows and corporate events on the backs and shoulders of volunteers; even performing it once in a thunderstorm. The routine thrilled tourists, children, locals, lawyers, bankers, and the hungry homeless without distinction—because this wasn’t just a moment in a circus show. It was a story about what each of us do at the edge of ourselves, and how we meet our own challenges and risks.

To be human is to stand on the edge of some next brave and beckoning step. Where is your edge right now? Are you happily off kilter, or suffering the safety of some familiar stability? There are innumerable ways to sacrifice our balance in favor of possibility. You don’t need to risk life and limb to enjoy a new freedom of motion.

Just waiting for your child to tie his shoes at his own pace without rushing him along, asking a new friend for help, or cooking a meal that feels beyond your skill might be how you lean beyond mediocrity and tease the waiting magic out of an ordinary day.

Maybe you’re not in the habit of engaging with authors on Substack, because the idea of making yourself visible in public is unnerving and you don’t know what you’d say.

There’s only one way to find out.