Eugene Barron

As Diana held the back of the seat, I hoisted my butt onto the unicycle and tottered up Broadway towards Needle Park. Pump, pump. Wobble, wobble. Diana would let go and run along beside me. Wobble, wobble. I would feel the narrow saddle slip between my thighs, then fly out behind me. I’d jump off quickly and try once more, before giving Diana a turn. It was her unicycle and her idea to practice on the street after work.

The year was 1950. I was five years old. There was barely room for my mother, much less me, when we moved into my grandmother’s small, crowded apartment on the 9th floor in the Ansonia Hotel on 74th Street and Broadway, where my mother had lived before marrying my father.

Mid-morning, I set out for a short walk—ten blocks, twice a day, prescribed for my aging heart and arthritic body. I clear the lobby and make my entrance on to 106th Street. I’m ready to start my hike to health, ready to laugh—or at least snicker—in the face of mortality. I take my first step, then pause, thinking, why push things? At the moment I’m upright—even ambulatory—why overtax my body?