Old photo taken about 1957-58 on Dauphin Street in front of Sony’s house. That’s the Convent of Mercy in the background.
This week, the Point Clear Rotary Club had the great honor of hosting Mr. Sony Alsup—a man whose life has been defined not only by service and achievement, but by curiosity, creativity, and a uniquely joyful spirit.
Born in 1935 and a resident of Fairhope since 1943, Mr. Alsup’s story spans nearly a century of American life. He graduated from Murphy High School in 1953, where he served as quarterback and was named All-City—a nod to his natural leadership and athleticism. He continued to Auburn University, earning a degree in Mechanical Engineering in 1957 while competing as the top pole vaulter on Auburn’s SEC Championship Track & Field team.
After graduation, Mr. Alsup joined the U.S. Air Force, where he spent nine years as a fighter pilot. His commitment to aviation and training didn’t end there—he went on to serve as a Check Airman in Washington, D.C., and an academic instructor at Air University, Maxwell Air Force Base. His career as a commercial airline pilot included 25 years with Eastern Airlines, followed by 20 more as an instructor for ValueJet, AirTran, and Southwest. In every role, he demonstrated not only expertise but a profound passion for teaching and mentorship.
But what truly captivated our members was a story far removed from flight decks and training manuals—a story that began in a sign shop in Mobile and ended, as so many great adventures do, with a fall, a laugh, and a little mystery.
The Unicycle: A Story of Ingenuity, Family, and Falling Forward
As a young boy, Sony had the chance to watch a unicycle act performing at a dinner theater in Mobile. Because the theater served alcohol, he wasn’t allowed in the main dining room—so he watched the performance from a side room, peeking through an open door. It was the first time he had seen a unicycle in person, and it left a lasting impression.
His father, who owned a local sign shop, surprised him the next day by taking him to Joe Spotswood’s Bicycle Shop on Dauphin Street—plans in hand to build a unicycle of their own. Using the front fork of a bicycle, two Ford 60 engine connecting rods, bearings, pedals, and plenty of welding, they created Sony’s first unicycle.
What followed was the classic tale of persistence. Sony spent hours rocking back and forth in the driveway, clinging to the side porch. Eventually, he got it—riding forward and backward, spinning in tight circles, even navigating steps. His father then built him a five-foot unicycle, then one that reached nearly eight feet tall. Sony rode in Mardi Gras parades, at Ladd Stadium rodeos, and even took his unicycle to Auburn, where he appeared in the yearbook, riding in the school’s pajama parade.
But just when he thought he was the top performer in the family, his 10-year-old sister Pat surprised everyone by riding the five-foot unicycle with ease—and winning a citywide bicycle rodeo to boot. While some parents protested, she was given a special trophy outside of the regular competition. Sony was humbled—and, as he tells it, reminded not to get too big for his britches.
Unicycle, Revisited: The 75-Year-Old Daredevil
Decades later, at the age of 75, Sony found himself reflecting on the things he used to do. He picked up the harmonica again—and found that he could still play any song in his head. He ordered a mandolin and was soon picking out melodies just like he had as a boy, playing alongside his father on the ukulele.
And then, in a moment of daring nostalgia, he remembered the unicycle.
He ordered one online. When it arrived, he noticed the stroke was much shorter than his original. Undeterred, he laced up work boots, strapped on garden knee pads, elbow pads, heavy gloves, and a bike helmet. “Glad nobody got a picture of this,” he joked.
After a few wobbly rocks in the driveway, he finally let go—and made it five feet before crashing to the pavement. Thankfully, he was unhurt—except for his pride. That unicycle, he says with a grin, “mysteriously disappeared.” He suspects his wife Susan may have had something to do with that.
Still, he holds out hope that with the right model—the full-stroke kind his father built—he just might ride again.
A Life in Motion
Mr. Alsup turns 90 this June, but you’d never know it from his energy, his humor, or his curiosity. He continues to write poetry, sculpt with clay, play the harmonica, and reflect on a life rich in experience and imagination.
His message to us was clear: whether in the air, on stage, or on one wheel, life is about showing up, falling down, and finding joy in the ride.
Thank you, Mr. Alsup, for reminding us that age is only a number—and that passion, perseverance, and a bit of playfulness can carry us far.
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