I could buy three Aloha shirts from my favorite source for what these shorts cost. Well, not quite, I could buy two with shipping and have enough money left to eat at Five Guys. I'm told I'll eventually want to buy a harder seat, which makes zero sense: it's the same contact point, what is the benefit of adding padding to the shorts and then taking it away from the seat?
They take some getting used to. I felt less pretentious than I feared once they were on. And less exposed. Tight, form-fitting clothes are not the sort of thing my physique calls for. And while in my early adolescence, my dream was to be Ozzy's guitarist, I always hoped I could get the gig without having to wear spandex pants.
Come to think of it, that's still the dream. Play with Ozzy but wear, I dunno, jeans or something. And a Hawaiian shirt, of course.
My Hawaiian shirts, I think, save me from being transmogrified into the invisible cyclist. I might end up with clip-less pedals and who knows what other accessories, but I think the jersey will be my last point of resistance. Cyclists are famously impossible for motorists to see, but fat guys in Hawaiian shirts...
Okay, my vow: no cycling jersey until I'm not the fat guy. Skinny guys in Hawaiian shirts aren't visible because they don't exist.
Oh, and no girls tonight. Mo is at Camp Encourage, Em is at the Jonas Bros. concert and a sleepover with a cousin. Which left me to wander 14.9 miles through the hollers of Shawnee in my new spandex cycling shorts. Ended up on 55th from Pflumn to Merriam Lane, speaking of hills. And down to 75th and over to Quivira again and I don't know where all.
At one point, I found I was on the hill I saw spots on in my first ride with the Trek group back in June. And it was easy. Laughably easy. If I was riding with someone who admitted seeing spots on that street, I'd call for an ambulance.
Though my almost fifteen miles took me 1:45, so maybe I haven't come so far.
You cyclists in town, you'll know this sign I'll bet. From this stop sign, you can only go downhill. Down Quivira (Pflumn becomes Quivira on the other side of 55th, down Pflumn or down 55th east or west. And we're talking mostly steep downhills where I start to wonder what sort of meatloaf I'll end up if I lose my balance. A grim thought that seems to inspire wheels to wobble above 30 mph.
Thing is, dangerous downhills don't scare me, only the lung-burning climbs that seem to always lurk on the other side. Coming up 55th from the bottom of this, I had to make a drink stop and catch my breath. I climbed the whole thing, but it took two stages.
1 comment:
this is hilarious ... my husband loves to bike but never has the time. he has the padded bike shorts and the little shirt and HATES when i try to snap pix of him in his duds.
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