I’ve been out of Lycra for a week. I feel like a different person. I love my sweat pants though the last thing I want to do in them is sweat, unless the activity is Extreme Beer Drinking, Australian Rules Cake Slicing or The Lasagna Toss I haven’t cared to be active.
I haven’t been out of Lycra for this long a period in about a year. I’m starting to miss that loving feeling of having all of my parts compressed against one another unifying all of my extremities as one. The comfort and support of a chamois is also missing. Much like Linus and his blanket, I depend on my chamois to get me through the rough patches of life.
I was sitting at my mothers dining room table on a wooden chair and began fidgeting around around trying to find a comfortable spot. Usually if I wear a liner along with my shorts, I can practically take sitting on a spike, so long as the base of the shaft is carbon. Sounds far more sexual than it’s original intent but so what, all cyclist take a pounding in the rear from hard and stiff saddles. The stiffer the better. Flabby saddles can’t satisfy a mans need to propel himself faster than his adversaries in a sprint. Same goes for ladies. No matter how fancy the carbon, that bike better come equipped with a saddle stiff enough, to handle it’s lady-friends power transfer. I know I can get an amen to that.
During the warmer months, I shave my legs every 2 days and my face every 20. My wife isn’t a fan of the practice, but has succumb to my strange desire to have catwalk-like legs and so long as I don’t cozy up towards the end of my two day period unshaven and infected with stubble, there is happiness in the household. She married a cyclist. A somewhat complicated breed as all of our partners know too well. I don’t talk about interval training, pace-lining, or any of that other shit that cyclists could go on hours about. Any accomplishment done on the bike could be all for naught, if a chore gets overlooked. This is life as I know it as a competitive recreational cyclist, that scratches up enough dough to race in the hopes of getting a cool tee-shirt and maybe if I place well, a water bottle.
I looked at my legs today. I can still see muscles, though they are now covered by brush. The property down there looks unkempt, naturally speaking. I’m sure if there were a neighborhood association, I would get cited. Of all the slave owners that had to creep into my ancestors quarters, I am the result of a hairy bodied, balding one that rides well in the flats, but struggles in the hills. We McPherson’s can hold our liquor well, so at least we got that trait from the Clan McPherson that owned us. All to say, that there is no landscaping until April. When the weather dips to single digits, I will need every bit of coverage I can genetically afford.
I hit the road again on Wednesday and not soon enough. With the amount of stuff I have piled on, but not burnt off, that Lycra may not fit the same, but the nature of the fabric will accommodate me until I get right again. Happy New Year and to all a good night…