Here I sit broken hearted, tried to… Now you should know by now, that’s not how I (usually) roll.
I’m staring outside, the sun is shining, the temp is a perfect 71 with not even a hint of breeze or a cloud in the sky. Alas, the Tigers game is on and I am not blistering down the road on my trusty Trek 5200 with the advanced club guys… And I miss it.
I am sick. Not a little bit sick, I’m sick. My hair hurts – even the one’s I shaved this morning. I’m so stinkin’ sick my 5 o’clock shadow hurts. It hurts to breathe, to move, to sit still. I have a sore throat and another one at the top of my lungs from coughing so hard.
Still, I got 3/4’s of a very productive day in at the office. Working alone has its benefits when you’re ill – nobody to infect.
I am sitting here because I am part cocky and part stupid. Everyone knows you don’t kiss your spouse on the lips when she’s sick (with, you guessed it, a hacking, wheezing sore throat). I’m Bgddy though. I’m fit as an ox – heck my immune system does push-ups while it’s waiting for the next bug to eviscerate. My once fried liver does downward dogs. My pancreas? Planks. My heart? It’s so strong and sure, I can feel my pulse in my pinkie toe – without even touching it! I don’t get sick. I’m a cyclist. When I have dreams, I wake up with my legs pumping. I am HEALTHY.
Remember, cocky and a little bit stupid.
I had a most delectable Sloppy Joe (or two) for dinner this evening. It tasted like the organic Mac and Cheese, which humorously enough tasted like the four potato chips I ate – and the Gatorade I drank.
Sweet, now my big toe is cramping up.
Well, I suppose I needed a few days off anyway.
That’s why you’re slow. Man up (or woman up as the case may be). Wear Lycra. Be fast.
There is no question that super human feats of cycling strength can only be performed in Lycra. I don’t know if there’s a study proving this out, but if there isn’t, it’s only because this is a universally accepted fact. It would be like the consensus in global warming – only if there really was a consensus.
Cycling without Lycra would be like Superman without his cape. Batman without his Batmobile. Hell – Robin without Batman!
Look at it this way, there’s a slower group that goes out before we do on Tuesday nights. There’s a guy who rides with them – he’s old enough that they were writing on stone tablets when he was a kid. His first bike had stone wheels! Dinosaurs would to look at this guy like he was lunch!… He wears Lycra. Of course he looks like hell in those shorts but it absolutely cannot be argued, the man has class and the respect of everyone out there (late 70’s, rheumatoid arthritis and he still rides 10,000 miles a year – that’s right boys and girls).
Not wearing Lycra is akin to showing up to an advanced club ride with plastic pedals on a Barbie mountain bike (note to self, I just might have to try that once – that would be hilarious!). Folks, there’s just some crap you can’t get away with and showing up to a club ride in cargo shorts is one of them.
Here’s the reality, at least with the folks that I hang out with in Fly-Over County, Michigan: Only a true loser would care about what you look in cycling shorts. Why? Because no matter how you think you look, you’re out there doing what it takes to lose that butt you’re so worried about in the first place! So the real question is why would you base whether or not you ride comfortably on the opinion of a loser? That’s what you really have to ask yourself. Cycling, while it is a fashion show – I always match and look awesome (red bike, white bidon cages, blue bar tape, red/white shoes, blue jersey, white shades and helmet), is a workout. If you don’t end up sweaty and looking disheveled after your ride, you didn’t push hard enough. After all, the goal is to shed ass, not pick some up!
The point is folks, yes you do wear Lycra – even if you think you don’t. HTFU.
*A caveat here: i look good in Lycra (if I do say so myself – and I obviously do), so I parade that stuff all around town without a care. Of course that’a because I eat well and put the miles in, so there’s that. In other words, and as I like to say, my butt is bought and paid for with miles, sweat and even a bit of blood.