Yesterday I was driving home from work, as I’m wont to do. I was under a large underpass on the Kennedy expressway when I happened to look over and notice a car (Escalade) on the shoulder with its flashers on. This particular underpass is a popular spot to stop on the shoulder as it is shaded and has a much wider shoulder than other stretches of the road, leaving ample room to avoid the person who you just rear-ended. I mean, I’m assuming.
Anyway. There was a person outside of the car & they were wearing:
This however was not the oddest part of the scene. No, the 6 foot butterfly net in their hand was pretty odd.
But still, not the oddest part. The oddest part was the single, lone pigeon they were wildly chasing and attempting to catch.
SO MANY QUESTIONS.
I mean, were they chasing their pigeon? You know, a carrier pigeon so to speak? Or was this a wild pigeon? And if a wild pigeon, really, the side of a busy expressway during rush hour is where you are going to catch it? Are underpass expressway pigeons superior to, say, Michigan Avenue pigeons? I HIGHLY DOUBT IT.
Also, what was this person going to do with this pigeon? Take it for a ride in the Escalade? Roast it for dinner? I WANT TO KNOW.
I demand to know. Sadly I decided not to stop, because, man, this person seemed mentally unstable with a large luxury vehicle. Makings of a Lifetime movie right there.
So, last night I rode my new bike 12 miles. I’d put an exclamation point on the end of that statement except in the first mile I tipped into a pedestrian while doing my whole “flail, push, ahhhhhhh yell ahh push clip into the pedals” routine and he had to shove me back upright while I yelled swear words and a rapid “thanks!” as I tried to keep going.
It wasn’t pretty.
But I didn’t die. Nor did I inflict a tiny yet deep stab wound in my shin - nope, did that two days ago thanks and I went through about five bandages over the course of 12 hours before it stopped bleeding. I now understand why my Mom is constantly complaining about the combo of my Dad’s oozing wounds and her nice sheets. Dad doesn’t “do” bandages.
I’m not here to talk about my brushes with death though – we could be here all day. Instead I’m going to pose a super awkward question that we will not visit again. I’d ask someone in a cycling forum chat thingy but those women scare me. Mostly because I don’t think they refer to bike parts as “doohickeys” and “spinny things” nor do they yell “OUTTA MY WAAAAAYYYYYYYYY” when hurtling over crosswalks. (Listen tourists: pay attention.)
My question is about cycling shorts.
And what you wear under them.
You catch my drift, no?
I have been told that with the whole chamois thing going on and what not, you are not to wear another layer between you and the padding (which incidentally, would it kill them to add a little more??) but I find that…sketchy. To say the least. And yet I find products like these even worse and I don’t want to be adding to the issues that one encounters. Of course all these chamois creams have horrible names like “Button Hole” like HI WE KNOW WHAT YOU ARE GETTING OUT YOU SICK CREEPS. But since whole products are dedicated to this “issue” I’m wondering if I’m going to cause bigger problems by…leaving things on…come my long rides.
Please. Enlighten me. How does this work?
(Also, I have become aware that many women don’t wear anything when they work out no matter what. I’m still processing this.)
Also, don’t you think I need this?
Rhett Butler is very partial to his toys. When we come home from work he shares his excitement by running around the house, shaking his favorite toy with great enthusiam and gusto. He always enjoys playing with Humpty, his stuffed egg, but he likes to branch out and show favoritism to other toys from time to time.
For a long time it was a stuffed Sock Monkey. But then….Sock Monkey died….
Rhett Butler was very sad about this development. Even if it was his fault.
Of course, RB soon found a replacement that he loves very much – a stuffed platypus (given to him by his Grandpa) that we call Ducky. Rhett Butler loves Ducky very much, and so when Ducky went…missing…this weekend it was a scene straight out of Best in Show. I was Parker Posey.
It wasn’t pretty. But we had to find Ducky, RB was running around the house looking for Ducky, unable to calm down without shaking his favorite toy to pieces. It is his method.
You’ll be pleased to know I found Ducky (hidden in the curtains in the guest room) and the crisis was averted. Whew.
Our car old Silver is in the shop. Again.
The old grey mare, she just ain’t what she used to be. (She is not however, falling apart. Thus far it has been minor little things, but alas, these things happen. All at once because we all know that is how life works.) Anyway. It is probably a good thing that this zebra like beauty came home to live with me because I might be needing it if the car stays in the shop much longer:
I wish I had a video of me getting going on it because: a) it is a road bike with skinny tiny road bike tires which OHMYGOODNESS are so much more wobbly than fat mountain bike tires and; b) hi, clip in road pedals which are NOT the same beast as clip in mountain bike pedals. At least not to me, wobbling along on my skinny tires yelling WATCH OUT to the pedestrians ahead of me because B said road bikes cannot have a bell. This “no bell” development makes me very sad as I’m leaving my trusty bell on my old bike, the bell that I’d ring pretty much the entire way across the bridge by Navy Pier because it is yay-narrow and has no barrier between me and the speeding cars. Which is to say: DEATH TRAP. WITH TOURISTS TO DODGE.
Also, did you know road bikes don’t have a kickstand? Me either. Which is why I promptly dropped it the first time I hopped off, although “hopping” is relative – it was more like a shlump and shlep and rip my feet out of the clips and balance on my new cycling shoes and I’m clipping and clopping along while balancing precariously on the cleat that sticks out of the shoe….and. Yeah. You get the point.
The point being: I LOOK LIKE THE WORLD’S BIGGEST DOOFUS WHILST WEARING COMPRESSION FIT BIKE PANTS. WITH A PADDED ASS. AS IF MY ASS NEEDS ANY PADDING.
To recap: I’m wearing compression fit pants, with a padded ass (which apparently, in the right sunlight, shows the pattern of my polk dot undies- THANKS HON FOR POINTING THAT OUT 4 MILES FROM HOME- but yet, PADDED) and teeny tiny shoes with a stiff sole and a cleat sticking out of the toe area so if I choose to walk the bike, my walk looks like a duck on ice skates.
Then, I get on the bike and carefully clip in one foot, and then push off with my other foot, except HI HARD CARBON SOLE so I kind of scuff along, wildly balancing and weaving, trying to keep the momentum and flip the pedal around and get my other foot locked in so I can start going. Sometimes I yell, at the world in general, but more often at a small child standing directly in front of me and hi, look, I can’t steer, pedal, clip in and not fall over all at once. One of them has to go and typically: steering. I’M NOT THAT COORDINATED. But then, whew, it all comes together and I start pedaling, my feet firmly attached to the pedals and I can finally take a breath before realizing, man, I need a sip or eight of water. Or beer. Preferably beer. But, no, I must pedal! If you stop pedaling you might fall into the open window of a cab at a red light, and listen, IT ONLY HAPPENED ONCE. Once was enough to learn that lesson. So, pedal, pedal pedal!
However, by the time I actually start pedaling like a sane individual I’ve lost all imagery of being a professional. I look like a moron.
In compression pants.