The "Bike Butt" Blues

Chuckle #419 | September 1st, 1020
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Once upon a time I was a Yuppie living in Brooklyn. I bought a good racing bike and a sweet little pair of Lycra bike shorts. I did gratuitous laps around the park on weekends to impress guys. New York City was my oyster and the mother of all STDs was virtually unknown. Life was good.

Twenty years later, much has changed. Not the least of which is the size and shape of my BUTT.

Back in the old days I wore bike shorts because they made me look fit and attractive. Now I need my bike shorts just like Superman needs his spandex. For support.

Bike shorts are no longer just a fashion statement; they are a transformational piece of athletic equipment. The extra padding makes biking tolerable for butts over 40. And just between you and me, a super wide, gel-filled granny seat can’t hurt either. So go ahead, pimp your ride.

I recently dug my old bike shorts out of my closet. By some fluke (maybe because I stored them next to my cryogenically preserved wedding dress) the Lycra fibers were still intact. And most importantly, they still fit, albeit like an extra small book sock forcing itself War & Peace.

Still, Lycra is a miracle product. It can be stretched to fit over almost anything, including my age altered buttocks. I think most women would continue to wear Lycra even if they had to kill puppies to make it. I’m sorry, but you know it’s true.

When my husband saw me in my bike shorts he did not faint, nor did he swoon with desire. Like I said, my butt has changed. Then he disappeared into his closet and emerged 20 minutes later wearing his ancient bike shorts. His shorts also “fit”. (See book sock analogy above for elaboration.)

We were pretty much ridiculously proud that we could squeeze into our old shorts. We felt cool. Whether we LOOKED cool is debatable. Luckily our youngest daughter was on hand to set us straight.

“Are you going OUTSIDE in those?” she asked incredulously. Then she refused to bike with us, even after we tried to bribe her with ice cream. She said it would be too embarrassing, especially since the start of school was just days away. If we made her go, her life and reputation would be ruined. We might as well smear her with bacon fat right now and leave her outside for the coyotes.

We began to have second thoughts about the shorts.

Bike short padding has the unfortunate effect of making one’s butt appear even larger than it is. Like objects in rear view mirrors. And when you are seductively hunched over your handle bars, every car approaching from behind has a clear view of what your behind has become.

A daunting thought.

I admit that I have, when the occasion called for it, made insensitive and possibly derogatory comments about other peoples’ bike butts. I am not proud of this. And knowing, from my own sad example, how cruel women can be, I refuse to let my butt become a topic of conversation.

So before heading out on our ride, I tied a sweatshirt around my waist as a defensive tactic. My husband looked at me as if I were nuts because it was 96 degrees.

He said, “Its 96 degrees. I don’t think you are going to need that”.

And I said, “That is where you are wrong, mister. This sweatshirt is strictly for protection. What if my butt looks enormous? What if people talk?”

Then he said, quite brilliantly, “They won’t talk because you don’t need that sweatshirt.”

And this is exactly why I married a smart guy with superior powers of observation, and the uncanny ability to tell me what I wanted to hear.

Despite these assurances (aka little white lies), I still wore the sweatshirt, plus a helmet and sunglasses. You just can’t be too incognito when wearing Lycra. Even Superman knew that.
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