I have a confession to make.
I am terrified of my new bike. Now I know what you’re thinking… how on God’s green earth can a 37-year old triathlete wanna-be be scared sh*tless of her costs-more-than-a-vacation road bike? Well, for one, I’ve never clipped in outside. (Which causes me all kinds of anxiety in and of itself.) And two, after my hooha massacre a few weeks ago, I have been worried sick about whether or not my soft tissue would befriend my new saddle.
Good news is… I seem to be working sh*t out. Here’s what I mean:
Sunday morning, in hopes of helping me find an “improved” level of comfort, Hubs pulled out a handful of tools and started working his magic on my saddle. He moved that fine piece of Italian leather up, down and in circles for 30 minutes… all the while I’m hopping on and off stating, “Nope.” Or “No way.” Or, “Holy Gawd Almighty — that’s even worse.”
Finally, after 7 or 8 fittings, we found a position I felt would be the least offensive for our pending 30-miler. (The biggest difference? We moved the seat forward by 1” which allowed me to shift more of the pressure to my sit bones. If you’re struggling, give it a try.)
With Black Betty Bam-a-lam ready, I hoofed it upstairs to shower. Before tugging on my tights and padded bike skirt, I lubed up every single crevice of my lady parts [with Chamois Butt’r] to help prevent any new bouts of pinching, chafing, squeezing, squashing, and/or smashing.
Note: I put on two full packets for good measure. Don’t DO that. I had white cream packed into cracks I didn’t even know I had.
Finally ready, Hubs and I make our way to the trailhead. And herein lies the true test…
Once my bike is off the rack, I hop on, clip one foot in, push myself forward a few yards and miraculously manage to clip my other foot in, too. I proceed to ride in gaping, lopsided circles [in the parking lot] behind my local Home Depot. After a few minutes Hubs says, “You ready?
Completely panicked I croak, “I think so.”
The first 10 miles were a breeze. (Thank you Jesus.)
Miles 10 – 15, my Chamois Butt’r went MIA.
Note: Just where it went I can’t be sure. I can only surmise that the load of it soaked through my pants and squeezed out the bottom of my split saddle. Anyhoo…
At mile 15, I was definitely starting to feel a pinch, so I popped into a sporting goods store to snag a lifetime supply of Chamois Butt’r travel packs. (Why I didn’t think to carry this sh*t on my persons is beyond me.)
Transaction complete, I click, click, click up the stairs to their second floor bathroom and liberally apply, (again!), another FULL packet of white, perfume-free, dye-free, non-stick, non-stank, life-saving cream to my privates. When I’m done, I look down and think, “Oh no. How am I going to get out of this stall and over to the sink without anyone seeing my hand?” (TP alone can only take a girl so far…)
After cleaning myself up, Hubs and I got back on our bikes and made the trek home. The last mile or so I was smugly thinking, “You did good girl. No wipe outs. Minimal chafing. You’re a super star at this clip in clip out sh*t. You’ve got 70.3 written all over you, baby.”
So I roll up to the car a minute or two behind Hubs.
As I come to a stop, I unclip my right foot.
And promptly fall over to my left.
I laid on the hard, cold, concrete for a full minute thinking, “OMG! My foot is still clipped in! What the f* am I supposed to do now? Cry? Flail around? Kick my bike and hope I don’t break my ankle? Roll over on my stomach and pray my shoe magically pops out?”
Hubs came over and slowly lifted the bike… enough for me free myself. He says, “You good?”
I say, “I’m not sure.”
I stand up to assess the damage. No torn clothes, no shredded skin.
Turns out only my pride took a beating. (Which somehow seems worse.)
My lesson: Right about the time you think you’re all that and a bucket of fried chicken, something side swipes you to make sure you stay humble.
P.S. Have you ever taken an epic digger on your bike? Was someone watching? Come tell me about it at www.Facebook.com/BrooksFirstMarathon and we can lament together! (Or laugh, whatever…)
P.P.S. You know I’m crazy about you, right? So consider this your VIP invitation to join the Sole Sisterhood. Not only will you get weekly private notes from me, but I’ll also send you some digital running swag to get started. Scroll down for deets.
P.P.S.S. I saw this magnet at the airport in Dallas last week. How true…