It took me ten years of spin classes to discover cycling shorts. Ten years of grinding my sit bones against a rock-hard leather seat before I discovered the miracle of a padded ass.
Why did I resist? Because I refused to succumb to the siren call of Spandex with built in Depends. I’ll push through the pain, thank you.
But then I dropped my gym membership and started Peloton classes in my basement. I quickly developed a girl crush on an instructor who became like the long-lost sister I never had or knew I wanted. Christine became my life coach, personal trainer, and messiah. Four times a week I sat at her altar and became one with my saddle as she poured out profundities (and profanities!) to a New Wave backbeat.
“What are you telling yourself in your head right now? I hope it sounds like hands on your back and fire under your ass!”
I had found a direct line to my feral self, and her name was Christine.
During each 45-minute class, I pushed through a hammering heart and burning quads to the finish line, where I would float breathless in a puddle of my own hard won sweat. Spinning with Christine was my new religion.
“Smile til your face cheeks hurt more than your ass cheeks!” she’d yell.
Is that even possible? Then one day Christine mentioned something about cycling shorts. Something to the effect that they are life changing. Was it time to ditch the vanity and embrace comfort? Was it time to trade in the Miata for the Buick? There comes a time in a woman’s life when she feels the urge to settle into her own skin, and let the bones lie where they lie. Even if that involves bike shorts. For some women, it’s 35. For other’s it’s 85. I surrendered at 49.
As I skimmed the clothing rack at my local bike shop, I remained hopeful. Maybe I’ll find a pair that’s flattering. There were five pairs to choose from in my size; they were all black and butt ugly, but maybe they wouldn’t look that bad once I tried them on, I told myself, as I marched to the fitting room.
I recall the terror in my eyes as I witnessed my reflection in the dressing room mirror. My suburban soft stomach oozed over the black spandex like sourdough. My thighs curdled like sour milk above my knees and the gap that was my crotch looked like a bridge that trolls lived under. But it was my padded ass that was the punchline. Good thing I’m only wearing these in my basement, I told the dude cashing me out. With his bouncy little 20-year-old booty, he didn’t get it.
Maybe it’s how a cowgirl feels when she goes from bareback to a padded pleasure saddle. Or how a freshly unfurled butterfly feels when she lands on the soft cushion of a rose for the first time. The thorn that was once my bike saddle, was now a stallion beckoning me to ride him like I stole him.
The shorts were so life changing that after a few months I went out and bought a road bike to ride on real streets. I already owned a mountain bike, but it was a clunky thing that I bought 12 years ago from a boy down the street who used it as transportation to his lawn cutting job.
On my 50th birthday, I decided it was time to put the old Mongoose out to pasture and pony up some real cash for a road bike. If I was going to reveal my padded ass to the world, I wanted to do it with speed – and with style. I wanted something sexy between my legs. Is there anything hotter than a habanero red road bike that costs more than a used car?
It’s still wintertime, so I haven’t taken my glossy, $2,500 crotch missile out for her inaugural ride. She calls out to me every time I open my garage door.
“I will be the fire under your ass,” she whispers. “I will be your new religion.”
It took me ten years to discover the miracle of padded bike shorts and look where it’s taken me. I’m ready to burn up the streets in a blaze of middle-aged glory. What other miracles are waiting to be discovered?
Yesterday, I heard about something called Chamois Butt’r. I hear it’s life changing.