Sunday, May 13, 2012

He ain't Roadie, he's my Husband.

Except that he is. Both.

Yes, this happened:

"This sweat band is completely essential!"
After being responsible for reintroducing Ginger to the joy of bicycling, he struck out on his own and purchased a second bicycle. A road bicycle. Complete with death-trap shoes - the amusingly misnamed 'clipless pedals' that involve clipping yourself to the actual pedal. Oh, Bike Land - you could have thought more carefully about what you were going to call them. (Yes, I know why they're really called clipless but it's still silly.) Just a couple of extra minutes. But then you couldn't make road bicycling an esoteric cult activity for only the manliest of men with indecipherable jargon to spurn ordinary folk. And if there's two things full-Roadies love, it's the feel of lycra on their buttocks and the spurning of ordinary folk. So understandably, I was concerned that this road bike purchase would open the seventh seal and unleash an anatomically revealing hell into my life.

Thankfully, Ginger's indoctrination into the Cult of Bicycle included his addiction to reading Bike Snob, so he was partially innoculated against full Roadie-fication.

I did say 'partially'.

"We made the inside crotch red to better disguise our bleeding taints!"

The short, fast slide began when a mutual biking friend encouraged him to join her weekend social ride. She assured him that he didn't have to give up his regular clothes if he didn't want to, so off he went to experience the world of Saturday morning social road rides. This exposed the gentle Ginger to the much feared forces of PEER PRESSURE. He returned from his first Saturday morning ride, thrilled by the cycling but telling tales of being mocked for wearing ordinary clothes. Affectionately mocked, but mocked none the less. Also, his nether regions had been tenderised by the road bike saddle, leading to further mocking and the insidious suggestion that he purchase the dreaded 'chamois shorts'.

It wasn't long before a sweaty pair of bib-shorts were festering on the bathroom floor when I rose on a Saturday morning, though Ginger declared that he was still wearing 'normal' shorts over the top of them along with an ordinary shirt. I decided that the tenderness of his groin was a man's private business and let the shorts slide. Then one evening, I went into the room where the bikes were stored and discovered an odd purchase. It seemed Ginger had gone and bought four small reflectors. I picked one up for a closer look and noticed that the edge on one side was jagged and unfinished...brain cogs turning, I picked up a second piece with an equally jagged edge and, yes - they fit together to form one whole reflector. A wheel reflector. I sought him out him and the following exchange took place:

"What happened to your reflectors? Did they break off? That's pretty shoddy."
*Incriminating pause* "Umm..."
"Wait. You... but you... snapped them off your wheels?"
"...Yes?"
"Not for the weight, surely, you -"
"Uh..."
(Wondering who this monster is) "But... how will cars see you at night? That extra 5 grams was really holding you back?! What possessed you?"
"Well..."
"Oh my god. It was Bike Club, wasn't it? A mean boy taunted you until you broke your own reflectors."
"Actually it was a woman."

After I beat him with a citrus fruit filled sock for the prescribed amount of time, I cried myself to sleep, knowing his decline was cemented. It wasn't long before a cycling jersey appeared above the outer layer of ordinary shorts. Then, one Saturday morning I got up early and stumbled into a horrifying vision in my hallway:

"DON'T LOOK AT MEEEE!"




The transformation was complete*.







*Except he also bought a pair of Knog leather gloves, on sale. I suspect they were on sale because they can only be described as, 'Avril Lavigne-esque'. Sometimes a bargain is not worth the potential beatings.

He was a Sk8r Boi, she said, "WHY GOD, WHY?!"

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