Ewte Talk

With each mile I log on my bike my resolution to hold off on bowing to cycling culture pressure to own the various paraphernalia of the sport has slowly begun to soften. For one thing, some of the gadgetry sure could make life a lot easier, like, say, a water bottle that actually is made for my water cage and not the one we jerry-rigged to jam in there. (Think: danger to get a drink while riding fast.) For another, my bottom was in protest: “Fine. You too cheap to get biking shorts. Me too sorry about the pain I causing you.”

Biking shorts, for those of you who thought the form-fitting black apparel was for sex appeal only, actually have a built-in heaven-sent padding on the inside right where your anatomy hugs the seat of the bike. Where your anatomy hugs and chafes and grinds against the seat of the bike, mile after mile, under the weight of you and against that hard hard seat, well, it ain’t pretty. And, so, ahh, those shorts. Now you know why all manner of body type ride by in them, modesty to the wind: necessity.

So, as is the daily scene with me, I walked into the sports store with my sons following (not close) behind. Now, I am not the most avid shopper in the world, and with my kids in tow, I am the worst. Who isn’t? But my plan was simple: take a quick run in to grab shorts and water bottles before my next ride, or else! (As explained above.) All the while I’d be repeating the mantra: As soon as we finish here, we go straight to The Lego Store.

My oldest son had saved allowance and other income for quite some time and that very day was the day we’d agreed to blow it all at the Lego Store. He’d calculated, planned, knew exactly how much he’d need. His capacity for delayed gratification knew no bounds. Waiting through one more store at the end game would not deter him, and I grabbed the opportunity. What a jerk I am.

The salesman hovering around the biking shorts racks asked ever so politely if there was anything he could do to help. I waved him off, as I usually do. I was fine. No needs here. But the thought did occur to me, as I saw his toe kick the floor in the vain hope that his sales position might be justified that day: I was running late. Why not put the guy to work?

“Actually,” I said walking over to him, “if I can still take you up on your offer, I’m trying to find these Sugar Shorts in my size.” My boys were milling about, making nuisances of themselves as they could, Max slipping in and underneath the racks of clothing while Quinn gleefully chased him. While I pried my sons out of the jaws of the Store Demon (it chews, digests, and regurgitates children, returning them to you in a state of misbehaving frenzy), the salesman found me a bunch of shorts. I grabbed my kids.

“Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“You’re going to help me try these on.”

“What is it?”

“It is Sugar Shorts.”

“What’re Sugar Shorts?”

“Come and you’ll see.”

Sugar Shorts are the name Pearl Izumi gave to their shorter legged version of women’s biking short. More leg shows. You can imagine why the name ‘Sugar’. I opted for them because I’m taking indoor cycling classes and there is less fabric to contend with: a plus. And I won’t lie. I like the Sugar aspect. . .

I asked the boys in the big dressing room that REI graciously provides: which do you think? The Sugar Shorts?

“Yea. Let’s go, Mom. How much time will we have at the Lego store?”

“Okay. Okay. Let’s go,” I said, and we almost made it to the check-out counter before we ran into a clearance table that had gel pads for your bike seats at a blow-out price.

“Hey guys,” I called to no one in particular because where exactly were my kids? “Look at these. Maybe we could fit these to your bike seats. What do you think?”

“What is it for?” Quinn asked, appearing out of nowhere.

“You put it over your seat and it’ll make your seat much softer to ride on.”

“Oh,” he said, coming closer, suddenly very interested, “I could really use that. The last time we went for a bike ride, at the end it felt like my bottom had been spanked a hundred times.”

Now, in our house, sadly, we don’t spank for fear of being rejected by the liberal, educated, child-centric socio-economic class to which we belong. It would be like being a Life Member of the French Manicurists Society and having them find out you secretly garden. Without gloves.

So, despite my son’s spanking imagery (rather, because of it) his point was clear: sore biking bottom. As a family, the four of us go on fun-filled action-packed bike rides along a converted, paved railroad bed we have here in Northern Virginia. It extends 45 miles point-to-point and hosts a community of active folk. A while back we bought these attachments that convert our adult bikes into tandems, with the second bike in back made for a child.

We’ll ride long enough to require padding on any scrawny low-fat bottom (i.e. my skinny son’s.)

“Oh honey,” I looked over to him, standing at the clearance table, “I had no idea your bottom hurt you. You never told me.”

“Oh yes. I think we should get these then,” he told me, holding up a gigantic gel seat cover. The only problem, we needed mini-bottom size and there were none to be found.

And then Max did what he does best: made an apt suggestion without the slightest clue as to his surrounding context.
He was streaming in and out of the women’s short rack as Quinn and I stood contemplating. Suddenly he pulled out a leg of black polyester and declared, “Mom! Quinn and me need Sugar Shorts!”

Sugar Shorts. I smiled. “Sugar Shorts,” I said,” Now that’s not a bad idea, Max.”

We grabbed an arm load off the kids’ rack and trapsed back to the dressing room. I can’t say the shorts were remotely close to form-fitting, with the padded bulk at the inseam waddling behind them in an independent motion altogether. But my kids loved them. “Sugar Shorts!” they squeaked, jumping and bouncing around the dressing room like crickets. They danced for themselves in front of the large mirror.

Mission accomplished. Quinn looked up at me. “Lego store, Mom?”

“Lego Store, Quinn.”

Our next ride was smooth and comfortable, thanks to whomever invented that padded inseam idea. [Dear Inventor Person, I love you.] When my family takes to the trail now, there’s a little more leg, a lot less less ache. Sweet.