walking around in tap shoes and pyjamas since 2010 - my cycling log (opens in new window)

Monday, October 18, 2010

FHPs: A Further Analysis

So. Mileage for the month of October so far:
Week 1 (in miles, beginning 27 September)
M 7.8
T 15.6
W 8.4
R 26.9
F 20.2
S 12.3
N 0.0
Total: 91.3 miles

Week 2 (beginning 4 October)
M 7.8
T 24.6
W 10.3
R 20.2 (same routes as last Thursday)
F 0.0 (DD had surgery!)
S 0.0
N 8.3
Total: 71.2

Week 3 (beginning 11 October)
M 7.8
T 15.6
W 7.8
R 25.7
F 5.0
S 0.0
S 0.0
Total: 54.1

18 October

My knee has been acting funny (the one I blew up back in May), so I've been giving myself an extra day off each week for the past couple of weeks. I think it's a fit issue — I decided to wait a little while before pulling the seatpost on Quicksilver up. In retrospect, that was, well, silly. The seatpost needs raising, end of story.

I have now had my FHPs (Farking Hipster Pants, for those who haven't read the post immediately below this one ;D) for a couple of weeks, and am forced to admit that I absolutely love them. They are disturbingly comfy*, once one gets used to walking around clad like a male ballet dancer**. I've noticed that cyclists can often get away with this — not only because we have the whole 'pants clips are annoying' excuse, but because we mostly have pretty awesome legs. However, one does feel just a little naked at first.

The FHPs are the kind of pants one buys intending only to wear them when traveling by bike — but soon one finds ones' self saying things like, "Oh, you know, I'm wearing these because I rode my bike to the mailbox this morning ... Oh, which mailbox? Um. The one on my front porch. I rode the bike down the driveway. It was lonely. What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Sadly, this means I can no longer make fun of Those-Kids-With-Their-Tight-Pants-And-Their-Hair, because I seem to have become That-Kid-With-The-Tight-Pants-And-The-Hair. I have been transformed from a humble, modest, loose-pants wearing guy into ... um ... a semi-humble, modest, tight-pants-wearing guy who gets weird looks in his boyfriend's dentist's waiting room.

I console myself with the thought that should I need, at any moment, to leap onto a bicycle and ride off to save the day*** — or, for that matter, find myself suddenly and unexpectedly drafted into the nearest corps-de-ballet as result of a massive male-ballet-dancer shortage**** — I am well-equipped when I'm wearing my FHPs.

Oh, and also with the knowledge that Canari makes liner chamois shorts, because riding more than 1.5 blocks in these things without a chamois is insane. The center seam is ... um ... sadistic.

*to other guys: YMMV if you purchase the same make and model; some of us need, um, more room for our, er, chamois — yeah, that's it! Chamois! That's the ticket! — than I do.

**True story: I danced ballet for several years as a kid, then pursued modern dance off and on through the end of high school, and used to like going to the ballet on a regular basis with my family. However, it has been a few years since I'd actually done so, and thus only noticed after I saw Billy Elliot with DD in Chicago that all male ballet dancers seem to have the same knees that I have. Rather, DD noticed, and then asked, "Are all male ballet dancers knock-kneed?" We then did our homework. The answer, pretty much, is yes. They also all seem to have the same freaking ginormous butt muscles as I do, which makes me feel a little less self-conscious about mine, all things considered.

***Hey, it could happen.

***Somehow, this seems bizarrely more likely than the other possibility, due to the relative rarity of male ballet dancers and the high likelihood that space aliens hoping to breed a master race might choose them out of the rest of the male populace based on their physical fitness. However, I fear I would be far more of a hindrance than a help, where actually dancing usefully is concerned. I am pretty sure, however, that the aliens***** in question would definitely throw me back.

*****No, I haven't been smokin' da ganja.


That's it for now.

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