My butt hasn’t quite forgiven me yet for the inaugural 30 mile ride the other day. While we’ve never been the closest of friends, my butt and I have largely shared a cordial relationship, with he doing the cushioning and the sitting, and I bravely contributing to, you know, clean-up. (It’s much like working at an assisted living facility, only my butt very rarely confuses me for his grandson.)
Lately, however, I can tell he’s still grumpy, sore even, that I didn’t ask for his permission for the last ride, and now we don’t talk as much. Still, seeing as how he’s the Australia of my body parts (that’s Down Under for butt), his accent was always pretty garbled, anyway. No big loss.
Lest you think I’m heartless (which is nowhere near my butt, no matter what the Insta-Princess insists when she’s angry at me), I did purchase a new bike seat for its comfort. It’s all sleek and gel-padded with grooves and stuff for my nether bits. It’s the Rolls Royce of seats for those of us who did two minutes of search on Amazon and said, “Hey, that looks kinda cheap–I’ll get that!”
The new seat should also help me go faster. (I don’t know if it does, but the seat looks cool, which is pretty much what any physicist worth his salt would insist is the primary ingredient needed for making things go fast.) Also, I slapped on a pair of new bar ends, which makes my bike look like it has devil horns. That’s me: riding through the suburban trail system, squashing bugs, scaring deer and looking like I’ve lashed myself to Pan.
My butt should be prouder than it is. My butt’s a spoiled lil’ ass.