T+160: In Spandex We Truss

NOTE:  Now that the tour journal telling the story of our cross-continent ride is complete, I have been thinking about how the blog goes forward.  We will add a few more posts wrapping up the last days of the "Exploratorium," as we prepared to return to our cabin in Wyoming.  This will encompass our travels in Maine, Massachusetts, and Seneca Falls, NY.  I am also planning on adding a few "Rants, Ruminations, and Reminiscences" about some of the on-going issues, through-lines, and bigger themes of our journey.

We are now making plans to return to Detroit next week.  There we plan to continue  our explorations by bike--this time, in and around our amazing city.  Plus--- we are in the beginning stages of scheming up our next adventure, which we are not quite ready to announce.  Stay tuned! 

Long story short: The journey to discover who and where we are is not complete. (Is it ever?) We are going to keep exploring and writing about our explorations.  We hope you will continue reading.   And yes, to the many of you who have suggested that this blog become the basis of a book.  This has been my plan and hope from the beginning.  If you have suggestions for publishers and editors, I would greatly appreciate your suggestions.
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Reminiscence 1:  Somewhere in the middle of North Dakota, I realized that long-distance bicycle riding all day, every day, is an unnatural act.  Up to that point, I held out hope  I would find a way to be comfortable on the bike. 

I had sought the Holy Grail of comfortable bike shorts.  I had adjusted my seat up and down, back and forth.  I moved my handlebars this way and that.  I had changed my bike gloves.  I tried adding padding, cutting away padding, I wore extra bike shorts.  I wore bike shorts with underwear and without.   I cut pats of moleskin and affixed them to various intimate and not so intimate body parts.

And yet…

I was often miserable and sometimes in real pain. 

When I began the bike trip, I was very overweight.  While I certainly carried (carry) excess weight all over my body, there is no doubt that much of that excess was in my butt, upper thighs, and belly.  That means a lot of flesh in constant motion while on the bike.  Where there is motion, there is chafing.  Where there is chafing, there are sores and abrasions. 

I had sores on my butt where the saddle and the bicycle short met.  I had terrible, swollen abrasions on my “ladyparts”.  I could get sweat burns on my thighs and under my gut.   Not a pretty picture, nor I assure you, a pleasant feeling.

As we went along, I got stronger and slimmer.  My legs, my breath, and my stamina got better and better.  I had the strength and endurance to do the daily ride.  It was just the constant problem with my netherparts that was holding me back.

I am an inveterate tinkerer.  “Almost” drives me crazy.  If something is working pretty well, I will mess with it, and mess with it, until I have either made it better or totally screwed it up.  If the latter happens, it just spurs more “dink, dink, dink” as Wes calls it.   I always think I can figure everything out.  This is equal parts blessing and curse.  When the washing machine drains and fills slowly, I will take apart the hose and drain until I find the blockage.  When Wes’ gear shift slips, I will take it apart and put it together until he can’t stand it anymore and tapes it place  (where it did work much better.)

So it was a real crisis of conscience when I realized I could not solve this problem.  No matter how many minute adjustments I made—no matter how many types of bicycle shorts I tried, I couldn’t fix this problem.  All I could do was mitigate the damage and manage the pain.

Thus began a different kind of problem solving that when it reached its zenith, resulted in a full 30 minute dressing ceremony that began each biking day.  The individual pieces of clothing, the specific order in which they had to be donned, along with the application of various powders, painkillers, and emollients would rival the complexity of dressing a 17^th century geisha.

By this time we got to the New York and were riding in cool weather, this is what my dressing routine looked like:

1^st layer:

·       Full length sports bra with Gold Bond medicated powder under the breasts and underarms

·       Bicycle shorts* with extra strength Anbesol gel** applied to my genital area, Gold Bond powder in the front of the shorts, chamois butter or glide at various abrasion points

·       Compression knee socks to keep my feet and legs from swelling

·       An ankle brace to keep my rotten right ankle from bowing out while riding

2^nd layer

·       Bicycle jersey

·       Knee warmers

·       Arm warmers which went down to my hands and had a hole cut for my thumb

3^rd layer

·       Wool socks

·       Nylon sports pants that could be worn as knickers or full length

·       Fleece or warmth layer

4^th Layer

·       Nylon sports shirt with numerous pockets containing Anbesol, gum, tissues, lip gloss, phone, and sun screen or bug spray, as appropriate.

·       Leather bicycle gloves

·       Nylon over-gloves with electro-sensitive index fingers and thumbs

·       Baseball cap

Out the door

·       Bike helmet  (despite the nerd factor, I wouldn’t be caught without one—a close encounter with a stone fence during our bicycle tour of England convinced me of that)

·       Wind and water resistant parka

 

·       Sunglasses

In my saddle bag, within easy access:

·       Small bottle of powder

·       Chamois butter or glide

·       Moleskin and scissors

·       Ibuprofen

·       Aspercreme

Basically, underneath my sports clothes, every part of my body was being compressed and held warm by spandex.  The knee and arm warmers could be adjusted for heat or cold without the necessity of undressing.    It always gave me a bit of laugh when the bike snobs looked disapprovingly at our camper shirts and sports pants.  Underneath that shell, I was completely encased in bike gear.

Wes didn’t need or want to go through all that preparation.  He has what is known in his family as the “May Butt”—a flat, narrow butt, often connected to fairly skinny legs.  He didn’t have nearly the abrasion problems that I had.  But even so, even with his bicycle shorts and underwear, he still suffered from what he called “40 Mile Butt.”  After being on the bike for hours and miles, it is hard to be comfortable.  He would begin gyrating on his seat, sitting this way and that, standing for a while, moving left or right on his hips, just to allay the ever increasing discomfort.

We don’t know how people like long distance biker Andrew can ride for 200 miles in a single shot, although we guess there are three factors at work.   These kind of bikers are usually whippet thin—there just isn’t much flesh to rub.  Second, they probably have invested in really high quality bicycle shorts, a lesson I learned the hard way on this trip.  (See attached note on bicycle shorts.)  Third, long distance anything: runners, cyclists, rowers (whatever) probably have a highly developed capacity to ignore pain.  I remember hearing the story of a woman who often runs hundreds of miles at a time.  She said, “Let me tell you about all the different types of pain I have experienced.”  Maybe some even enjoy the pain.

I am not enough of a masochist to enjoy the pain, but I did learn that I didn’t have to let the pain control me.  It was liberating to realize I couldn’t fix the problem, but I could fix my reaction to the problem.  I easily could have let the pain ruin my trip.  Once I decided that it was irresolvable and it wasn’t going to stop me, I was much happier and had more fun.   Yet another discovery of the obvious.

*A Note about bicycle shorts:  In the course of this trip, I tried numerous pairs of bike shorts.  I bought shorts in Detroit, in Anacortes, WA, in Whitefish, MT, in Fargo, ND, and in Port Dover, ONT.   I cheaped out on the first pairs: the padding was not anatomical at all and rubbed me raw. I ended up sewing in extra padding before I threw them away.  The next purchase was long leg Pearl Izumis, which worked pretty well, but the foam padding held the moisture.  As I got in better and better shape, I discovered that I am “sweat-hog” like my brothers.  At the end of the day, I felt like I was wearing a wet diaper.   This was especially the case as I lost weight.  Loose, wet bicycle shorts are an anathema.  In Canada, after complaining to the bike shop owner, he steered me to pair of bike shorts from Sugoi (of Canada) that cost well more than $100, fit incredibly tight, and had varied and anatomically specific padding.   Matched with bike glide gel, and when I couldn’t find that any more, chamois butter, rubbed on the abrasion points, I was as comfortable as I had ever been on a bike.    Not pain free, of course--see the note on Anbesol.

**A Note about Anbesol:  When I spoke to the helpful female bike shop clerk in Anacortes, Washington about my saddle and butt difficulties, she led me to the anatomically cut Pearl Izumi shorts.  She also told me that many women riders use topical pain killers.  I was shocked.  However, I had a “come to Jesus” moment when we riding through a beautiful estuary not too far from Anacortes.  I was in such pain and no combination of shorts, padding, or whatever was helping.  I could not enjoy the beauty all around me. 

I had to do something to “STOP THE PAIN.” I thought and thought about what could do this safely.  I realized that the painkiller I had used for toothache would work and be safe for this purpose as well.  The benzocaine in the compound would numb the active and painful abrasions.  If I could prevent further damage and not suffer from the damage already present, I would be all right.  It did work.  I tried a few formulations, and found the highest strength gel was the most effective and least messy.  I would re-apply the gel regularly throughout the day. I am sure passing motorists were wondering what I was doing down my pants, but oh, well.  Let them wonder.  At least I wasn’t in active pain all day.   I could be present to the world I was traversing, which was, after all, the point of the trip.

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Posted from Centennial, Wyoming