Well, here I was after a good solid week in the sadle, ready to hit the trails… and ZOWIE did those inner theighs sting! ‘What’s up with that?’, I thought,‘I’v cycled far longer than this without any problem.’ So off I pedal into the Wilds of Mississippi, trying to ignore the ‘Hey, Buddy- nice sun burn’-SLAP! feeling every time I crank. I had been off the cycle for about a month… could my calouses have faded? No way, I hadn’t baithed that much. Humm… ok, keep cycling.
After about a 3/4mile of trails- mostly light to moderate climbing- I reach the over look and a gaggle of 9 cyclists- most of which I’v ran into before. They duetifly fawn over Medina, and one bloke takes it for a brief spin (previously, on my 2.1 wheel, he had tasted some light trails, and was left disinterested- but when he came back with Medina, there was a fire in his eye and a broad grin). The flock moved off to do a gully, and I sprinted up with the head of the pack- and pulled ahead as we began to climb. When I passed the lead cyclist, he got off his bike and began mubling about halucinations. The pack let me have the lead as we hit the flat stuff at the top of the gully, then over I went- and Medina wipped out her skills and left me proud and in sadle at the bottom. It’s all down hill from there, and as the cyclists become hoots in the distance, I begin the trek down alone. Which gave me plenty of solitude to think about,
Why was I hesitating to hop? Ahhh, that lovely, excruciatingly searing pain. Something was very, very wrong. I put my hand along where my inner theigh contacts the seat- and flet a sharp, protruding edge.
My first Viscount sadle took alot of abuse, and the bumpers came off the first week- and stayed off. And a good thing that they did. ‘How could I have developed affection for this sadle?’, I asked myself. Something is different in the padding of the new one, too, that turns the seat into a fruit reemer for the prostate. Maybe it just needs to be broken in…with a hammer. One thing to be sure of, loyal reader:
LOOSE THE FRONT BUMPER ON YOUR VISCOUNT, IT IS NOT YOUR FRIEND. IT IS A TOOL OF THE DEVIL, A RENDER OF FLESH, A GNASHER OF TEETH THAT WILL MAKE YOU WEEP WITH SOMETHING OTHER THAN JOY OR TEARS- AND WANTS NOTHING MORE THAN TO MAKE SASHIMI OF YOUR TENDER FLESH, LIKE SO MUCH SLICED GINGER.