Bicycle Rides and Painful Lady Parts

{I fooled you, didn't I? You thought this was ME on the bicycle. Silly goose. Although she is a dead ringer for me, I could never ride with only one hand. And I tried to wear shorts, but I thought it would be best to put on my capris because of wind and indecent exposure issues. And I have PINK, not GREY Uggs. Tsk, tsk. Onto my story~~}

We just returned from a bike ride. It is a beautiful day; it made sense.

I had gone out and did an approximate 2.25 shuffle around our neighborhood earlier today. Although I was able to check off my daily exercise contribution, Chris reminded me of our desire to be a more active couple.

I had not been a bike for about 25 years. And hot damn, what d'ya know? The saying WAS true! It came back to me quickly and I wobbled down the street.

I made it halfway to our new lot (about .25 mile) when I realized this just wasn't going to happen. At least, not with the seat I was currently using.

"Chris! It hurts," I cried. "I can't do it."

"Yes, you can. Your butt just has to get used to the seat."

"I want your seat," I said as I pointed to his padded contraption. He was busy adjusting my seat to a higher (and more comfortable, he claimed) position.

He sighed and took the padded cover off of his seat and put it on mine.

We weren't even a block away from home.

The padding helped a little bit. I personally feel as if I have as much padding as should be necessary, a la "junk in the trunk," but apparently this isn't so. The bicycle seat cut right up through the junk and invaded my lady parts, and not pleasantly so.

We cut through a trail on our new property that various children/teenagers have burned through over the years to get to a bike path directly behind our new house. The trail was rugged, might I add?

I bounced and cried out in pain as I wobbled off of the trail momentarily. My heart lurched as I tore through a small shrub that could have been poison ivy. I've never been able to discern poison ivy, although I studied it online at various points in my life when I had reason to be concerned.

What I DID know was that there are snakes in these here parts, and I wasn't keen on startling one. I peddled faster to get out off of the trail.

Dead palm branches and twigs smacked me in the face as I bounced out onto the bike path. "Seriously, Chris. I don't know if I can do this, " I said pitifully.

I knew that our destination was a newly constructed house with a similar floorplan to ours, and I knew that this was located another mile or so south. My ass was already on fire and I was **this close** to tears. Exaggeration? No.

I followed along behind him, trying different positions. A new position would momentarily make my backside feel a twinge better, but something would shortly begin to sting. Shift. My va-jayjay fell asleep. Shift again. Now THAT position was just WRONG. My 14-year-old son's "soul would die a little bit" (as he likes to say) if he knew what I was doing to his bicycle seat.

"Isn't this great," Chris asked happily. I didn't respond, but glared at glare on the back of his bald head and wished bad things for him at that moment.

We arrived at the house and I immediately got off of the bike. We looked in windows and peered in doors to get a lookey-loo at what our house was going to look like with different exterior, interior fixtures and location.

We have been staring at a mere floorplan for months and while some people can "visualize" the end result from a drawing, I cannot. People who are able to do so are are gifted in such a way that makes them useful in interesting occupations such as engineering, interior designering and architecture. I chose to go into journalism for different reasons, such as the diminuitive math requirement.

After we spent some moments at the house, we resumed the ride home.

I didn't think, as I crawled back on the bicycle, that I was going to make it. We took a different way and stopped to gaze out at the canal for a while. The water was peaceful, if not murky and full of algae, but the trees and the blue sky were welcome reliefs to the tedium of the bicycle ride.

"Will you buy me a new seat," I asked.

"Yeah, sure. We'll find you a seat."

"They're called Hobson seats, you know. I know that because a friend of mine with the last name "Hobson" bought a Hobson Seat," I informed him. She shared the delightful irony with me years and years ago. I still remember the conversation.

I shifted, cried and complained much of the way home.

I don't think Chris will ask me to accompany him on any more bicycle rides with him in the future.

At least, not until a new seat is purchased for me that will not cause my girl bits to fall asleep, scream or sob in protest.