Sure, my crotch had been hating me for wearing running shorts while riding my new bike, but black spandex with a pink pad? Are you kidding me?

Pink padding on the inside of the shorts.

After listening to my complaints of agonizing rides, the bike shop tech handed me two sizes of the strangest-looking black spandex shorts I’ve ever seen. Neither looked big enough to house half of my butt, but I eased into the bathroom anyway, ready to be compressed into comfort.

As I flipped the shorts inside out to see what would protect my precious parts, the first thing that stood out was the bright pink maxi-pad-like insert in the crotch. I’d imagined black, gel-like material, but the pink stuff seemed to be cotton or other cloth and felt-lined. I flipped them right-side-out and wriggled into them.

The second surprise was the waistband, although its irregularity quickly made sense. The back of the shorts came up way higher than the front—by way higher, I mean up to my middle ribs, compared to waistline in the front. Common sense quickly decoded the strangeness, and I bent over in front of the mirror as though I were riding my bike. No skin exposure. So, no funny tan lines, no unexpected sunburns, and maybe a little less chance of drivers honking at me. (Why in the world do people honk and yell at exercisers, anyway? Has anyone ever met a significant other or good friend by blowing the horn at someone who’s in the midst of a workout?)

Higher in back than in front... no one will get mooned!

Fashion-wise, the shorts were atrocious. The larger size was worse, although it felt slightly more comfortable at the waist. The padded butt pooched out like a diaper. The smaller size didn’t pooch as much and fit me better in the thighs, and although I didn’t feel like I’d found a true winner, I chose the smaller shorts because I figured most of the apprehension I felt was due to complete inexperience with padded shorts.

Thank the bike gods for getting me over my fashion faux paus moment and pushing me to buy the $39.99 Trek shorts. The next ride (largely also due to my new bicycle seat) was not only tolerable, but actually fun. I spent 40 minutes on what were probably slightly underinflated tires for the sheer joy of riding. A little spandex (and padding) goes a long way, and when I headed for home but would have preferred riding longer, I knew the real reason people love to bike: it’s a fast, fun, and comfortable workout. Three cheers for weird shorts!

Tech Specs for Trek Women’s Club Short, as claimed on tag: flat seams; polyester spandex; quick dry; silicon at leg openings; non-stretch chamois (crotch area).

Last-minute fitting of my backpack before hopping into my loaded-down Civic for a drive to the beach for a 16-mile hike.

The typical Honda Civic seats five humans. Mine, however, seats one, or two if somebody doesn’t mind discomfort. It’s not that I don’t want friends riding with me– it’s just not possible with my active pack rat lifestyle. I’ll go space by space to explain (and this is just stuff that’s in there today, after a recent cleaning).

First, the front passenger seat. A bicycle helmet, a newly purchased pair of work shoes so my feet don’t hurt after long hours of exercise and walking hospital floors, an empty bottle of Naked Superfood Green Machine, and various receipts for athletic paraphernalia. Foot room? Uh-uh. On the floorboard is a bike pump, a water bottle, some dirty athletic socks, and a pair of running shoes. While we’re looking around up front, I should mention the console. The cup holder on the right has a gym membership card and a pack of gum (to avoid gym breath). The one on the left has registration information for a nearby 5K. Really, where would you sit?

To the back seat. From one end to the other, without 1/2 inch wiggle room, is most of my Novara bike. On the floorboards is its front wheel, plus two clean pairs of running socks, another empty water bottle, and a sweatshirt that should’ve been washed three workouts ago. Plus, there’s the general funk that comes with sporty things kept in a confined space.

I like to think of my car as a second home, or maybe a bit like a mobile storage shed for gear in case the urge to pull over and get active strikes. Have I killed my gas milage yet? Maybe, but you can bet I’ll be ready for any impromptu fitness gatherings in town.

Presta valve

I can easily lift the Novara with one hand. My beloved mountain bike, an old Diamondback Sorrento, can be picked up awkwardly and requires a grunt or two if lifted with one hand. I had a feeling from the first time I picked up the new bike and felt that it was no heavier than my beagle that I would be able to fly on it, and probably crash pretty bad, too. I thought about what my instructor said when I went through Emergency Medical Technician school (although he was referring to motorcyclists): “there are two kinds of bikers. Those who’ve crashed their bikes, and those who will.”

I like my teeth, and I’d rather not bust them out, so I put some serious thought into wearing a motorcycle helmet with a faceguard while riding the Novara, but decided that that was not only ridiculous, but impractical. I stuck with my years-old gray and black Giro that has seen me through zero crashes on my Rollerblades, Diamondback, and ancient Natas skateboard. If I crash the Novara, I’ll try to aim for the ground with something other than my mouth.

The first time I rode it, I felt like I needed my dad to firmly grip the back of the seat and safely guide me forward like he had when I rode the Schwinn I got for my 5th birthday. The forefoot straps on the Novara were intimidating even on the loosest setting, and I couldn’t figure out how to up-shift. After some awkward stopping, starting, and cursing, I got going pretty good. Stopping was scary, because I wasn’t used to the vertical brake position.

Then I discovered the real problem: hitting tiny bumps that I never knew existed in my neighborhood was like turning the Novara seat into a genital jackhammer. Holy hell. I tried standing on the pedals for relief, but that was hard unless I was going uphill. I took the pain and eked out 30 minutes of practice. The bike will definitely fly, but I’m not ready to lift off just yet. I have two missions before I ride it next anyway—figure out a solution to the crotch ramming, and buy a pump that will inflate what I think, thanks to that handy Internet research recommended by the salesman, are called Presta valves. My generic, standard pump is useless to the fancy valves on my new machine. I really wish the bike came with a manual.

Novara Carema

Road cycling is not a cheap and uncomplicated sport, and that has become even more apparent as my adventures have progressed from initial bicycle purchase through rides and upgrades. In a multi-part series, I’ll share the ups, downs, and everything in between about my initial affair with a road bike.

“Does this thing come with a book or a manual or something,” I asked, hoping the salesman had left the instructions for my new bike on his desk. He grinned and said, “Internet research is your best friend.”

In seconds, the front wheel was off the Novara, and the rest of the bike fit tightly across the back seat of my car. Seriously, no manual, and $4 extra for a water bottle cage? I remember buying my Diamondback mountain bike years ago from a different store, and it came with a manual, and not only a cage, but a handy bottle in the cage. I guess the economy’s putting the thumbscrews to the bicycle industry. I left feeling a bit like I might have just wasted a lot of money on a suicide machine. It wasn’t that the bike guy was bad—he just assumed that I knew at least the basics, and I don’t. I felt exhilarated and stupid, which provoked a random food craving. I drove to the nearest fast food Indian restaurant in town. Sadly, the vegetable korma and saffron rice weren’t what I’d hoped, and all I could really do was worry that someone was stealing my new bike as I downed a bowl of Veg-All soaked in fancy spices.

I wondered if I’d develop boney arms and big calves like I see on the Tour de France guys, and then I remembered that I haven’t developed eight-pack abs like I see on Olympic runners. I’m still not sure why when I start a new activity I compare my potential to the best of the best. I should have learned my lesson when I pitched college softball and walked in so many runs that the other teams started swinging at my wild pitches out of boredom or pity or both.

A five-hour drive back to my hometown afforded me with several rearview mirror shots of the bike, and I tried to see it for what I bought it for: a fun, new way to stay fit and active. By hour four of the drive, I wanted to ride the bike the rest of the way home. Thank God I didn’t.

FitChronicles.com is in its infancy, and to celebrate its birth, I’d like to share a quick slice of the day the site was conceived.

“Does it matter between these two?” I asked the REI salesman, as I pointed to two identically priced Novara road bikes. I was ashamed to say why I asked, but decided I should say whatever I wanted since I was about to spend September’s rent on a bicycle.

“No,” he said, and looked at me a little oddly, like maybe I just seemed like an athlete, and maybe I needed a remedial course with training wheels. I took a deep breath and admitted my reason.

“I like the yellow one. It’s prettier than the red one.”