Spandex

"When you are a man, sometimes you wear stretchy pants, in your room, for fun." -- Nacho Libre

Having logged over 10,000 miles on my road bike and a couple of thousand on a mountain bike, I have been known to don stretchy pants in public. I choose to wear brightly colored cycling clothes -- for safety in visibility and for comfort while riding, and I have a rule, the socks, shorts, and jersey must coordinate; otherwise, why ride?

On one occasion, Peggy and I were headed to an early morning ride in Bastrop, Texas, a small town about 45 miles southeast of Austin. We were joining friends for a 50-mile jaunt through the hilly, pine forest and the flats along a meandering river in Bastrop County. At about 15 minutes into the drive, we reached Elgin, Texas, and stopped at the McDonald's for cups of coffee. The place was a-buzz with locals having their breakfast. I decided to wait in the truck, while Peggy got the coffee. On second thought, Peggy asked me to go inside with her, since she did not want to be the only one in the restaurant in cycling clothes. I relented and went inside to stand in a long line to place our order. Peggy immediately went to the ladies' room, leaving me alone, in rural Texas, in cycling clothes.

As I stood there in my Credit Suisse riding kit -- red and white jersey, red spandex shorts, and matching socks -- I felt a stare caressing my outfit. A moment later I heard a feminine giggle, followed by a second female voice, saying, "everything is so tight!"

My ego was about to burst. I was proud of my conditioning. I had rock hard thighs and buns of steel. The many miles on road and trail had been good for me. Just for fun, I did what had to be done. I flexed my cheeks, not once but twice. I relished the anticipated "oooh". I was making spandex look good.

Before another comment could be made, I whirled on the heels of my silver cycling shoes to meet my admirers face-to-face. To my surprise, two couples in their seventies were seated at a table, having breakfast. The women folk were the ones enjoying the view, while their husbands pretended not to notice. I was already committed, so I strode toward them and said, "I heard your comments and thought you might like to know why everything is so tight." The women pretended to care about my cycling patter, and I could not help but notice that they were still enjoying the view.

The first to speak after my opening remarks was one of the men. He was chewing on a toothpick that he had pulled from the front of his bib overalls. In the slow, honest drawl, made famous by Texans, he said, "You ain't from around here, are ya?"