Dromedary Podiatrist

WANTED: Dromedary Podiatrist to examine, treat and cure a problem of the most delicate nature.
For the first three thousand miles of my greenpea bicycling life, I wore shorts and a T shirt on my rides. As I was dressed in civilian clothes and not in "road nazi" uniform, I wore under my shorts the appropriate under garments: bebbadees. For those of you not versed in the local vernacular, BVDs. For those of you in the military: briefs, cotton, white.
As my mileage and time in the saddle grew, so did something else. Actually fester is the word I'm looking for. No, I didn't grow an uncle Fester, I raised a saddle sore. My own little saddle sore. How cute! Does it talk or do tricks?
I began to seriously contemplate bicycling shorts. I spent months of laborious research on the internet, reading everything I could about shorts, bibs and chamois. What I didn't get was the expense. How could I justify spending eighty plus dollars on a pair of shorts? A pair of shorts that I could only use while bicycling no less. To make a long story even longer, I succumbed to the wisdom and intermittent pain and bought a pair.
Holy Mother of the Bicycling Gods! My life had been changed forever! Forever! I tell you!
I felt like a kid with a new pair of skates. Everywhere I pedaled, I marveled at my new found comfort and sleekness. This, I was sure is what bicycling is all about. Oh, the joy of feeling the wind on my legs and no pressure on my derrier! Then the sickness reared it's ugly head.
If shorts made such a huge difference, what would a real life honest to goodness bicycling jersey be like? I had read about the moisture wicking coolness and comfort. Was cycling nirvana just a shirt change away? Armed with my trusty laptop, I clicked on that evil nestled within the favorites section of my web browser. Oh my! Jersey heaven!
When the tyvek package arrived in the mail, I eageraly opened it up to inspect the last piece of the puzzle. Oh! So smooth, so soft, so shiny. Mmmmmmmmm
Yes, I was now a true card carrying cyclist. No more would any mere mortal dare doubt my abilities. Being larger than life, I put another ten pounds in my tires.
There I was happily pedaling, no, hammering along, completely absorbed with myself and my raging ego. Whew, all this mashing sure does work up a sweat. Luckily my jersey and shorts wick the foul moisture away. Ah, but I can still admire my glistening arms and legs. I stopped at my regular watering hole to cool off.
I dismount my ride, step onto the sidewalk and stop dead in my exaggerated gait. I can see my reflection in the glass door. I stop to gloat.
What stares back at me is a finely tuned pedaling machine.
With camel toe.