That whole post about bicycle jerseys and getting all dressed up in spandex and stuff stirred up some other thoughts totally unrelated to cycling, but that's not what this is about.
If you've been reading along about my cycling exploits, you know what a pain it is for me to get out the door with bicycle in tow.
Once I'm out there though, everything is pretty copacetic. I find I actually like the torture one endures when riding hard. While I don't look forward to it, I don't shy away from it either.
I thought about what I go through to actually go out and ride and why.
I mean you gotta get all dressed up sissy like, then you gotta put on these shoes that you can't really walk in, then you have to strap something to your head as a reminder of something bad happening.
Well, a couple of months ago, I realized what it all means.
I am getting dressed up to go out and play.
Just like small kid time, when I bugged my mom to buy me that cowboy stuff, or begged my uncle to give me his old fatigues so I could play army, I put on my bicycle shorts and jersey so I can go out and play bicyclist.
Every time I go out on my bike, I'm playing out some kind of sick masochistic fantasy.
Okay, not really.
Well, maybe. Why else would I go out and inflict such pain upon myself?
I mean it's not like I sit around at home watching Law & Order while sticking myself with needles. Well actually, I do sit around and let other people poke me with needles but that's beside the point.
Once I don those padded shorts and moisture wicking tops, I become someone else.
Sort of my secret identity since no one I work with knows about my sordid hobby.
Well, one of my co-workers lives near me and saw me wheezing across the bridge near Mokapu one day, but no one else knows of my clandestine preoccupation.
This strange effect also takes place when I dress for work or dress to go out. I actually walk, talk, and act differently.
I turn into Professionalman. Or something.
Wait. I don't put on all my bicycle crap when I take out the Beach Bike.
So what does that make me? Just some old dude going to the store to buy cheese rolls I guess.
All the different mannerisms that can be attributed to the clothing I wear is kinda making me worried.
Just who am I?
Despite all the different kinds of clothes I wear, perhaps it comes down to this:
I'm just a poseur.