ttmffttm 5

It was one of those things that my father failed to tell me about like keeping abreast of the changes in rail franchises.

My father as a young man was a keen cyclist, the sort of cyclist who would heave his ungeared bicycle up hills by dint of thew, or failing that, by walking. There are photo's of him dressed in long loose shorts, sensible shoes and socks and short-sleeved shirts, usually staring quizzically at a map, hair windblown and unkempt, occasionally a pipe will be clamped in his jaw, though how you cycle with a pipe without a; blinding yourself, or b; setting yourself on fire, is beyond me. Behind him, out of focus, will be other young men, similarly dressed, standing astride their bikes, arms akimbo. It seems that it was always my father's lot to find the route, guide the path of others, direct traffic, ironic that he himself rarely strayed from the beaten path of "should", "duty" and the "stiff upper lip".
It was my father who taught me how to cycle, the usual round of running behind a low bike holding onto the saddle, 'til, one day, the mantra of "keep pedalling", usually close to my ear, fades, becomes distant, becomes suspiciously distant! I turn, legs still flailing, to see - no one, the vast ocean of my confidence and competence becomes a Sahara of insecurity, the wobble sets in, a random harmonic of involuntary steering. I still have a scar from that bike.

It's hot, so I opted for cycling shorts. Now while I am usually a fan of wearing underwear, I believe that under cycling shorts it's counter productive, something to do with all that rubbing, heat and extra seams. So I sorted myself out a nice pair of briefs to add to the trousers already in the pannier. Therefore imagine my surprise, when, upon investigation, they were nowhere to be seen. Consequently I am writing this commando style.

Moral: whilst you may think you have packed your underpants, always double check, a few seconds now may save a lifetime of chafing later.