Local folk punk band Attica! Attica! is hitting the road for an East Coast tour via bicycle. This is the first entry in the band’s diary that will run on LocalCut for the next few weeks.

I tried on spandex today for the first time in my life. To admit that is to embrace the fact that I have publicly and loudly ridiculed this fabric for over two decades without the slightest inkling of what it feels like or what it can do. This led me to wonder how many other things I have derided throughout life without even a basic understanding of the experience they provide. Doing a keg stand? Getting a perm? Owning a Hummer? Certainly these are easy targets, but perhaps, if given a chance, they would be gamechangers for me. Then again, given how unpleasant the spandex felt against my skin, maybe not.

Bike Tour starts in a week. I get on a plane in two days. Blake said we’re going to be biking for 2,000 miles, and I believe him because he’s done this before and I haven’t. Bike Tour has provided me an unearned dominance of all backyard BBQ conversations. When people offer me their awe, I am quick to point out that the only thing I’ve done so far is plan something far too ambitious for my puny legs. We’re bringing our guitars and playing acoustic shows along the way, and even though I’m not the first to do this kind of touring, that doesn’t make it any less crazy. But that’s the whole point—it’s not crazy, it’s a viable alternative to touring in a van. Or is it? I can’t shake the feeling that our message will be heavily compromised if we can’t pull it off. If our bodies won’t hold up. If our minds grow weary. If we run out of money. (Did I mention we’re giving all the money from the shows to charity? We are. More crazy.)

Oh yeah, the spandex. I was shopping for bike shorts with TJ. The shorts are spandex, but with significant padding added. It’s hard to describe with discretion exactly what part of the body the padding targets, so let’s call it, “the undercarriage.” Numerous friends have told me that I need these shorts. When I started talking about bike tour, the universally offered advice was, “Take care of your butt. Beware the multiple ailments that await the buffoon who does not heed this warning.” Pain. Saddles sores. More pain. Bigger sores. And so on. The most popular remedy for this is a combination of padded shorts and chamois cream. Chamois cream? I still don’t know how to pronounce it. One friend referred to this as “butt butter.” I’m not necessarily looking forward to buttering my posterior and then sliding into a pair of spandex shorts every morning, but perhaps it will be delightful. Perhaps not.

When I pulled the tight black shorts up over my thighs, it was quite like an exhilarating secret agent montage where the full force of my unit’s research and ingenuity has manifested in a handful of kickass gadgetry and hyper-intelligent clothing. This exhilaration was coupled with the despair of a science fiction character who has finally accepted his newly evolved alien appendage as a part of everyday life. Prolonged exposure to the alien spandex species has resulted in the unfortunate convergence of human flesh and stretchy fabric. I am both a biological wonder and a social pariah.

There are other things I need to acquire. Moisture wicking shirts, waterproof socks, a brighter tail light, water bottles, a sleeping pad, a front rack, panniers, a new right knee, sunscreen. I wandered around the bike shop, realizing how thoroughly unprepared I am for the journey. There is mild liberation in such unpreparedness. There is also tangible and justifiable panic. I welcome both.

I bought a new bike for this trip. It’s a purchase that has percolated for years and Bike Tour was the perfect excuse. The first day I rode it, several people, including strangers, paid me undeserved compliments. I thanked them and got a little prideful of my purchase. It all feels a bit mid-life crisis-y. I turn 31 in a few days. Are the two connected? No. But…yes.

When asked why I’m doing Bike Tour, I have all the answers. Advocating for cycling. Raising money for World Bicycle Relief*. Promoting alternatives to the music touring status quo. Playing music. Meeting people. But when I ask myself, I’m not entirely sure. The deeper reason is a bit elusive. Why is it that, when Jon and I were eating lunch at a diner in Chicago and he told me about this idea, I said, “That sounds perfect”? I’ve grown tired of conventional van touring, to the point that I’ve only done a couple tours in the past two years. I’m definitely looking for something new, but I can’t tell if I’m simply looking for newness, or if I’m looking for a qualified newness—a newness that really hits the spot. Maybe I won’t know until I’m on my bike in Georgia, seven weeks in, soaked by the rain, either miserable or ecstatic.

But to get there, I must finish my preparations. If there exists a linear spectrum of cycling fashion between the hipsters and the gearheads, I suppose I languish dispassionately in the middle. Even when on a bike, I dress the same way I dressed when I was 18, the last time I cared deeply about crafting a “look” for myself. Suddenly, I am in a situation where there is a functional imperative for getting geared out. I must submit myself to the reality that the most appropriate clothing for this venture will shift me dramatically to one end of the spectrum. I don’t love this idea because, thus far, I don’t love spandex. As I stepped out of the dressing room for TJ to give me the thumbs up or thumbs down, I felt a bit like a pouty prince, shopping at the finest velocouture boutique in the city, begrudgingly selecting my new riding pants. My personal attendant gives the thumbs up. The tailor smiles. I frown.

Last July, I sat on a bench on the Brooklyn Bridge with Adrian and watched the buildings of downtown Manhattan slowly begin to blaze with a brilliant orange reflection of the rising sun. I usually feel mildly remorseful when I’ve stayed up all night, but the intensity of this moment was thoroughly vindicating. At that moment, several men, dressed in only spandex and helmets, rode past us on bikes and happily bade us good morning. I instantly resented them. In my bleary, partied-out haze, I could not digest the possibility that the rest of the world was starting their Saturday morning. Despite significant indications to the contrary, it was definitely still my Friday night. No man in stretchy fabric could convince me otherwise, no matter how overly cheerful his delivery.

A year later, I am about to be that man. I will shed my Friday night skin and feel the taut, tender newness of my Saturday morning persona. I will wake early. I will be cheerful. I will ride across bridges, and I will greet the all-night revelers with a happy, “Good morning.” I will don the mantle of greatness worn by the heroes of my childhood. Lemond. Flo-Jo. Jake “The Snake” Roberts. As did they, so too, will I. I will become the Spandex Prince.

World Bicycle Relief provides bicycles to disaster-stricken areas of the world. To learn more, please visit WorldBicycleRelief.org. To make a donation to team Ditch The Van, go here: Ditch The Van Team Donation Page

Links:
Attica! Attica!

Photo courtesy of Aaron Scott

Related posts:

1. Attica! Attica! Bike Tour: The Circus Comes To Town/God Drives a Buick (New England) Remember,
2. Attica! Attica! Bike Tour: All I Wanted Was Dry Clothes and Hot Tea (Louisville, KY to West Sutton, MA) I woke up
3. Catherine Feeny: Why Does This No Longer Seem Like Easy Money? (Portland) We are so
4. Catherine Feeny: House Shows or Club Shows—Which Are Better? (Tempe, AZ to Denver, CO) We are rus
5. Catherine Feeny: Humboldt Highs, Eugene Lows (Chico, CA) Happy Mond

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.