Commitment, or "Follicle Tectonics and You"

There are lots of reasons cyclists shave their legs. Not one of them was good enough on its own for me to actually do it.

Keep in mind that while I've still got hair on top, it has been thinning out and showing up en masse on other parts of my body over the last couple years in some weird southerly migration. When I was in junior high, I prayed for body hair so that the other guys in gym class wouldn't make fun of me. Now who's laughin', assholes? That prayer was answered, albeit late, seeing as I now have to go to the barber not just for a haircut, but in order to hear and breathe.

I took Spodiodi out for a nice long spin a few days ago, we had one of those days that you're supposed to have in late March. The sun looked down from a cloudless sky, it's warmth lazily arm wrestling with the cool headwind. I was just this side of breaking a sweat, I mean I was really trucking along. My one cigarette a day allowance was cut off about three weeks ago, and the ol' lungs were noticeably stronger. I thought I must've been going about 20 or 22 mph, and maintaining it. I looked down at the speedometer. It said 14.

“Oh, Kiss. My. Ass. 14? Are you kidding me?”

Rolling up to the coffee shop I had to circle around a little to find a spot to lock up. Evidently everyone else in the neighborhood had the same idea I did. Here is where I really stand out; all the cyclists at this particular coffee shop are riding the newest machines from companies that I can hardly pronounce in colors I wouldn't be caught dead on. Each rider is freshly shorn and looking fabulous in their race kits.

Then there's me in a get up I cobbled together about 4 or 5 years ago through a sale on a cycling website that doesn't exist anymore. By appearance alone, I hardly belong on a carbon fiber bike. Looking like a drunk man trying to navigate an icy street, I made my way along the tile floor of the shop and tried to look inconspicuous in light of the “skrik-skrik-skrik” sound bike shoes make when you walk indoors. I ordered my latte and began facing all the bills the same way before tucking them back into my sweat dampened jersey pocket. With both hands fumbling behind my back I noticed several little black chest hairs corkscrewing this way and that through the fabric. Further down, a shag rug surrounding each leg. This looks pathetic or awful, I can't decide which.

“Ok”, I thought aloud. “I give. I'll do it.”

I picked up all the necessary accoutrements on the way home. The bottle of Jameson I already had. Coupla things here: don't get Nair on the twig OR the giggleberries. Don't get the razor on them either. In fact, just let that hair be.

Mine have to be the ugliest legs in creation. They're thin and lean; imagine pale white strips of beef jerky at the gas station check outs and you've got a good image. And with a big hunk of gristle in the middle. That would be my knees. I can remember how I got each ding and scar. My favorites are the one from ACL replacement surgery, that 6 hour day at Deer Creek, and the first day I rode with SPD pedals and fell off the side of a 5 foot log pile at Lewis and Clark. 14 punctures from the big ring. I can still count 5. And there's a brand new one as of Saturday's mountain bike ride, four chain ring gouges on my left calf. Got those when I was about 3 miles from the parking lot when a storm rolled in. For a minute it was nice, listening to the peepers sing in the rain. Then a sound that turns my stomach and chills my blood at the same time interrupted the zen. A sound that strikes fear in the heart of any midwesterner.

That siren went off and images of every close call storm I've been in since I was 5 years old rushed through my helmet. Add to that the fact that nobody knows I'm here, and I'm the last guy on the trail. Needless to say I hauled ass outta there. No idea how quick since I don't have a speedometer on the mountie, but it was fast enough that I wasn't able to handle some of the obstacles like I normally do. Getting sloppy in the turns isn't smart even when it's dry. I ended up ass over teakettle and landed pretty hard at the base of a tree. I'm still moving slow from that one, but since the manscaping had been done the day prior, cleanup was no sweat.

In my experience, here's what you need to know:

Shaving your legs doesn't make you go any faster. Tornado sirens do.

Shaving your legs does save you from social cycling circle ostracism.

Shaving your legs does help keep your legs cooler.

Shaving your legs makes cleaning wounds much easier. (this one makes sense to me)

Plus I hear women dig it. I'll have to experiment with that one and get back to you.