From Central Park With Love

I’m turning into one of those guys. You know the type to which I’m referring. Granted, I don’t yet have the colorful $99 cycling-specific jersey, although I did invest almost $100 in a pair of those cycling sneakers that clip into the pedal.

Doing circles in Central Park, I began taking studious notes on the apparel and gear belonging to every rider who whipped past me (which basically includes everybody other than the grandmothers on the bright orange rental bikes) over the previous week. Myself, I have the helmet borrowed from Mr. Ken Picco (on loan until the one I ordered arrives some time this week, hopefully), the cycling gloves I fashioned from an old pair of motocross gloves by snipping off the fingers so that they’re now rapidly falling apart, and a few of those athletic shirts that seem to be all the rage. I don’t mean wife-beaters, but those relatively tight-fitting polyester-blend shirts. Know what I’m talking about? I hope so considering that’s about as much effort as I feel like putting into that particular description.

Otherwise, I have a saddlebag--a pleasant pouch that sits immediately under the excruciatingly painful seat--as well as an insulated bottle, both loaned to me by you-know-who, Mr. Kenny Picco.

(If anyone wants to write to Mr. Picco and express thanks considering how much equipment the guy has let me borrow, feel free to do so at kp229@aol.com.)

So what did I feel I was missing by watching all the other serious cyclists in the park? A few things, really. For starters, the most important piece of equipment I have on order is the biking shorts with the padded interior. These shorts, I consider them more of a necessity and less of a luxury. There’s a reason why every single cyclist in the world wears the padded shorts and it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with aesthetics or aerodynamics. Rather, it has everything to do with the guiche (pronounced gooch, or as my girlfriend would say, “Aww, does your goochie-woochie hurt?), also known as the ass-ball connector. Over the past five days, I’ve been out riding five times and each time, both my bangers and my guiche have screamed in agony almost every moment I’m in the saddle peddling and as a result, I spend half the time I’m in the park worrying over conditions such as (a) impotence, and (b) sperm count. Honestly, I could live with a low sperm count. Actually, I’d work harder on the bike to obtain a low sperm count, which is nothing short of an excuse to not have kids which is a feat I’m not too thrilled to accomplish anyway. Impotence, on the other hand, that frightens the hell out of me the same way it frightens the hell out of any man. Maybe I should be talking to my doctor about this, or maybe I should go out and splurge on a pair of cycling shorts until the mail order arrives.

Nah, that won’t happen.

Let’s move on. Friday afternoon I stopped in Conrad’s on 41st Street in Tudor City and spent almost $20 on glueless patches, a pair of tire levers, and a CO2 cartridge and head for inflating flat tires, all of which was a smart move considering I sprung my first flat later that evening while on the west side of the park. Smiling to myself for having the fantastic insight for picking up the necessary flat-fixing items earlier in the day, I pulled off, inverted the bike, and went to work.

My first impression of changing a flat on a road bicycle? It’s a hell of a lot easier than changing flats on a dirtbike. Still, I muffed it up when I failed to realize the valve at the end of the Presta stem needs to be open so that air may not only escape, but enter as well. Without that crucial piece of knowledge, I managed to frustrate the hell out of myself by trying to inflate and uninflatable tire considering the valve was closed.

What was the end result? I walked all the way from the vicinity of the West 80s to 78th on the East side. During the trip, I made sure to place a call to Mr. Ken Picco, to inform him that, “. . . I’m holding you personally responsible for this as we both know that whenever a cyclist suffers a flat, it’s your fault.”

Considering the mess with the CO2, I invested in a pump that fits nicely on the frame, as well as a new tube to replace the original with the puncture. After a long ride in the park yesterday, I stopped in the bike shop on 3rd Avenue and 79th to inquire about a pair of honest-to-god cycling shoes.

The salesman glanced down at my sneakers. “You’ve got some big dogs. Not sure if we’ll have anything in your size.”

Luckily, they did indeed have a pair of Specialized shoes size 48.

“They’re a bit tight,” I said, trying on both the right and the left, “but it’s not like I’m going to be doing a lot of walking in these babies.” Holding the black and silver shoes in my hands, I asked, “Let me guess. These are your most expensive pair, right?”

“Actually, they’re the least expensive.” He held out the side of the box. “$89.99.”

“Let’s do it.”

I’m now the proud owner of my first real pair of cycling shoes, and I can say they were well worth the money as I did three laps around the park this morning and loved the shoes. Unfortunately, I managed to tip over standing on the corner of Park Avenue and 79th Street this morning on my way to Central Park. Coming to a stop at a red light, I managed to unclip my left foot which I placed on the street. For whatever reason, I lost my balance and began tipping to the right and landed on my side.

It hurt the ego more than anything else.

I think that’s it. I think my boring update has reached an end. With luck, I’ll manage to avoid tipping over at red lights in the future. God forbid it happened at a crowded intersection surrounded by gorgeous women. I’m not sure if my self-esteem would ever recover from such an embarrassing debacle.