We Could Have A Problem Here...

So, you may have gathered from this blog that I enjoy riding my bicycle.  So much so that whenever I am getting ready to leave the house Kiki guesses either "Dada Bike?" or "Dada Work?" with pretty much even odds.  


But I always figured my biking was, as far as obsessive compulsions go, not too bad.  I mean, I get some exercise, get out in the fresh air, and relieve stress, seemed like a win win, but well, recently something happened that is making me rethink how harmless it all is.  


First let me provide a little background for those of you who don't ride.  Now, you probably know that most cyclists wear padded shorts when they ride, to protect their nether regions.  But you may not have known that some of us who get really into it discover that the shorts aren't that great, and turn to bibs.  Bibs are, well, they're a lot like a wrestling singlet, but, if possible, even creepier.  Let me illustrate:


A wrestling singlet:

Which for some reason I keep mistyping as "sniglet".  Just seems better to me I guess.  Anyway, for comparison, here are cycling bibs:

They're like a skimpier sniglet.  With a padded ass.  And yes, you have to strike such awesome poses when you wear them.  Oh, and for the women (and perverts), don't think you're left out:

Something about that photo just totally creeps me out.  Anyway, back to our problem.  See, Kiki grabbed a pair of my wife's underwear out of the clean laundry and pulled them on.  Harmless enough, and maybe even a good sign that our potty training efforts are gaining traction.  

But then she proceeded to pull the waistband up over her shoulders, like suspenders, and run around saying "Kiki bike!  Kiki bike!".  Needless to say my wife was concerned.  Needless to say I've never been prouder of my little girl.  

Bibs

Ah, cycling bibs, one of the best litmus tests of how far your cycling addiction has progressed.  You start off just wearing normal 'gym' clothes, because, hey, WTF, I don't need no stinkin' new clothes, ya jamoke (for purposes of this discussion you are a Jersey guido).  Then, once your ass becomes a wasteland of soreness you either
A) scale back cycling, since it's for queers anyway or
B) buy some cycling shorts, most likely the cheapest pair available from Performance or Nashbar.
These suffice for about, oh, 32 minutes until you realize they are made from a combination of steel wool and hay, held together with staples and a chamois made, apparently, from old Juicyfruit scraped from the bottom of the factory breakroom table.  So you decide to upgrade, once again, and you figure, what the hell, I already look like a freak, my family is embarassed to be seen with me in public, why not go all in and wear a 1930's bathing suit as well.  So you buy some bibs.  Maybe you've learned your lesson (or at least your taint did) and you buy a pair of Pearl Izumi's from your LBS.  And for many this is the pinnacle of their cycling trouser evolution.  But some of us go farther yet, exploring the upper regions of the cost spectrum, shelling out hundreds of dollars, our spleen and a child to be named later for a pair of Assos, which according to their reviews in Bicycling will make you faster, skinnier, more attractive and, for some unknown reason, able to paint amazing watercolors of tulips.  Eventually, with lots of pain, suffering, monetary outlay, and a bit of luck you find a pair of bibs that is comfortable, moderately affordable, and doesn't make you look like a total freak.  Alright, they all make you look like a total freak.