One of the worst parts of being a fat cyclist is the clothes.
They are tight for “aerodynamics,” — flapping shit slows you down. (That’s literally true for those with constipation issues and can end up with “shit that flaps” — Geno — but very true in cycling clothing).
Fine, form follows function. But the goddamn clothing is designed of the skinny fucks, by the skinny fucks and for the skinny fucks. And I wish that shit would perish from the face of the earth.
The tight-ass cycling shorts with your junk hanging out are bad enough. Wearing that while walking near a school is probably a sex crime in 15 states.
But the damn jerseys are tight in all the wrong places. You need the pockets in the back. You can’t have pockets on your legs – you “spin” your shit all over the road, or it slams into your thighs 10,000 times in 2 hours.
But the skinny fucks don’t have arms, or man boobs, or big fucking guts, so no matter how many X’s in the large label, the shirts pull tight in all those places.
You look like a polish sausage that was left in the microwave for 15 minutes.
So when you find a shirt that fits right, you use it over and over again. I had 2 marketed by the Tour of Colorado (defunct since 2015). But these dry fit tech shirts create and cling to a their own special funk. It’s just the right mix of body odor and burning landfill to make the common cockroach puke.
I’m pretty sure the funk is what drives the Bear to sneak in replacement jerseys. One day, I go to the closet and the “good jerseys” are gone, and there’s a bunch of new shit. Most are back to the skinny fuck fit.
But the last one, was a winner. Fits perfect – feels good.
It says: “Old Fart Cycling Team.”
I don’t know if there is an actual old fart cycling team, or if this is some sort of sarcastic collusion among cycling spouses?
And I don’t really want to know.
It’s a bit of a topic on group rides. Lots of cyclists wear “kits” from the professional teams: red and black for BMC, black with blue trim for Team Sky — you know, the kind of self-aggrandizing bullshit that skinny fucks love. So they all notice the “kits” and have their comments at the ready.
I don’t mind the conversation, but it comes up at the wrong time. The skinny fucks will be flying past me up a hill, just gibbering and jabbering like those fucking chipmunks from the Chip and Dale Disney cartoons.
Then I hear, “Hey Old Fart… Way to represent the team.”
Most of the time, I nod and sweat and maybe grunt. I can’t get enough air to talk.
But if they catch me early or just spinning, I feel compelled to say:
“Yes, my wife got it for me… Which tells you how she feels about me… Because she really loves me.”
While thinking… What did your wife get your skinny fucking ass? Not a god damn thing, because no one could love a little boney mother fucker like you!
I probably laugh a little too hard at my own inside voice. But what the hell. You can do pretty much whatever you want when you a Fat Biker covered in an “Old Fart Cycling” jersey.