I’ve spent thousands on a good bike.  Hundreds on shoes and clothes. I spent $1.29 on a snickers bar that fucked up a perfectly good ride.

Map of the Great Fart Ride from Strava.

Yes, I’m one of those idiots in the tight-ass shorts with the big pads.  Keeps the nether regions from erupting in blisters.

My saddle was expensive and has a hollow split down the middle if my balls happen to slide too low.

Between the shorts and the saddle it’s an air tight fit.  No sliding or slipping.  Rock solid connection between the hard saddle bolts and my “sit bones.”  No gas, and hopefully no liquid or solid, can escape. Great for blisters, bad for farts.

It started out innocent enough.  A little bloating and discomfort on the tight waistband.  No worries, I thought. It will settle.

It didn’t.

The bubble kept growing and shifting.  Struggling against the waistband looking for an exit.

Sometimes bubbling up and threatening to push whatever is in the stomach out through the throat.  At times, I could “taste it.”

Sometimes settling sideways… Is that a fucking kidney stone?

Eventually, building a bigger and bigger home with just a little more pressure on each peddle stroke.

Why not stand up and blow that gas at whatever you just passed?  Done all the time. Rude as hell in group rides. Solo sprints, it’s jet propulsion.  Can only pad your speed stats.

But this bubble could have been a lot more than a little gas.  I had just gotten started. Who wants to go home early with shit in their pants.  I haven’t done that since pre-school.

Fear kept me down. Hold a tight lid on it and maybe it will work itself out.

It didn’t.

Hit the little 7-minute hill at Las Sendas.  Usually a good time to stand up and stretch the legs and open up the lungs.  Not this time.  Get low and grind.  Hope not to blow a gasket in front of the 1 percent who live on the only hill east of Phoenix.

Legs and lungs felt good at the top of the climb.  My gut felt like a clown was trying to make a dog out of my colon.

Hit the 6-percent downhill.  A short little scream where you get to swerve in and out of the “traffic calming” turns and roll on the flat part of the half-done speed bumps.  If there’s ever a time to let one loose, this is it.  You will be half-a-mile away from the carnage in less than a minute…

Nothing.  This thing was knotted up and not moving.

Ohh shit, is this The Kramer Effect.  Have I missed my chance?

All the way home is downhill.  That day was no wind or a little tail wind to make the return feel twice as fast. Usually the best part of the ride.

I was sweating and swearing and almost ready to pray to your non-existent god for some relief.

A few bitter burbs, but no exodus.

By the time I got home, I went through all 12-steps of grief over this fart that would not depart.

Off the bike,  stand up straight. Felt nothing. No pangs. No shifting. No bubble.

Peel off the skin tight shorts.  The gut spills down into its usual inverted cliff. Nothing. No run to the bathroom, no petard to hoist my spirits.

If a fart fails to appear and there was no one there to hear it, did it really even exist?

Don’t care about your philosophy and sophistry.  This fart was real, and it would have been spectacular…

This ride was one fart short of perfect. More proof that fear fucks up every good thing it touches.