So I got the bike…now what?!

Day 1 with the bike. I was dying to ride, but I had this overwhelming sense if inadequacy that really kept me down the in the basement just looking at the parts, trying to name them in my head, and peeling off the factory spec and advertising stickers. Occasionally, I’d sit on it with one arm propping me against the wall. After about 30 seconds of sitting, I figured out what my first investment must be.

Bike shorts.

I knew this was part of the deal of buying a road bike and “getting serious” about the sport, but still, walking into the bike shop and bee-lining straight for the spandex racks gave me immediate flashbacks to the days of tagging along while shopping for leotards for my sister’s upcoming gymnastics competition. Just the thought of donning Lycra as my under and outer layer, displaying the silhouette of my groinal region in a shiny black back drop for all the world to see while whistling around the bike trails and roads immediately caused me to stray from the direct path and towards the jerseys instead.

Short sleeve jerseys. Long sleeve jerseys. No sleeve jerseys. ¼ zip. ½ zip. Full zip. Race cut. Club cut. 360 degree reflective. The brighter the better it seemed, so I grabbed a yellow one and pulled it over my t-shirt. Luckily, a salesperson noticed me struggling in the corner of the store, obviously unaware of what a jersey should look like on my body. Second only to the guy who sold my bike to me, this guy was the friendliest bike shop guy I’ve met yet. I don’t want to stereotype, but in my short experience thus far, I’ve observed three kinds of bike shop salesmen (that are definitely not equally dispersed among bike shops):

1) the scruffy guy wearing a bandana, camouflage shorts and casual athletic shoes with pedal cleats recessed into the soles so he can clip-in to his fully-suspended mountain bike at anytime and ride through a muddy single-track trail to the closest climbing wall to hang with his stoner buddies;

2) the clean cut skinny guy with a polo shirt, slightly shorter than average khaki shorts that conveniently expose his massively toned quads and calves, both of which have been shaved recently, who always manages to fit in at least one reference to his last century ride or triathlon just to prove to you he is more experienced than you will ever be and could probably blow by you going up hill in a fixed gear track bike;

3) the guy that drives to the store, even though he lives two blocks away, maybe owns a bike or two but is really just a casual rider and is trying to make a buck or two at a sales job that’s close to home.

The guy approaching me was definitely number three, and even admitted it throughout his “sales pitch.” At one point in the conversation he actually joked about the wrenchers in back, noting that one of them broke his collar bone two months ago while trail riding with some buddies, but now tells customers that the sling is helping him recover from a really crazy crash at this downhill racing track competition. He nailed this jump and landed a little sideways and flew over his handlebars, but he wasn’t sure exactly because he couldn’t remember much of it once he came to. In reality, he was just going too fast through the woods in a city park a few blocks away and his handlebar caught a branch, spinning him off the bike and causing him to simply fall on his side. He actually rode his bike home and his mom drove him to the ER that night. What a bad ass.

The guy helps me figure out the fit of a jersey, which really is just what is comfortable to you when sitting on the bike. The fact that I’m between sizes in everything is accentuated during my jersey fitting, ranging between Medium and Large. I end up choosing a white and black, short-sleeved Large jersey. It’s snug where I want it to be, has a few pockets on the back (pretty much standard on cycling jerseys) and doesn’t ride up over my waist when bending over, which is the ultimate test when trying them on, I learn.

He then asked me if I wanted to try on some shorts. I give him the deer in the headlights look, at which point he chuckled and confirmed my freshness to the sport. He said they’re pretty straightforward in fit. He showed me the pad in the crotch (called the chamois, or “shammy”) and explained its significance (which really didn’t need explanation, as the padded shorts were the primary reason for my trip to the store in the first place). Then explained that typically, shorts with more panels (or pieces of material making up the shorts) tend to fit and stay in one place better than shorts with fewer panels. I, staying with my proclaimed theme of “mid-entry level,” go with a mid-range priced pair of black shorts, and head towards the register.

The day of my bike purchase, the bike dealer gave me a few pointers as I was signing the paperwork, and his primary concern for me was that the tires needed to be filled with air to the correct pressure on a very regular basis (typically before every ride) in order to maintain durability, and proper handling. He said that a firm tire not only gave you safety, but really made a difference in speed and handling. He showed me a few pump models he had on the wall, but I was still somewhat shell-shocked by the check I just wrote out and didn’t feel like spending any more money that day. He assured me that if there’s one thing I needed, it was a pump.

Conveniently, there were some nice floor pumps by the register of this new store that were on sale. As well as some tire levers (two or three plastic pry bars, essentially, used to change the tire), spare tubes (self-explanatory), and saddle-bags (1. road bike seats are not called “seats, they’re “saddles;” 2. saddle bags are the little bags hanging off the bottom of the saddle that hold your portable tools should you blow a tire on the trails while you’re miles from home). After hitting the little devil off of my left shoulder, I assertively said “Yes” when the sales guy asked if that was all I needed.

I paid no attention to the total price and immediately shoved the receipt deep into my wallet so I wouldn’t find it until my checking account balancing act at the end of the month (which consists of me going online to make sure my balance is positive and looking for any possible fraudulent charges from Argentina or something). I go home, leaving my purchases in the trunk until my wife took off for work (she works nights). As soon as the garage door shut after her leaving, I went and grabbed my toys and modeled my spandex tuxedo to myself in the bathroom. I couldn’t believe it. I now looked like one of them, except with skinnier thighs and calves and a little bit of a gut pushing my tight jersey out (which I didn’t notice in the store, or anytime before that night). That first night in spandex was definitely eye opening. I’ve never checked myself out as much as I did that night. I had a lot of work to do to make it past the newbie level. There wasn’t any form-fitting jersey or carbon fiber bike out there that was going to make me intimidate anyone on the starting line. I looked scared. I actually felt nervous. I haven’t even set my butt on the bike seriously yet.

I peeled off the lycra, allowing my body expand back to its normal atmospheric pressure. I sit on the edge of my bed while tearing the tags off everything. I then remember what the sales guy told me as I was leaving.

“Just get out and start putting some miles on and you’ll figure it out soon enough.”

Probably the best advice I’ve gotten yet in this new adventure.