After my first 10-mile ride in a while, I felt great. Which should’ve been my first warning sign.
It was one of those smug little spring mornings where everything feels deceptively doable. The sun was out. Birds were chirping like background extras in a Disney movie. I suited up in my Specialized padded shorts, with my 3/4-length running tights layered over them for extra warmth, modesty, and the illusion of aerodynamic credibility. My zip-up jersey was a relic from a company that no longer exists—much like my pre-cycling glutes. Add in low socks and my green cycling shoes (the color of mint gum, not roadkill, thank you very much), and off I went, clipped into my clipless pedals, feeling borderline legit.
The ride was a scenic 10-mile out-and-back to my local bike shop. The kind of ride that makes you briefly consider signing up for something insane, like a century or a charity ride across the Midwest. My butt was pleasantly unaware that it was about to file a formal complaint.
Fast-forward 24 hours.
Ride #2: The Butt Awakens.
Still high on yesterday’s good vibes and poor judgment, I headed out again. This time, I swapped the shorts/tights combo for a pair of REI 3/4 cycling pants that claimed to be padded. Technically, they weren’t lying. There was something in there. It just wasn’t enough to keep my sit bones from developing their own opinions.
Different jersey. Same low socks. Same green gumdrop shoes—because thanks to clipless pedals, I am now in a committed monogamous relationship with exactly one pair of shoes.
The wind had decided to join the party this time, which meant every stretch of road that wasn’t uphill still felt like uphill. Somewhere around mile 6, my bottom sent a very clear message: “Ma’am. This is not sustainable.” I stood up on the pedals a little more after that, partially to give my butt a break and partially to see if blood circulation was still an option.
At mile 7, I began mentally reviewing everything I’ve ever read about saddle sores. I didn’t have one, but I could feel a ghost of one beginning to form—a phantom menace, if you will. I also started to wonder: at what point does one invest in something called Butt Butter? (A name, by the way, that sounds less like cycling lube and more like something sold at an artisanal farmers market by a woman named Juniper.)
I’ve never used chamois cream before. It’s not that I’ve avoided lubricants in my adult life—I’ve just never needed one specifically engineered for my undercarriage in the context of sustained friction and wind exposure. But that may be changing.
I limped the last three miles home, feeling more chilled than triumphant. Apparently when you’re not pedaling hard into the headwind, the wind turns into a cold, sarcastic reminder of your questionable wardrobe choices. The REI pants? Dead to me. They’ve been benched indefinitely, pending a full investigation.
Now, I’m taking a rest day—not because I want to, but because my rear end has unionized and declared a general strike. It’s not terrible, but it’s not not terrible either. I’m hoping a day off, some foam rolling, and swearing quietly into my coffee will be enough to get me back in the saddle.
But if not… I hear Juniper’s Butt Butter is on sale.