“I look GREAT in these bike shorts!,” …….said NO one….EVER. As I stretched and pulled up the diaper-like, image crushing offender I call my bike shorts, I couldn’t help but laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of how they looked on me. These shorts pinch and pucker in all the wrong places. All in the effort to protect the land down under from the punishing saddle of my bike. No woman should be made to put these on and have to look at herself. Especially in the first two months of the year. The minute I put these things on The Handle sisters sprout twins at the top of the short and somehow the back of my leg becomes the Millennium roller coaster from Cedar Point. (Sigh) “Patience girl,” I say to myself. “We are working on body composition right now and it’s going to take a while to undo the mess you made over the Holidays.” So knowing the only line of defense against these offending shorts is a good training session, I drag my bumpy, sausage looking arse down the stairs to the Paincave for my daily dose of punishment. One hour of zone 4 intervals, EN style. When it’s over, I’m thankful. Thankful for surviving the workout, thankful for having the time for the workout and most of all, thankful to let the sausage out of its casing.
Ironma'am 