Our house is located in an area attractive to cyclists. No car journey can be made from our house without the need to overtake several cyclists, either strung out or bunched together. Don’t get me wrong, I have no issue with cyclists – Whizz is an e-bike enthusiast and pedals for miles most weekends. And I very much enjoy following those lycra clad bottoms, the muscular evidence of a lonely ‘cycling widow’, no doubt. While filled with admiration for these sculpted nether regions, I also feel a little guilty. This is not because I am lusting after the anatomy of a man other than my husband – Whizz is absolutely entitled to admire the physiology of another woman whenever he wishes. No, I feel guilty because I am being Mrs Couch Potato, snuggled into the seat of a nice, comfy car while the man in front of me is pumping pedals at a speed of maybe 20 miles per hour? I feel uncomfortably aware that if our positions were reversed, that man would not be admiring the pertness of my backside, more wondering where the saddle had disappeared to.
Brighton Naked Bike Ride 2015. Photo by Bryan Ledgard. Wikimedia Commons
Much as I admire and respect most cyclists, there are those who irritate. These are the (tiny minority of) groups that collude to prevent one from overtaking, even when there is plenty of room.
It was while driving behind one such group, a gang that, whenever there was a gap in the traffic, swung to the centre of the road in a choreographed move to deliberately prevent us overtaking, that Whizz and I, to distract ourselves, wondered what might be the collective noun for cyclists. An ‘irritation’, perhaps, or an ‘annoyance’.
Eventually, we got past them and crossed the canal. The road on the other side of the bridge was in a parlous state, its surface pock marked with holes and cracks for several yards. “Blimey,’ Whizz joked as we rumbled along, ‘Those cyclists could have an orgasm crossing this.’
That’s it! A ‘bonking’ of bicyclists. We shared a conspiratorial giggle.
This leads me (sort of) to the subject of contraception. Many years ago, in a past life in Sheep Country, my former husband and I belonged to the Austin Healey club. This was fun and we enjoyed many a social event along, of course, with drives and competitions. The women in the club were my kinda gals, easy going and not too worried about hair and make-up. You had to be casual if you wanted to drive in all weathers without a roof on the car. We were a happy crowd of young women and often took ourselves off to the side when talk of cars became too much.
It was on one such occasion that the subject of contraception came up (if you’ll pardon the pun.) One of our number had recently been fitted with a cervical cap. She was instructed by the doctor that she should be sure to combine it with a spermicidal cream. Her instructions were: Spread the surface of the cap liberally with the cream, squat down, squeeze the sides of the cap – until it springs from the fingers like a frog and lands on the shag pile (couldn’t resist another pun) behind. – repeat several times.
We all roared with laughter at her distressed expression, but the laughter became hysterical as she continued…
Her father-in-law wore false teeth. When he came to stay, he would leave them overnight on the bathroom window sill in a pink plastic case. Meanwhile sitting beside it, was an almost identical pink plastic case containing this girl’s dutch cap.
Need I say more?
