There is was, on my butt Friday.
“You look like you’ve got something on the seat or your pants,” Audrey said.
Indeed, I did. I had biked to MMU that morning and returned that night with a spot on my back side. I had sadly darkened my Dockers. Buttered my buns. Painted my pants. Spilt on my slacks.
You get the idea.
I had a little black butt mark, which must have come from my bike. I have a cable I use to lock the bike, and due to how and where I lock it, it comes into contact with my bike chain. At the urgings of the folks who run the shop where I purchased the bike and have it serviced, I’m doing much better about lubricating the chain of my bike this year—which means some lubricant gets on the lock cable.
And from there to my fingers. And, sometimes, apparently, to the seat of the bike from my fingers. Thence, to my posterior.
Well, roses are pretty, and have thorns, too.
A bit of butt oil now and then won’t be enough to keep me off two wheels—I enjoy the commute much more than driving, and I’m sure it’s better for me, too, to bike and burn some calories. Even at the risk, now and then, of a blemished behind.