Imagine You're A Man. Now, Imagine Being Kicked In the Crotch Repeatedly...

...and that's what my ride around SF was like this morning on the way to KQED as I took a more scenic and pothole-strewn route down 3rd Street. It got better when I turned onto 18th and went over Potrero (stopping, as always, at the irresistible Farley's for a cuppa joe), but the damage was done by then and I was a quivering wreck. Why does my bike hurt me so?

Well, turns out it was my fault--a quick fix several months ago for a problem I forgot to properly rectify. I remember the scenario now: I'm rushing to ride to Tsukawaki Elementary School and suddenly my seat's mounting rail clamps come loose for no discernible reason, so I get off to mend it at what looks to be the singular fastening bolt. Only that's only half the function of it, the other half being to adjust the seat angle, nose up and down. That fateful day I was adjusting it nose up. Waaaaaaay up.

I had wondered why my seat suddenly started digging into my crotch, which should have been a big indication something was amiss. But I never took up my hex keys to see if something needed the handyman's touch down there, instead just cursing the San Marco seat and conspiring to get a new one before I broke down altogether and just went a few thousand dollars of recumbent on everyone's asses. Today's punishment for laziness was the last straw and I took a gander after getting home. What has been hurting for hundreds of miles was fixed in five minutes and I simultaneously am proud and hate myself for it.

Kids, don't put off to tomorrow what can be done today. Your soft bits thank you very much.

--Matt