Why small bums are harsher than large ones
The Speed D7 (with Rido Saddle) takes a well earned drink after a tour of Oxfordshire
Come with me now, for a trip through rural Britain. Today, our bottoms are testing the revolutionary Rido saddle, in fetching yellow & black. It's a bicycle seat above all others: designed by a genius, crafted by computers, finished by hand picked virgins, and road tested by me.
It seems to go on top of the seat post. The pointed bit faces the direction of travel. It's supposed to be 'horizontal.' It's got twin rails - a little longer than those on my ladies gel saddle - so there's more fore and aft adjustment.
Ow! Ouch! OwOwWow! Yaroo! Crikey! It's like sitting on two pineapples. The design takes the weight completely away from your Area 51, and shifts it to the Twin Peaks of No Mans Land . (Or Woman's).
You may be a different shape to I, and probably are if you're male, but Holy Mary, Mother of God, my b*m does not like it. Ow!
I wussed out and put my gel saddle back on. A pity, because the Rido is so nearly there for me. It needs a bit less 'hard as concrete' and a bit more ''sheepskin rug'. There is no pressure in the Ladies Downstairs Department and from that er, viewpoint it's perfect. But damn hard.. Crikey! Very hard. A MKII is promised.
I tried. I did ten miles or so on it round Oxfordshire today, in the bright sunshine. The English Summer, as many of you know, lasts from the 9th of June until the 11th, and we Brits like to make the most of it.
The Speed D7 is my pootling bike, and good for the back lanes of the countryside. The lanes are deserted mid-week - the Oxfordshire cube monkeys and their Range Rovers are elsewhere, and the main hazard is Oxfordshire Wives and their Volvo Touring Wagons, stuffed with children, Sainsburies No Calorie Ready Meals, rattan furniture and labradors.
No matter. O/W's do not venture through be-mired and cow-spattered country lanes, nor dip their toes in babbling brooks, or espy hares sitting motionless in fields. Birds seems to be unafraid of the little bike as it meanders along sunlight byways: blackbirds twitter in hedgerows as I scoot past, woolly ostriches peer over fences, and feral chickens hiss and beat their wings to protect their nesting young.
The only fly in this bucolic, sunlit ointment is my bottom. It's rather sore, actually. DEspite this, my love affair with the D7 continues. The Rido saddle? I don't know. I'm still trying to forget the experience.
Your mileage, as our American cousins say, may vary.