Guys on bikes

"Most cyclists aren't cyclists," my son tells me, as I'm driving him to his Tai Chi session, near Byres Road. "They're just guys on bikes."

Focused on a couple of kids on the pavement, who look like they could dive into the road, my brain is fuzzy about what he's just told me, while feeling it's the kind of remark he has always enjoyed - a blend of paradox and his own sideways slant on the world.

"Have you any idea what you're talking about?" I ask, but instead of answering he starts pointing people out and classifying them as cyclists or guys on bikes. 

"It's just whether they're wearing a helmet?" I venture, after studying a few. 

"Nah, there's more to it than that," he says. "It's a culture thing. It's how seriously they're into it all."

"Have you noticed how selfish cyclists are?" I say. "The worst are those clowns that pelt along pavements to avoid traffic and don't give a toss about the pedestrians they mow down."

"I've never seen that," he says. "And I walk everywhere."

"I get it all the time."

"How many?"

"Three - once just yesterday."

"In sixty years?" he says. "They are at it all the time, then."

"They are. And every Sunday they're out on the winding, country roads down our way, driving six abreast at ten miles an hour with a queue of forty cars behind them. Selfish bastards. I'd melt down their bikes and make them buy cars." 

"You're starting to sound like a Daily Mail reader," he says. "How do you feel about immigrants, homosexual marriage and hoodie scum?"

"I love them," I say. "It's just cyclists I can't stand. Good thing is Nature has a way of punishing those who flout her Laws."

"Turn here into Creswell Street," he tells me. "Nature's Laws? Now you sound like a hippy."

"This is science," I tell him. "The human body isn't designed to be load-bearing at the crotch. There are sensitive parts down there that you press on at your peril. Male cyclists get all kinds of problems with their equipment."

"Like punctures and slipped gears?"

"Like low sperm counts and erectile dysfunction."

"Bugger," he says. 

"Not to mention nodules, furuncles and other 'extratesticular disorders'."

"I wish you hadn't," he says, squirming in his seat. "What causes these extraterrestrial disorders then?"

"Pressure and shock, according to a paper in the Lancet, which found 96% of mountain bikers had scrotal abnormalities." 

"You don't want those," he says.

"Normality of the scrotum is what we aim for," I say. "See this is why your average cyclist hates motorists. He can turn women on with his tight, lycra-encased arse, but that's all he can do. His wife is perennially unsatisfied so she's having passionate affairs with guys who keep their scrotums healthy by sitting on soft, comfy seats in cars. All that makes him a borderline psycho." 

"And this is all in that Lancet paper, is it?" he says

"I'm reading between the lines now."

"I thought you scientists chappies were supposed to stick to evidence and not make shit up," he says.

"Yeah but I'm a writer too. We have to make shit up."

"That's us here," he says. "Pull up outside the church. Hey, look at that one - cyclist or guy on a bike?"

"He's got a pointy helmet," I say. "So I'm guessing cyclist." 

"But he's wearing fancy shoes and carrying a newspaper and he just smiled at those kids," he says. All that makes him a borderline cyclist."

"Very good," I say. "You do know puns are the lowest form of wit?"

"Sorry I spoke," he says. "Don't get cranky. Gimme a bell next time you're in town.

"On yer bike," I tell him.

Ball game II

Al  has had more than his fair share of ailments in the past 30 years, so it's easier to list those that haven't afflicted him than those that have. He's avoided measles, mastitis, nappy rash and period pains. That's about it.

Pretty much everything else you can think of he's had. Frozen shoulder, runner's knee, collapsed lung, tennis elbow, coxsackie virus, myalgic encephalomyelitis, colds, flu, pneumonia and hospital superbugs that damn near killed him. Oh yeah and depression.

But his latest malady, which I notice when we're changing at the gym for our Wednesday workout, is bigger than any of those.

It's bad form, of course, to show an interest in people's tackle in a male changing-room. A fleeting glance is acceptable, even expected, but repeated peeks or a prolonged stare with raised eyebrows will get you complained about. Or propositioned.

So normally I wouldn't dream of doing a double-take and a sharp intake of breath. But I can't help it. Al's equipment is a magnet for my eyes. I get away with it because there's no one else in the room, we've seen each other naked loads of times, neither of us is gay and there's a good reason for my current fascination with his testicles.

"You've noticed," he says.

"Hard to miss," I say.

"I'm up here," he says.

"Sorry," I say. "Can't take my eyes off it. What happened? You catch it in a door?"

"Nope. It gradually went that way over a couple of weeks. I didn't notice at first. Then it became obvious. One testicle much bigger than the other."

"You going to the doc's or will you buy a wheelbarrow for it?"

"I've been. He gave me antibiotics and said it would shrink back down again."

"You should have asked for something to make its mates grow big as well."

"I did. Stony-faced pill-pusher never cracked a smile."

"Probably hear stuff like that all the time when you're a balls doctor."

"I guess," he says, pulling his shorts on. "He also sent me for an ultrasound scan, just to be safe. I got a letter the following week warning me, in bold letters, that it might be done by a female. That got me worried."

"I can see why. How long is it since a woman saw you naked? Twenty years?"

"More like fifty," he says. "So I kept my fingers crossed that nothing would come up during the examination."

"Did it?" I say, as we head out the door towards the gym.

"Not a twitch," he says. "Which was a relief and a disappointment. There were two females doing the examination. One rubbing jelly on my genitals and moving them around to get a better view. The other studying it all on the screen above my head." 

"Must have felt exposed," I say.

"And then some," he says. "'I can't see a thing to worry about,' the female at the screen says. 'Me neither,' says her friend down below, and I catch a wee smile on her stupid face."

"Embarrassing," I say, giving him a comforting slap on the shoulder.

"Humiliating," Al says. "It's the last time I let a woman look at my tackle, I can tell you."

I glance down. "That's what you think, son," I say. "You're going to need a bigger pair of shorts."

"Bugger," he says and turns on his heel and heads back to the changing-room.

Some science of swollen testicles 
1.  Orchitis is the term for inflammation and swelling of one or both testicles, caused by infection.

2. Men with smaller testicles are more likely to feed and bath the baby.