shake that cat

The pants of spring

Halley writes of a spring walk on a local bike path, most likely one I frequent on my bicycle:

Torpedo cyclists in black rubber butt shorts, rollerbladers with duck-splayed legs roaring by, babycarriage-pushing mom joggers, walkers chatting with slight Hungarian accents, runners sweating in expensive nylon garb, everyone going by, going by, going by, "to your left" they shout, whiz of wheels, I was often pushed into the muddy shoulders of the path but didn't care much, with my big boots on, no problem, had counted on an extended mud encounter.

I suppose it's my own bike-riding bovine that's getting gored here, but is that black pants on rubber butts, or black rubber pants on plain ol' butts?

Full disclosure: it wasn't me, as I wasn't out on the bike path yesterday. There's no excuse for pushing anyone off the path, though.