In Praise of Plaid Knickers

The clock above my desk finally strikes five and I shut off the computer, ditch the suit and get ready to ride home. It’s April in Humboldt County, but it looks and feels more like Siberia in January. Consequently, I’m currently demanding just two traits of my cycling garb: warmth and full-body coverage. Exercising my rights as a straight man, I simply pile on the closest, cleanest-smelling cycling gear in sight, climb on my bike and head home.

About a mile into my commute, I realize that I need to pick up something at Revolution Bicycle Repair, so I steer over to the bike shop and walk in. Jake is managing the shop today, and he instantly leans over the front counter and gives me a measured up-and-down.

After a minute’s inspection me he utters his one-syllable verdict: “Sweeeet.”

He’s talking, of course, about the Scottish plaid cycling knickers I’m wearing. Nema King Charles knickers, to be precise. I’m pretty sure that neither the neon green Louis Garneau rain jacket that I’m sporting up top, nor the silver aerobics tights that I’m wearing beneath the plaid knickers are the objects of his praise.

James is sitting off to the side lacing a bunch of shiny, chrome spokes through the drive side flange on a King hub. He looks up for a moment and nods his head in approval before resuming the wheel-build.

“Those are Nema, right?” says Jake, and instantly, I know the subject of tonight’s column.

WHO DOESN’T LIKE PLAID KNICKERS? So, here’s the sorry thing. I really like plaid cycling knickers. I think they’re great—they rank right up there with my favorite orange wool jersies, and any and every pair of bib tights I’ve ever encountered. Normally, I don’t give this a second thought. I like these things and that’s good enough for me. It’s only when I find myself in the company of other cyclists that I realize precisely how stupid I look.

I’m not a mirror-gazing kind of guy, so I never actually see myself wearing the stuff I love, which is why encountering five or so other people who dress like me is always a rude awakening. This happens every time I attend the annual tradeshow in Vegas. The moment I walk into the Interbike convention hall, I see all the dweebs with prescription cycling glasses, bike-short and cycling-glove tans, little black socks and lime green baggy shorts and I realize, “That jack ass over there? Holy crap—that’s me! Dammit, I suck!”

This realization is actually at its worst on those occasions when I find myself packed in a van with the bike industry baker’s dozen of magazine hacks: each seems to sport bird-man-sized biceps, thick eye glasses, carpal tunnel wrist guards and, naturally, the lame tan lines and aforementioned lime green shorts. Bummer. Oh yes, the number of us who are bald and/or goateed is similarly mind-boggling. You’d like to thing you’re unique, that you’re some kind of individual, and then you find yourself surrounded by clones of yourself—and not one of them is cool by any stretch of the imagination. Do any of these guys get laid? Wait, do I? I mean, I think I do, but can it be possible if I look and sound anything like these other wankers? It’s unnerving.

CHICKEN-EGG THING So, here’s the real question: are cycling clothes lame because we cyclists are genetically predisposed to god-awful fashion (which would lead manufacturers to make clothes that match our terrible tastes) OR do we like lame cycling fashions because the manufacturers make nothing but lame clothes, which we’ve simply acquired a taste for?

I haven’t a clue. I’ll tell you this though, I’m always disheartened a bit when I see cyclists pitch in with the now-classic, Lycra vs. Baggy fashion argument. People on both sides of the fence will argue that either fashion camp is holy and righteously swank, when, let’s be honest, you’ll pretty much get your ass kicked walking into a bar dressed in either style of gear. I think that says a lot.

Arguing that baggy cycling gear is so much cooler or more fashionable than tight-fitting Lycra gear is a bit like arguing that Chinese water torture is way better than being drawn and quartered.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not embarrassed by my plaid knickers. I’ll wear them today, in fact, and I’ll enjoy them. I’ll wear those bastards until I’m too old and feeble to don my lime green jacket and climb aboard my pink bike. I just know that there’s something a little wrong with that.