How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love Bike Bibs
"If your ass crack is out, everyone will notice, but no one will say anything."
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Now that it’s properly hot outside, certain stretches of bike lane have become as clogged with fairweather cyclists as their adjacent roadways. I’m not complaining—nothing warms my heart like people re-discovering the joy of descending into Manhattan down the Williamsburg Bridge—but I do want to share a quick PSA about bike clothing. Since I got more seriously into bikes in 2023, I’ve noticed that so many men (it’s always men) seem to be incapable of dressing appropriately for sessions spent bent over their handlebars.
Fellas, why is your ass crack out in the wind?
I know the literal answer. The position of your body on a bike is quite different from that of standing, walking, or running. When you’re planted in a saddle and bent forward at the waist to reach your handlebars, it is inevitable that a shirt will ride up and unbelted shorts will ride down. The problem gets worse as shirts trend cropped and the average rise on pants descends. It’s the perfect storm for unintentional mooning.
At least, I think it’s unintentional. I suspect that a lot of people get on a bike without putting very much thought into what they’re wearing. If you’re just grabbing a Citi Bike to get between engagements, of course you’ll be riding in normal clothes. More notable, in my mind, is how frequently I find myself staring down the crack of another person’s ass while riding behind them on the Prospect Park loop. I try not to make too many assumptions about a person based on what they’re wearing, what they look like, or what kind of bike they’re riding. But I’ve noticed that some of the prime culprits showing hole in the Park have clearly come out to do loops of the 3.6 mile paved path on the bike, yet are dressed in workout clothes that’d look more at home at a squat rack.
I used to be one of them. The first summer I rode through the sticky humidity of New York City, I did it wearing the same things I’d wear to run: elastic shorts and baggy, cropped t-shirts. When I’d reach speed, the wind would catch the rear opening of the shirt and envelop my back in its cooling breath.
The realization that the same base outfit was causing others to expose themselves to anyone in their draft ruined this for me. I began to start riding with extreme attention to my position on the bike, trying not to be too bent over. Unsurprisingly, the caution started to make biking feel less like a fun thing I was doing to get around and more like a minefield. I just couldn’t shake the feeling that if my ass crack was out, everyone would notice, but no one would say anything.
I, like most people, come to cycling with baggage. The fitness culture of the 21st century has not been kind to the chunky. My size was something often commented on by family members, teachers, coaches, and peers, but the most malicious takes on my body always came from myself. I remember lining up for stretches with my high school swimming team as a freshman and feeling shame over the fact that my stomach was the only one that pooled over the waistband of their Speedo. It was an alienating train of thought, especially as it intersected with identity. I grew up keenly aware that, in the context of my extremely white Catholic school, I wasn’t just the only Indian kid in my class, I was also the only fat one.
Over a decade later, at basically the same weight, I’ve developed a much healthier relationship to my body. But that vulnerability is still inside me. Whenever I fold myself into an aerodynamic position over my handlebars, or stand up on the pedals to climb out of the saddle, or stop on the side of the road to safely drink out of my Nalgene, the fear that everyone passing me by is appraising my body still slithers out of my subconscious.
While I work on quieting that voice, I have thankfully found a solution that ensures anyone who is looking at me can’t see the exact contour of my blessedly still bodacious bottom. Whenever I’m riding in the summer, I’m almost always wearing bike bibs.
When most people picture cycling clothing, I expect they focus on the top layer. They probably imagine a short sleeve bike jersey, a tight-fitting shirt with a one-way zipper and pockets on its back. A jersey certainly has its time and its place, but I wear them for almost none of my casual rides. I still prefer the aesthetic of a cropped tee, and couldn’t care less that I’m losing some speed thanks to wind drag. I’m in this to pedal hard!
And anyway, the bottom layer is where real quality of life improvements are made. Most serious cyclists have at least one pair of bike bibs they wear for long days in the saddle. These look like the stretchy, breathable bike shorts that had a moment of pandemic-era trendiness. But rather than to end at the waist, bibs include straps that loop around the top of your shoulders to keep them held in place. They also include padding under the tush that makes stiff saddles bearable for long rides.
I bought my first pair of bike bibs as I was preparing for the 2024 Tour de Staten Island, which would be my first attempt at a half century. I knew the bibs would help me handle the multi-hour training rides, but didn’t expect to wear them outside of the context of workouts. That seemed like pointless lycra bro behavior.
The years since have proven this assumption false. As I wrote in the fall of that year, my lycra radius has expanded well beyond the Prospect Park loop. I roll up to casual group rides in a bike bib and a cropped cotton t-shirt. I’ve commuted in the winter with bike bibs under long pants and a sweater. I’ve even worn kit for a full day of shopping with pals around the city.
Compared to other solutions to prevent indecent exposure I’ve found, like always tucking in your shirt or wearing a tank top under every fit, the bike bib is the most comfortable. But the bottoms are just perfectly designed for hot days in the saddle, where you’ll be sweating through your entire body. They wick moisture to the surface incredibly well and dry quickly, so your body’s … erm … juices won’t uncomfortably cling to your skin. And I think there are ways to style them so that you don’t look too much like a try hard. The cropped t-shirt is a good pairing for bike bibs, but I also like wearing them with flowy buttons downs. That look feels especially good for bike trips, where you’ll wanna be able to pop into shops and restaurants without anyone asking if you’re training for the Tour de France.
More importantly, the bike bibs free me from the anxiety that emerged about my place within the sport when I was transitioning from beginner to intermediate cyclist. They give me the confidence I need to spend my energy locked into my surroundings, or to focus on nailing a particular interval effort, or to tuck myself into an aerodynamic position to more efficiently fly down a hill. With bike bibs on, I don’t just look like a cyclist, I feel like one too.
I’ve compiled a list of bike bibs I’ve tried and recommend here. That post, like the other rider resources I’m developing, is only available to paid LEG DAY subscribers. As always, if you’re a person of color, identify as queer, nonbinary, or trans, or work in a bike shop and can’t afford to upgrade, just shoot me an email. I’ll comp your subscription, no questions asked!
"Fellas, why is your ass crack out in the wind" will live forever in my psyche I fear