My girlfriend at the time was very much not excited about me shaving my legs, so that eliminated one reason to engage in the act. Experts had soundly debunked the idea that there were any aerodynamic benefits to leg shaving. The only remaining excuse for shaving that I could accept were the potential medical benefits. Of course, I never start a race with the goal of crashing, so for me shaving became a sort of preparation for the worst.
But that was enough of a reason for me to decide to shave at the start of my second season of serious racing. I took clippers to my leg hair in my dorm bathroom, and then disappeared into the shower with my Mach III and a can of shaving cream. I emerged three hours later with toilet paper sticking to multiple nicks, and mostly smooth legs. It was February. I’d been wearing pants for months. Without their woolly coat, my legs looked pale and sickly. All I could think of was a cancer patient’s bald head. I didn’t like the look at all.
But then I got into bed. My silky skin slid between the sheets. I spent a half hour or so rubbing my legs together. [Editor’s note: Hmmmm.]
Needless to say, I continued to shave for the next several years. My one remaining hang-up about the process was, literally, a hang-up—or perhaps I should call it a snag. My stubble. I hated the stubble that would sprout from my skin mere hours after I’d finished shaving. I would grow accustomed to the feeling of sandpaper grit for a while, and then a month or two into racing season, I would get tired of it. I made a point of shaving every other day. At least I eventually got faster at it.
Somewhere along the line, I realized that I had stopped caring about any justification, and that I put up with the stubble because I liked having smooth legs. I liked the way water flowed down them unimpeded in the shower. I liked the way air rushed over them when I was flying down a hill. I liked the way they looked when tanned by the sun. I liked the way they looked stretched out on the couch. I liked the way they made my muscles look taut, when cleared of their fuzzy coat. [Editor: sheesh.] I liked the frightened look I got from racers with unshaved legs at the start line. I liked the way they feel sliding under the sheets or into flannel pants. There, I said it. I’m just like those people I used to make fun of. What of it?
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