Did you just touch my butt?

Sunday morning a male stranger came up to me and gave me a butt pat. My natural reaction might have been to punch him in the face. But instead, I, an unambiguously heterosexual male, accepted it. No, I appreciated it.

I suppose that this warrants an explanation. I was out on a solo 70-mile bike ride in Rockland County when, 15 miles before the finish, a 2-wheeled drifter on a carbon-fiber steed zoomed past me on a hill climb. He was obviously very strong, judging by his nearly effortless cadence and his zooming past me on a hill climb. Even as I was panting heavily at the top of my range, my pride got the best of me. I gave chase and caught him as the terrain flattened. After a brief respite in his slipstream, I pulled ahead, mostly because I like to prove my worth to absolute strangers. Not surprisingly, he remained on my wheel. As we approached a slight incline, I became winded and couldn’t quite maintain the brisk pace. So he pulled beside me, gingerly placed his hand on my lower back and thrust me up the incline. This at 25 mph.

Let’s pause for a moment. In the game of cycling, such a non-verbal cue is a clear signal. This dark knight was not racing me. He could have easily just glided past me, leaving me cashed in his wake. Instead, he offered cooperation. Without uttering a word he submitted that he’ll gladly scratch my back if I scratch his. Pacelining, after all, is a useful energy-conserving group-riding skill. I suppose there are other interpretations of the act. He could have been patronizing me, proving as he flexed his muscle that I was a non-threat to his cycling prowess. He could have been some personal trainer, and I was the lucky recipient of some weekend pro bono work. But I’d like to think that he was more interested in collaborating than in finding out who’s the better cyclist. And it was a simple matter of physics: I was in the front, drained of energy, while he sat in the back, invigorated. And he was more than happy to lend a hand.

In either case, I took the bait. I did not protest the contact. He pushed so gently and skillfully that I didn’t even flinch. With his arm-aided boost I was able to maintain the pace for another 2 or 3 miles. But then I was truly tapped, and I graciously gestured for him to take over. As he passed me, he did the unthinkable: he actually gave me a pat on the butt.

Let’s pause again to consider the butt pat. The pat was a few inches below where he initially touched me, so it was definitely a gluteal pat and not a lower-back pat. While it only lasted for a fraction of a second, I clearly discerned the firm yet tender touch of his bare hand through the thin membrane of my lycra cycling shorts. It was a simple pat, not involving squeezing or other risque gestures. I can only interpret that signal as a compliment on my ability to pull. Conventionally, a cyclist might acknowledge it verbally, with the words, “Good pull!” This ranger chose to be more poignant. And instead of being upset at having my personal space violated, I took it like a man. I welled up with self-pride and satisfaction.

I have to give this guy some credit. Not only did he choose to make a hand-to-butt gesture in lieu of a verbal comment, he also was insightful enough to anticipate my non-reaction. What does that say about him? What does that say about me?

After pulling for another few miles it was my turn to pull again. As I took over I did not dare to return the favor (although, in retrospect, that would have been quite amusing). I pulled the last few miles, up to the George Washington Bridge. At the end he passed by me and — lo and behold — gave me yet another butt pat! The last one was more powerful and momentous than the first, as it culminated the entire 30-minute partnership. I verbally thanked him for doing his share of pulling, and even wanted to talk to him, but he just rode off into the anonymous environs of New York City.

I followed him on the bridge path. After descending the ramp, he turned right, I turned left, and we parted, without a Bogartian sendoff or even a head gesture. I suppose if we still maintained the same proximity on the ramp, I’d receive another butt pat (I am not presently comfortable administering butt pats). But there was no such exchange. Our non-verbal partnership ended as abruptly as it began. It would now only exist in that brief moment in time on that stretch of road. And in our heads (I’d like to think that he thinks of me as I think of him).

I challenge anyone to provide an example where a butt pat would be considered socially acceptable without both parties ever previously exchanging a word. And yet cycling culture challenges such taboos. Cycling, and road cycling in particular, is a shared experience, experienced by individuals. Even though you’ve never met a cyclist, when you see one hammering down the blacktop at 25 mph, there’s already a lot you can tell about them. You can tell they’re passionate, willing to sacrifice an early weekend morning for a few hours of physical exertion. They’re competitive, respectful, and have an unusually high tolerance for pain. And they’re complete whackos. And if you pass such a cyclist up a hill and the stubborn idiot manages to hang on to your wheel, then it’s perfectly within reason to pull next to them and give them a good ol’ pat on the butt. They’ll actually appreciate it.