But they didn’t mean it. They lied. And now your face smells like their rear tyre.
This is a story about betrayal, friendship, and that one guy who showed up with full coverage and a smug smile.
The pact is sacred
You’ve both checked the forecast.
Rain: possible. Roads: definitely wet. The question arises: mudguards?
You open the conversation like a diplomat. Casual. Innocent. “You bringing guards tomorrow?”
They say, “Only if you are.”
You say, “Nah, couldn’t be bothered.”
They say, “Same. Let’s live a little.”
You fist-bump in solidarity. You imagine the damp but honourable ride ahead.
What you don’t imagine is the crusty hell awaiting your chamois region.
The betrayal reveals itself gradually
You meet at the usual spot. You’re both smiling.
Then you see it.
Peeking out beneath their saddle: a rear mudguard. Full-length. Matte black. Suspiciously clean.
You stare at it like it insulted your mother.
They act like it’s always been there.
“Oh yeah, I chucked it on just in case,” they say.
Just in case you got soaked, presumably.
The ride becomes a psychological thriller
You spend the entire ride directly behind their wheel, because you’re not strong enough to drop them and too proud to say anything.
Their rear tyre becomes a fountain of filth.
You are now wearing most of the road.
Your face tastes like worm juice.
Your down tube cries softly with every rotation.
They? Bone dry.
Not even a speck on their pristine overshoes.
They say things like:
“Wow, these roads are mucky today.”
“Hope your drivetrain’s okay.”
“I forgot how wet it gets without guards!”
You say nothing. You are planning a revenge arc.
Post-ride consequences
You get home.
Your bibs are stained.
Your jacket smells like agriculture.
Your socks are a crime scene.
You peel off your layers with the emotional fragility of someone who’s seen things. SPLASHY things.
They, meanwhile, upload the ride to Strava with the caption: “Great autumn spin! Dry enough, surprisingly.”
Dry enough. SURPRISINGLY.
Options for retaliation
Adjust their saddle by 1mm every week until they file a warranty claim.
Casually compliment their bike, then add, “I didn’t know they still made that groupset.”
Sign them up for Zwift races under the name “DampRider69”.
Put a banana in their bottle cage. Not a wrapped one. A raw one. Just see what happens.
Say “what’s that clicking sound?” every ten minutes. Even when there isn’t one.
Photoshop them onto a full-sus mountain bike and upload it as their Strava profile photo.
Gift them a rear fender that says “I ruin friendships” in Comic Sans.
Or just… quietly switch to your own full-length guards next time.
But never forget.
Never trust again.
