Tan lines are to the Velominatus what a drug overdose is to a rock star, or a Victoria Cross is to a returned serviceman.
You’ve gotta earn your stripes, right? Even if it could result in sunburn, or much worse. Will Lance save me if I get cancer?
So this is what greeted me in the mirror on my return from a long session in the hills of Wellington yesterday.
When I left the house in the morning, a dense fog shrouded the skyline, even delaying the arrival of one Prince William to our fine city.
Nah, I won’t be needing sunscreen today, I thought. Actually, I didn’t think about it at all, I just got on the bike and went, the crisp morning air not hinting at the heat to come.
Now, being follicly-challenged, my bonce is usually one of the first areas to be slathered in SPF 30.
It’s the nearest point to the sun, after all. Like a solar panel for a sex machine.
Now, it just looks like a stubbly template for an S-Works 2D.
And the arms and legs copped a bit too, but at least I can go out in public with no more than the usual embarassment that spindly, hairless limbs cause. Looks like it’s hats on for the next week or so.