D o it. Just do it. Just take your shorts off.
I stare at my legs in the full-length mirror in my bedroom. The only thing keeping my sticky, sweaty body away from the reincarnation of a cool shower is a pair of tight, black bike shorts.
They're so tight that they've stayed perfectly in place for the last 80-ish miles of riding. My first ride of the summer was an ambitious one: Browne's Addition to Coeur d'Alene and back in one glorious May day. Memorial Day, actually. The official start to summer in my mind, but also an epilogue to spring, still cool enough for crocuses and daffodils, nothing like a blazing Fourth of July or a sweltering August afternoon.
I've always been averse to sunscreen. It's perverse, really, that someone as pasty as me should be so arrogant. You'd think I would have learned my lesson after spring break in Cocoa Beach or high-altitude mountain lakes in Vietnam. Or after my dad got skin cancer — twice.
But it's still May. It's not that hot out. It's partly cloudy, too. I'm embarking on my longest-ever ride, and I'm more concerned about my fitness than my skin care. I don't think I own sunscreen, anyway — I spent my last grocery store run perusing gummies instead.
The ride started off great, and I reached Coeur d'Alene by lunch. Between munches of a croissant, I noticed a strange ache across my quads. Part of me suspected it wasn't muscular. It felt more like cellophane stretched too tightly across the top of my legs.
But hubris, stupidity or exhaustion kept me from seeking out a pharmacy. I just put my sore butt back in the saddle to make sure I got home before sunset. Which I did, barely.
Now, it's dark outside and my bedroom lamp is dim. But that doesn't soften the pain or the radiance. Stop sign, lobster, sinful neon light — pick your metaphor. The lower halves of my quads are so red they look like they've been painted with blood. My legs hurt more from the burn than from the bike. And that's saying something.
But if I peel back the edge of my bike shorts, a crisp white line appears. My shorts performed heroically, which means this is no ombre situation. I am officially a candy cane. A perfect line separating winter from summer is seared deep into my thighs.
Now comes the worst part: ripping the grippy spandex off my legs. Just do it. Rip off the Band-Aid. The "smooth" and "buttery" Lycra scrapes down my legs like steel wool.
Then, the soft shower water pelts my legs with arrows. The fluffy towel is woven from barbed wire. My worn cotton sheets are like the flaming lips of a demon from hell.
Now, maybe now, I've learned my lesson.
Update: It's been over a year, and I still have visible tan lines on my legs from that ride. People comment on them almost every time I wear shorts that are shorter than bike shorts, which is pretty much all the other shorts I own.
I have not learned my lesson. A few weeks ago, I got a bizarrely shaped burn on my neck and chest from a fancy shirt, a daylong river cruise, and a stubborn refusal of sunscreen. I don't think these lines will last as long as the ones on my legs, which I pretty much accept as tattoos now. But check in with me next year to find out. ♦
