Tan lines are to the Velominatus what a drug overdose is to a rock star, or a Victoria Cross is to a returned serviceman.

It's a badge of honour, and while neither of those comparisons are glorious in their deployment, the reward, or possibly even notoriety, is somehow noble.

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. [dmalbum path=”/velominati.com/content/Photo Galleries/brettok@hotmail.com/Tan lines/”/]