One of those weekends where it feels like only now am I a body at rest. But that’s OK. Got stuff done, had some fun and now sitting and waiting on some laundry spinning.

Yesterday, was the charity bike ride for Breathe California. To assuage the general liberal guilt of our double-income-no-kids, indulgent lifestyle, what with dining on organic, free-range tapas accompanied by a light, chilled California whites the night before, I ponied up a bit of cash.

With the do-gooder matching that my own not-for-profit employer kicks in, I was eligible for a biking jersey. The back story to my desire to own such an item is pure hypocrisy. I work and live near a stretch of road given to brightly colored, spandex clad bicyclists. You see enough douchebags with thousand-dollar bikes rocking hundred-dollar gear wrapped in bright colors you start noticing. Mostly, I’ve noticed among the well-heeled folk in my neighborhood, active but aging and softening around the middle, much like myself, that spandex is a fucking unforgiving fabric.

One ounce of fat in lycra is the appearance of one thousand pounds of jiggling, stretched chubbiness.

So, I have mine.

Here’s me sporting my new polyester colors yesterday, while walking through a Bastille Day celebration at the local French cafe.

The bike ride was fun. I have no sense of direction whatsoever, which is well-documented and astonishes those who know me as otherwise relatively not retarded, for M. and our buddy Bob, though, I expected better. One way or another we added a couple miles onto my odometer through a misturn or two, so we clocked a 20-mile ride rather than the mapped course of 18. I hope those little kids with asthma appreciate our extra effort.

Here’s a few photos of our not-quite-at-all epic journey by bicycle.

Nature:

Getting ready:

Riding:

Resting: