Tan Lines.
Something we don't have a lot of in Alaska is suntans. We have a lot of sun in the summer, but it rarely results in impressive suntans. The only time I got any significant sun was during ski camps, where the reflected sunlight often led to more burn than tan.
Down here in Biloxi, the sun is a little different. Judging by the amount of leathery skin present in these parts, it would have to be. After a few weeks in the area, the palest person of Scandinavian descent ends up with skin the color of rich, Corinthian leather that would make George Hamilton jealous. His orangeness, Donald Trump, wishes he looked he looked this naturally cooked.
Even my normally sickly-pale skin isn't immune to the sun here, and I've begun to develop actual tan lines. While my belly still retains the pallor of an Alaskan resident, the parts of my body not covered by cycling kit have started to bake. First the arm freckles all held hands and joined together, giving the appearance of an actual tan. Eventually the sun overcame my British Isles heritage and the skin tone deepened.
Nobody, and I mean nobody, would want to see what lies under the protection of my orange and black Speedway lycra. The tan lines aren't as crisp as they could be, owing to the varying lengths of jersies and shorts. They kinda fade to pale. Probably better this way, because it buffers the shock a bit.
Down here in Biloxi, the sun is a little different. Judging by the amount of leathery skin present in these parts, it would have to be. After a few weeks in the area, the palest person of Scandinavian descent ends up with skin the color of rich, Corinthian leather that would make George Hamilton jealous. His orangeness, Donald Trump, wishes he looked he looked this naturally cooked.
Even my normally sickly-pale skin isn't immune to the sun here, and I've begun to develop actual tan lines. While my belly still retains the pallor of an Alaskan resident, the parts of my body not covered by cycling kit have started to bake. First the arm freckles all held hands and joined together, giving the appearance of an actual tan. Eventually the sun overcame my British Isles heritage and the skin tone deepened.
Nobody, and I mean nobody, would want to see what lies under the protection of my orange and black Speedway lycra. The tan lines aren't as crisp as they could be, owing to the varying lengths of jersies and shorts. They kinda fade to pale. Probably better this way, because it buffers the shock a bit.
I'll be glad when these fade. They're like a tattoo from an unpleasant weekend in Atlantic City hooking up with Snookie after far too many Watermelon-Tequila Cocktails. Looking at them are a reminder that I'm in a place I really don't like, separated from my family for an extended period of time. I get to ride my bike more than I have in years, but that doesn't really even things out. Eventually your legs give out. You can only sleep so much. There's 24 of them thar hours in a day, and they can drag a bit in Mississippi.
My plan right now is to ride myself into a coma as often as possible to help the time pass. In this heat and humidity, it isn't all that hard.
Comments
Post a Comment