A, not The, Yellow Tricot

I was wearing a new fast dry short sleeve shirt last week when I stopped into Planet Fitness, PF for those of us in the know, on my way to work in the morning. It has no pocket so I have to put my passport and Tang in a pocket in my gym shorts.

That was my attempt at humor at the expense of the Planet Fitness people who have to endure a huge ribbing, often not especially good-natured, from other physical fitness operations because they are monstrously successful.

The shirt is made of "reprocessed polyester" as opposed to, I'm guessing now, "unprocessed polyester" or "repossessed polyester." There are no herds of esters out on the lone prairie being driven to the round-up as I understand the tale of industry and wonder that created polyester so while I appreciate the honesty of "reprocessed" unless this is something along the lines of refried beans, I'm not really seeing the whole flick.

I was tempted, while I had the yellow tricot of reprocessed polyester on, to NOT use the treadmill where I labor each morning in futile pursuit of my imaginary lost youth (I never had the form or shape I keep telling myself I once had, but damn, I'm persistent) and choose to ride an exercise cycle so I could strike a pose resembling Chris Froome.

The big challenge at the hour that I'm in PF, from about a quarter of four to a quarter of five in the morning, is finding someone to take the 'both hands and arms raised triumphantly over my head in spent ecstasy at the wonder of my achievement' picture. I have the camera, I just need the photographer. And one of those goofy sort of a painter's hat that all the cyclists wear.

I found no takers at all last week and I'm blaming that doped-up cheater Lance Armstrong. No one wanted to help an aspiring cyclist out as part of my PFPF (in this case, Pretty Funny Planet Fitness, or Punking F***ing Planet Fitness) project and so the world is one belly laugh lighter. That's how I'm seeing it, anyway.

So given the chance the other day to put down the very heavy piece of furniture he was lifting into the waiting van and help out a total stranger whom he didn't know from a partial stranger, reprocessed polyester and all, the stout fellow well-met didn't hesitate to lend a brother a hand.

No moving vans were harmed in the taking of this picture. That happened later.

I lift my water bottle in tribute to you kind sir! Next year, we'll ride in triumph under the Arc de Triomphe, at least in our imaginations.
-bill kenny