On a clear, brisk Sunday afternoon, hundreds of nattily dressed people stitched up in clothes meant to evoke the early 20th century hopped on bicycles—most of which were constructed in this century—for a ride through D.C. Yes, the annual Tweed Ride happened yesterday, with the stylish young things of Dandies and Quaintrelles meandered from downtown D.C. through Logan Circle and finally to Ian and Eric Hilton’s old-timey-England restaurant The Brixton. The pageboy caps and Burberry tartans in the albumen prints on the walls matched those worn by the riders, some participants surely told themselves.

Much was sent to Instagram, many tweets were shed (and, yes, they were written with a certain small-minded myopia), burlap-colored blazers and argyle hosiery filled the roads, and plenty of swagger was jacked. Perhaps there were renaissance bros, seeking out an “intellectual box social,” among the bow-tie-clad peloton.

Yeah, the Tweed Ride. It is what it is. Between it and the puppet march on Saturday, last weekend was like some kind of goddamned hipster apocalypse.