Forever on Our Mind: Baring It All at the World Naked Bike Ride
In which I face my fears alongside 10,000 nude cyclists
04. Baring It All at the World Naked Bike Ride
June 2016:
A few questions come to mind as I ride to Mount Scott Park in Southeast Portland, where the 2016 World Naked Bike Ride will commence. In no particular order, those questions include:
Will I have the guts to go fully nude?
What if I see someone I know?
What do I do with my balls? Do they rest on the seat? That sounds painful. Do they dangle like real-life truck nuts?
What if I crash? Is applying Neosporin to my scraped-up scrotum as painful as it sounds?
Will anyone point and laugh at my potbelly, covered in stretch marks, or gawk at my pimply manboobs?
No, seriously: Will someone, anyone, make fun of me?
As long as I’ve been old enough to know that my body isn’t shaped like most others, I've never had an easy or comfortable relationship with my outward appearance. Some of my baggier shirts double as tarps, while others cling to my core like tighty-whiteys; a potential match on OkCupid once expressed fear that an overweight man might fall and smother her during sex; and high-school classmates occasionally asked how—not whether—I was related to the namesake orca in “Free Willy.”
I've lost—and kept off—more than 50 pounds over the past decade and generally lead a healthy lifestyle today. I spend a few days each week in the gym, hike when I can, and try to be smart about what I order off DoorDash (and how often). But those scars—and stretch marks—remain.
I’ve tried for years to work through some of that shame, whether through therapy, blogging about weight loss, or working up the courage to disrobe in my gym’s locker room without ducking into a bathroom stall. Yet I can think of no more dramatic way to attack that embarrassment than to strip down and take part in Portland’s World Naked Bike Ride, which routinely attracts roughly 10,000 nude and semi-nude cyclists who ride past nearly as many onlookers.
The ride is one of about 100 clothing-optional events around the world designed to highlight the vulnerability of cyclists on busy roadways, promote body positivity, and decry our collective dependence on Big Oil. Portland’s first naked bike ride attracted 125 riders in 2004, and that number swelled to more than 10,000 by 2014.
The World Naked Bike Ride might be a worldwide event, but it feels like something out of the “Keep Portland Weird” playbook; the Oregon Constitution is especially protective of free speech—even more so than the First Amendment—which means that public nudity is generally allowed throughout the state (provided you aren’t engaging in sexual acts or stripping down with "with the intent of arousing the sexual desire of the person or another person,” per state law). The city of Portland has established laws against public nudity, but the World Naked Bike Ride is considered a protest, rendering it a surprisingly legal event.
The broader significance of the ride gets pushed aside by gnawing doubts as I pedal toward the starting line. On one hand, going nude will no doubt feel similar to my first time dancing at a wedding; I worried then that everyone judged every step and sashay, yet I looked around and noticed that my friends were having too much fun on their own to care about my two left feet. But if I strip down only to my boxers later tonight, will I be the odd one out? Must I go fully nude for the essential World Naked Bike Ride experience?
As it turns out: Yes, yes I must. The first person I see upon arriving at Mount Scott Park is a Santa Claus doppelganger, his presents completely unwrapped more than 20 minutes before the ride. If he can strip down completely, so can I.
Not that I actually get naked right away. Rather, I lean my bicycle against a tree, remove all but my boxers, stash my shorts and T-shirt in a backpack, and resolve to take that final step later.
In the meantime, I walk around and marvel at the celebratory pre-ride circus, where balls and breasts are as common as crisp Damian Lillard jerseys at Portland Trail Blazers games. One woman wears little more than underwear and a Portland Timbers scarf, with midfielder Diego Chara’s name and jersey number painted across her back. Another man wears a necktie and nothing else. Over at the playground, one couple rides a tandem bike in the buff while others take turns on the swingset. Off in the distance, Macklemore’s “Thrift Shop” blares from a portable sound system.
My excitement ebbs and flows like an ocean tide. At times, I revel in not tugging at a one-size-too-small T-shirt and enjoy the surprising freedom that comes from wearing underwear in public; it’s the same dangerous thrill that comes from driving 90 MPH on a deserted freeway late at night. Then again, this isn’t the World Semi-Naked Bike Ride.
A group to my right passes around a bottle of Jameson; they have the right idea, though I’m far too modest to ask for a shot. Another woman nervously sips a can of Rainier. One could conceivably contract a contact high from the sheer amount of weed smoke in the air. I avoid eye contact and text with friends.
After a few minutes, a crowd roars in the distance. The World Naked Bike Ride has begun.
Clumps of riders race to the starting line. One man rides by, his body painted green and affixed only with two saucer-sized stars clinging to his lower back. He encourages the few riders still partially dressed: “It’s time to get naked, you fuckers! Take your fucking pants off!”
The moment I’ve alternately anticipated and dreaded for weeks is actually here. I look down at my seat, stop debating the relative merits of remaining clothed, think “Fuck it,” and walk my bike to the starting line—wholly naked, save for a helmet and shoes (both required by ride organizers).
I assumed the secret route might mean fewer onlookers but am disabused of that notion when I leave the park and turn toward the ride’s starting line on Woodstock Boulevard. There, hundreds of well-wishers have packed the sidewalk to send us off. News cameras roll, and a drum line gets both covered and naked butts shaking. Dozens of fully-clothed spectators clap, take iPhone photos, and dole out high fives like candy. All I can do is mutter “Holy shit” to no one in particular.
The rest of the ride is no less surreal or exhilarating. Sidewalk diners put down their pints and gawk as we ride by. Onlookers young and old encourage us en masse; stuck at an intersection, one woman leans out of her SUV and shouts, “You’re killing it!” We pass the New Seasons grocery store, where checkers stop scanning and customers crowd the store’s rooftop bar. Nearly every pub we pass empties out.
A few naked skateboarders and runners join the fray. Bicycle bells will ring in my head long after the ride ends. Every few minutes, a flamethrower at the front of the ride shoots fireballs into the sky. I keep pace at times with a man whose bike has been transformed into a three-foot-tall purple monster, complete with one blinking eye and mechanical jaw. (I will let readers make their own “one-eyed monster” joke here.) Elsewhere, I ride for a few minutes alongside four women wearing only blue paint; in a nod to a recurring joke from “Arrested Development”, a sign dangles from one of their bikes. It reads, “I just blue myself.”
If anyone notices me, they never let on. If anyone’s made fun of me, I haven’t heard. In fact, I forget about whatever demons I brought to the ride and become enamored by the bike-affixed boomboxes, enthusiastic sideline cheers, intricate body art, and roving sense of joyfulness that permeates every block of this five-mile ride.
Back in the real world, I’m the biggest guy wherever I go; here, I’m just one of a few thousand cyclists, all of whom happen to be naked. For the first time in my life, I fit in completely. Tonight, the fully-clothed onlookers are the weird ones.
The man in green paint catches up and shows no shame in embracing the spectacle: “You’re all fucking perverts!” he playfully yells to the crowds of bystanders. “And I want fucking high fives!” He rides up to the sidewalk, where a handful of viewers oblige.
The procession arrives at Sellwood Park around 10 p.m., signaling the end of the ride. I lean my bike against a tree, take off my helmet, and decide against dressing. I’ve gone this long without clothes, so what’s another few minutes?
I don’t know how I’ll feel when I wake up tomorrow; I know I can’t rewire 30 years of self-hatred, shame, desperation, loneliness, and insecurity in just one night. I don’t know if this is the spark that starts a fire inside of me—one that might burn bright enough to illuminate all there is to love about my beautiful body. I’m not sure whether the smoldering fire will burn itself out before I can stoke the embers with affirmation, continued therapy, and whole gas cans of self-love. It might become a fun story I tell at dinner parties and nothing more.
But I’ll worry about breakthroughs tomorrow. For now, I’ll pat myself on the sweaty back and take heart: I did it. No matter what happens when I wake up in the morning, I’ll always have tonight. I’ll always have the knowledge that I didn’t just stare down my demons; I mooned them for all the world to see. And while I don’t know what that will be worth, I know it will be enough.
I briefly consider wading into the heart of the dance party but decide I’ve had enough revelations for one night. So I take a deep breath, hop on my bike, and head home.
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