Keeping Portland weird with the World Naked Bike Ride

You've probably seen the pictures by now, the streets of Portland clogged by naked people riding bicycles. It's called the World Naked Bike Ride. I don't know any more about it than you do, even though they've been doing this since 2004, and I live here. I guess people take off their clothes and ride bicycles all around the world to inspire people to ride bikes (naked or clothed, I presume either one is ok). My guess is that even though Portland may not be the only city offering annual naked bike rides, Portlanders are probably the most enthusiastic, especially if the weather is fine.

Yesterday was a perfect day by Portland late spring standards: clear blue sky, 79°, really great weather to get sunburned on your ass if you aren't wearing shorts. I was wearing jeans, because I can now (lost a few pounds, yay me), and as I was driving through the neighborhood I came upon a small traffic jam. Was it an accident, a pedestrian...? Oh, wait. Gleaming bikes, glistening skin... yep, those people are starkers. I caught some fleeting glimpses of flopping genitalia and one tanned behind as the owner bent over to fix something on a fallen bike. Just slightly surreal, and then the drivers got over it and we all moved on. Just another wacky day in the city of weird.

I've had dreams before of traipsing through town in the altogether, thinking nothing of it, and then gradually coming to the disconcerting realization that no one was naked but me. Invariably in my dreams, true to my inner empress, I refused to indicate that anything was wrong, staring belligerently at anyone who raised an eyebrow. That feeling of isolation and alienation is my normal state when clothed, and I imagine it would be about a thousand times worse were I to be unclothed in public. Well, fortunately, you won't see me parading my lily-white cellulite-riddled skin out in the open anytime soon. I don't want to blind anyone. I don't even like to show my arms, flapping as they do in the breeze. I'll condescend to wear (long) shorts to go jogging sometimes, but only if the temperature exceeds 80°. Those are the rules. You have rules, too, don't deny it.

I used to live with a nihilist. We liked to travel around looking for natural hot springs. We found a few, many of which were clothing-optional. These secret pools were written about in books: Hot Springs of the West, etc. They were always at the ends of long dusty trails or situated high on the flank of a steep, snake-filled scree. People packed in beer and got high and sweaty, sitting up to their necks in steaming sulfur water. Yeah, those were some kind of days. My personal favorite was Hot Creek, a foggy confluence of a cold stream and hot geothermal water bubbling up from below. Every now and then, a fumarole would shift and boil some hapless bathers alive. Hence the large sign on the trail leading down to the river: Bathe at your own risk; 271 (or some ungodly number) people have died here. Nothing like fear of parboiling to really relax you on your vacation.

Being naked in public gives you a new perspective. Ask any two-year-old. The wind and sun on your skin, nothing between you and your human life. I can almost understand the appeal of nudist groups. Wouldn't it be nice to live in a world without judgment or shame? Until it gets cold and you have to put a shirt on. Back to the real world.