The clouds moved out early in the day, giving way to sunshine and blue sky. Both turned the knob on the gas stove, heating the pot of energy in my belly. I have been waiting three quarters for this Friday. A day to bask in the sun, ride bikes, dance, paint, swim -- all while being naked. One day a year the residents of Bellingham line the streets of downtown to cheer as a vulnerable slug of naked bikers roll through the streets.
You may be thinking, “dirty hippy.” But before you judge, you should understand what the ride is all about.
The naked bike ride is like life.
Arriving at "The Hub," a local bike shop, you are clothed, timid and a tad scared. One hundred or so people stand before you painting each other’s naked bodies. You strip to your underwear, and as the elastic band that holds your last article of clothing falls, so do all societal norms.
A naked body is a canvas. Every person has different curves that, when accentuated, redefine self-image. The back is beautiful. Lines run from the tips of both collarbones to the spine where they meet at the base of the neck. As your brush arrives, the hardness of bone becomes clear. You follow the seemingly unbreakable calcium discs down the spine to showcase soft lines of cascading muscle.
Seeing lines in the chest is more difficult. Again, lines start at the ends of the collarbones. Again, the lines meet at the base of the neck. But at this juncture, instead of being greeted with the hardness of bone, the brush falls into a flesh-filled valley where the esophagus drops into the chest cavity. This is my favorite part of the body. It reminds us how fragile we are.
Assembled, bikes at the ready, buns out and bodies painted, the ride leaves to parade around town. Hundreds, if not thousands, of people line the streets of downtown to get a glimpse, a video, or a picture of the riders. They are the best fans in the world. Instead of filling grandstands, they cram on sidewalks to cheer and wave at passing riders. Some stand quietly, almost looking offended. Mothers tend to their children, encouraging them not to sexualize the riders, and police keep a close, clothed eye on the event.
The parade ends where it started and final announcements are made: “Stay together. Dance party starts in an hour. Have fun, and thank you!” Some go straight to the dance party, others go home and a few ride down to the end of the board walk to jump in the bay. Jumping in the bay is almost necessary to wash off the paint, but for the most part, it is just a continuation of the parade. Naked young people jumping into the ocean is fun to watch.
At the dance party, clothing is optional and the food is free. The sun has set by this point, and with its disappearance comes "The Strange." "The Strange" is individuality practiced at its highest level. There are no “dance moves” when you are dancing naked around a fire, just rhythm. Flow.
You come to the bike ride confident and clothed. You enter the fray nude and vulnerable only to be accepted, championed and exalted by hundreds. With the confidence of many, you jump in the bay to wash the final hint of a false identity only again to be accepted and cherished. After some nourishment from food, you enter the dance party completely as yourself. Not needing to be accepted by anyone, rhythm comes as the fear of judgment fades to less than a shadow. With tired feet, sleep comes easy.
We often experience life struggles this way. We engage a problem head on and confident only to find that it is seemingly indomitable. As we strip away our preconceived ideas of how to solve the problem, we understand and recognize the nuances that make the problem. After all of our judgments have been set aside, we find a rhythm of thought we always knew was there. Now you start to conquer. Your self-confidence grows until the pride of accomplishment and the weightlessness of identity washes over you. On these nights, sleep comes easy and deep.
