This article first appeared in the St. Louis Beacon, Aug. 6, 2008 - While I may tell some people that Jen and I intended all along to go on the naked bike ride on the first Friday in August, we actually sorta fell into it, joining nearly 300 people (some fully nude) cycling through St. Louis' Tower Grove Park, their little mounted safety lights blinking steadily in the pitch-black night.
Given rumors of blockades, arrests and other nonsense that would supposedly be enforced by the city police, I wanted to go and see the aftermath. Seeing 300 bare-skinned people getting wrangled and then thrown into a paddy wagon would be a once in a lifetime (maybe) event.
But we came to find the police acting as REinforcement, unamusedly blocking traffic for the calm flock of people, as if escorting us in our vulnerable state. Some riders were “granolas” supporting the elimination of gas from the public's consumption; others were “hoosiers,” who had seen the flyers up at their local food store and really really wanted to see naked people on bicycles; and still others were avid cyclists who enjoy any sort of mass ride, robed or otherwise. Many were painted with messages regarding Exxon's oil practices and touting the words, "Life is a Gas."
One man rode stark naked in shoes with clips, his bare ass, white compared to the rest of his tanned body, resting lightly upon the seat. I'm sure there is no explanation other than divine providence that I, more than once, ended up riding directly behind him.
At first we were hesitant, not being the kind of girls who just, suddenly, would take our shirts off. But once the ride began, and we saw the throngs of spectators lined up on the sidewalks, waiting to greet us as they would a presidential candidate, war hero or prince, our adrenaline rushed and our guardedness diminished. Thus came the strip down.
I took off mine mid-ride, looking forward to exposing my bra to the mid-summer heat. But in the process of doing so, the contents of my backpack spilled out, camera, phone and wallet each dropping behind me one by one, leaving a trail of necessities for the next rider to crush with their tires.
"Camera!" someone shouted! "Wallet!" another yelled. "Phone!" I looked back and found each passing cyclist pointing at my belongings, as you would to track an overboard passenger on a ship. I backpeddled and collected each item, all semi-unscathed, and hopped back on my bike, my new exposure's freedom taking hold.
As we rode toward Grand, I imagined seeing a boss or a former employer or my dad's friend on the sidelines, mouth agape as I shirtlessly rode next to the buck-naked guy with "Life is a Gas" painted on his back or the woman wearing a witch's hat and pasties. At least I'm not totally nude, I considered as we trekked past three friends, one whose girlfriend detests me, one I once almost dated, and another who is running for city political office. I proudly waved and yelled their names, the celebrity in me soaking in the stardom.
After two or three miles, I noticed the abundance of police cars riding with us, speeding past us and protecting us from oncoming traffic, whose drivers pointed and laughed at the preposterousness in front of them.
"I wonder how much crime is going unattended tonight," I joked with Jen, who had, by this time, taken off her shirt and grabbed a Schlafly from her bag. She laughed and posed for a picture I was taking with my previously dropped camera (which, by the way, survived).
A lot more men were in thongs than women. A lot more women wore tops than I expected. I saw several people stop their bikes and put on a shirt, either after having been hassled by the police or to avoid a potential order. Riders had bells and whistles and horns and one man even rode an elevated bike with a puppet-like camel attached to the front that he could move by shaking his handle bars. Another man had on underwear reminiscent of something Adam would have worn in his Garden of Eden.
By the time we got to 14th Street by way of Lafayette Square, we were riding like a pack of professionals, weaving the streets comfortably, signaling with our hands at turns and yelling "STOOOOP!" each time we approached a red light or a stop sign that needed to be obeyed. The camaraderie was fascinating, invigorating and pleasing, as these mass rides can breed debauchery and drunken stupors. That night, Jen and I were the only ones I saw drinking and we were quite responsible.
We rode through the new development at 14th and Chouteau where we were, again, greeted with hoots and hollers and families clapping as some of their children rushed streetside in hopes of catching a glance of someone their parents most likely referred to as "crazy" or "naked."
We passed the nearly over Cardinals game downtown, seeing tourist after tourist in front of the hotels near the Arch. An interesting introduction to the city, I thought. We rode down Washington Avenue where the club-goers were just getting their start, and seeing the pure joy in their faces as we peddled past was something I wish I had gotten on camera. When I pulled out my flask to take a swig of Tanqueray, I heard someone squeal with delight at my insolence, which I only viewed as a necessary measure to hydrate myself during the 15-mile ride.
As we turned back West on Olive and headed to Vandeventer where the ride would soon end, I thought about the pride this instilled in so many of us. "Welcome to St. Louis!" we shouted as we passed those out-of-towners in their hotel lobbies. We were showing them, through exposure and body paint and proud smiles, that this was our city, and it allowed, if not supported, this sort of thing on a Friday night in the middle of summer. Naked or not, we were St. Louis.
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Sarah Truckey is a freelance writer.