“Narc” began as a slang term for a
narcotics officer, presumably someone who is a member of law enforcement, but
it eventually evolved into the more universal meaning of anybody who turns somebody
in for doing something wrong. I wasn’t sure which definition this guy believed me
to be as he yelled into the crowd. Could I be a cop? Sure. I suppose. But
couldn’t anybody be a cop? Though, in my case, it did seem unlikely, seeing
that my hair was long—almost touching my shoulders—and my beard was scraggly.
Not typically what one thinks of when they picture a cop.
Could I be somebody who was going to turn him in for
doing something wrong? Most definitely. But again, couldn’t anybody? I mean,
what distinguishes a “narc” from anybody else? And how could I even know that
he was doing anything wrong? The fact that he was yelling “narc” at someone,
regardless of who they were, was in itself a telltale sign that he was in fact doing something wrong—a clear
admittance on his part.
But back to me—why me? What could have set this guy
off to believe that I was out to get him? I doubt it was my hair or beard. After
all, his wasn’t much different than mine. Could it be my bicycle? But everybody
there had bikes. Perhaps my clothes? No. Impossible. Because I wasn’t wearing
any. Nobody was. In fact, of the thousands of people gathered at the
riverfront, the only people who were
wearing clothes was the man pointing at me and his posse of a half-dozen delinquents
now standing next to him, all of whom were by now convinced that I was a narc—a
bare naked narc.
There’s no term for the science of
counting crowds, so I’m going to make one up—crowdology. Now, I’ve never
claimed to be a crowdologist, but from my experience at rock concerts and music
festivals, I would estimate around 10,000 people at the park. To put that in
perspective, that’s about half the amount of spectators that would fit in a professional
basketball arena. This may already seem like a very large number, but when you
add the fact that nearly all of these people are naked, then things suddenly
seem a lot more interesting. If we assume that there are as many males as there
are females, then instead of thinking of the crowd as 10,000 naked people, we
can think of it as 5,000 penises and 10,000 boobs. Which brings us yet to
another new term: Nudistry—the science of counting naked people.
Though I did not attend Woodstock,
or any of its subsequent anniversary concerts, I can assume that the festivals
had a similar feel to Normandale Park on this warm night in June. Music is
streaming from all directions, body paint is prevalent, and the aroma of
recreational drugs is in the air. And did I mention that everyone is naked. Just
after 9pm, we strip down, the men to nothing, the women in our party, to their
bottoms, and we hop on our bikes and ride. We’re able to start rather close to
the front of the group where a marching band is playing and the streets are
lined with spectators, most of whom seem to be as—or more—excited than those of
us riding. After a slow start, we’re finally on our bikes and pedaling, the
wind blowing through our hair, even those of us wearing helmets—The World Naked
Bike Ride has officially begun.
Though naked bicycle riding has a
long history, the World Naked Bike Ride was conceived in 2004, by Conrad
Schmidt, an activist in Vancouver, Canada, who was the coordinator for the Work
Less Party of British Columbia. The first WNBR featured participation from 28
cities, in 10 countries, on 4 continents. By the turn of the decade, the ride
would expand to 74 cities, in 17 countries. Initially the ride was formed as a
protest against oil dependency, though it eventually shifted focus to bicycle
advocacy. Apparently, riding naked represents how vulnerable cyclists are on
streets filled with automobiles. Personally, I believe most people are here
just to have a good time, but since it is
a “protest,” it’s entirely legal under our First Amendment rights. The Portland
Police Department even corks traffic at nearly every cross street throughout
the entire route, no doubt pissing off unsuspected drivers who weren’t aware
the ride was taking place. But on the bright side, if you are forced to wait in
your car, what better way to pass time than to watch thousands of naked people
ride by on bikes?
As for the party that I arrived
with, well, it’s very easy to get split up when you’re riding in a group consisting
of thousands of people. My friend Colin immediately disappeared. (Even as I
write this, I have no idea what happened to him.) Kelly, who we all thought
was a bit reserved, has suddenly discovered the art of high-fiving. Before the
ride started she was debating whether or not she was even going to take off her
shirt, let alone her bra. Now, she is completely topless and high-fiving every
spectator she can get her hand on. It’s as if she grew up in a world where
high-fives were forbidden and for the first time in her life she has been
liberated. “You’ve got to try high-fiving,” she says to me. “It’s fun for you,
it’s fun for them, it’s just fun for everybody!”
My girlfriend and her friend are
simply riding, but her friend’s boyfriend possesses a specific skill that just
so happens to come in handy on a night like this. He used to hold the world
record for riding the longest wheelie on a bicycle and is not shy about showing
off his talent. I watch as he rides on one wheel, and then continues to ride,
and ride, and ride. Everybody around us can’t believe what they’re seeing, and
if it isn’t for a steep incline, it seems that he could keep it up forever. Seeing
someone do a wheelie for that long is strange, but seeing someone do a wheelie
for that long while completely naked is even stranger. And that isn’t even close
to being the strangest thing to be seen at the World Naked Bike Ride.
We’re almost to the finish—one last
huge descent and we’re home free. We’re going downhill at a pretty good clip
when I see the skateboard rolling across the street. It’s as if time freezes
for a moment and I am a physicist who can calculate the projection of objects
simply by looking at them. It’s going this speed, at that angle, in this
direction—straight towards my girlfriend’s front wheel. My girlfriend, who
until tonight has never ridden a bicycle in the dark, in a group, or naked. By
the time I pull over and look back she is on two feet, her bike straddled
sideways between her legs, the skateboard caught up in the mix. The kid unapologetically
grabs his board and takes off. Katelin wrestles her bike back to a standing position and I let out a huge sigh of relief, because that could have ended up so much
worse.
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