Fueled by a few glasses of wine, my group of five women and I waited with our bikes on the sidewalk of East Burnside, the main street that bisects Portland, Oregon. Finally, with the sun low behind, we saw them: a teeming mass of cyclists crossing the Burnside Bridge. We immediately started taking off our clothes and stuffing them in panniers. The people on the street around us had no idea what was happening and stared in disbelief as we disrobed, seemingly without reason.
Earlier that morning I had never even heard of the World Naked Bike Ride. I had expected this evening to be spent at my friend’s bachelorette party; the email invite talked about a few friends getting together for food and wine. It sounded fun and I expected to be home by 11pm.
But this was not to be.
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