Some thoughts on watching hundreds of naked cyclists go by on a “World Naked Bike Ride” ;
I love bikes. I love people, mostly. I love bodies, mostly. Naked bodies on bikes. Tops. Mostly.
I’ve always thought of bikes being an extension of bodies. Those posters of apes evolving into humanoids and then humanoids evolving into bicycle riders aren’t just funny, they’re true. Those two wheels are the fifth and sixth limbs of man and woman and seeing hundreds of naked people cycle round a city centre on a hot saturday afternoon was fruity social biology. I love the way that the flab and cellulite flaps and bops and wobbles with an endless variety that is mimicked by the endless spectrum of fancy dress bicycles.
Humans used to be hairy apes, then they became less hairy cyclists, and soon all the hair and skin will go and we’ll just be skeletons riding around on bikes. And everyone will see that the bike frame is just the bones of the body elaborated. And soon enough the bike bones and body bones will mingle and we’ll all be wheeling along like Chorlton and the Wheelies (1970s “kids” programme about the surreal unicyclist creatures fight against a kettle witch.)
What I don’t like about naked bike rides are some of the fully clothed responses. The bald guy with a pint outside the roadside pub laughing and pointing at the genitalia rolling by.
Your bald head looks like genitalia. But I don’t point.
I’m stripping off my lycra.
I’m riding to the beach.
I’m cycling off the pier edge.
I’m cycling the sea bed.
To meet my starfish friends.
The bald headed guy can sit on his deck chair sinking cans of Tenants.
I know where the fun is.
With the seaweed and the bike bells and the bums.
Cycling back to the reptiles.
Revolving back through evolution.
To meet my naked friends.