ˌɪnkənˈspɪkjʊəs : wearing a red hat with mirrored glasses on a red bike with a bag in the front that says ‘ola’, covered in sunscreen and glitter during naked bike ride.
Aside from the lecherous dirty old (and young) men element the naked bike ride on Sunday was a largely joyful, fun, ridiculous endeavour. It may have shocked or offended a few unsuspecting bystanders. For most participants and observers it was a frivolous smile inducing spectacle.
However, the serious point is the awareness of the vulnerability of cyclists. Groups of people being nude in public is not expected. It shocks. Though we’re all nude underneath the veneer of clothing, to see the wobbly bits of a stranger is strange. Being a person who gets about by bike is strange. Not only a fair target for ridicule, but for serious violence. Threatened vocally or meted out by the force of a vehicle forcing you under their wheels.
I’m kind of used to it and try to shrug it off. A raised arm in disbelief. A swear to the air. A tut and shake of the head to try and assert my moral superiority against the close-passing, attention deficient, space hogging, entitled prick behind the wheel. Then there’s times like this morning. Big guys in big cars delayed to that red light ahead by a second or two who need to assert their dominance. That road is made for cars mate. Big fucking cars. Four by fours with livery for my carpentry company. Proper job mate! Proper car pal! No social deficiency with me you pansy pencil neck peddle pusher. I do what I want and I will “kick your fucking head in” if you in any way whatsoever intervene on me doing exactly as I please where I please when I please.
Of course I will shout that threat as I’m driving off!
What I guess really sucks with me is that this whole incident happens in front of a red light. As we approach, as he unnecessarily and in all too close proximity overtakes and cuts me up, as I say “that was a bit of a wank move mate” while I glide to a stop at the bike lights. And then in the minute or two we wait in our respective lanes and I take a deep breath, all too obviously apparent in his view over toward the glimmering sea in the morning sun. As the left turn lane turns Green he must exclaim how he’d love to kick my fucking head in. Whhhhy? This aggression will not stand. It will though, it will sit with me all day. I shouldn’t be so soft. I shouldn’t ride a bike. I shouldn’t have a stupid fucking haircut and bright floral shirt. I should work with my hands, toughen up and get a 4x4.
I am exposed. Fully clothed, but totally exposed. I’ve taken chances on a bike before. I’ve been the cause of much misplaced ire here and there. It only takes another split second of extra effortage for that vehicle to completely physically crush me. No amount of safety gear or flexi-bollard can stop that. It’s scary!
A final note on the immediate and resonating response to the person responsible is that all my retorts were far from the body-positive aspirations of the naked bike ride. Accepting and Celebrating all body types and appendages is somewhat at odds with a number of the insults I wanted to throw that carpenters way!
