The Dead Zone Century, Saturday, August 25th, read the flier posted in the bicycle shop. Three additional paragraphs outlined the 100 mile ride; the route, what to bring: sunscreen, lots of water and high-energy snacks. I can't speak for others but for me a recreational ride like this is a welcome breakaway from the everyday routine. Many times I have participated this annual ride through the forested hill country and each time I had a blast meeting new folks, many of whom became good friends. As a young kid, a bicycle was my ticket to freedom. As an adult, a bicycle was my ticket to a healthy lifestyle and rewarding social engagement.
Bright and early on the Saturday before classes began at the university, 85 cyclists from every walk of life, townsfolk and college students alike, gathered in the small park beside the bike shop. Even His Honor the mayor showed up to ride. He set an example for the entire town by cycling to work at city hall whenever the weather was fit.
The ride wasn't a race but most of the cyclists were dressed like it was the final stage of the Tour de France. On that warm humid morning, a long file of colorfully clad cyclists wound their way through campus, into the suburbs then onto country roads that would take us 100 miles before day's end.
On group rides, one naturally gravitates toward cyclists with comparable fitness levels which translates to similar riding speeds. Within the first 15 miles I had settled into a moderately fast pace with a group composed of three men, friends from previous rides, and two alluring young women I had never met. Both girls wore identical team jerseys emblazoned with colorful corporate logos, stylish matching helmets and hot pink bike shorts. Riding behind them was sublimely pleasant, watching their buff buttocks flexing beneath gossamer thin layers of spandex. Mmmm!
The nature of the ride didn't offer any opportunity to indulge my compulsion to flash 'em save for bulging in my black bike shorts. Too bad.
But then I got to thinking: There might be a way.
To become acquainted with first timers on The Dead Zone Century, I always made it a point to initiate conversation. Intermittent small talk revealed that Jen and Patty were amateur bicycle racers, training for the September critérium. Both of them incoming freshmen at the university, neither were familiar with rural roads in the region. Having seen the flier posted in the bike shop, they figured that joining the ride would be a great way to meet local cyclists and conquer some killer hills.
Despite their diminutive statures, both girls were accomplished cyclists and superbly conditioned athletes. When encountering steep hills, both leaped off the saddle to stand on the pedals and aggressively attack the inclines. And both pulled their share of the load up front leading blistering pacelines across the flats, their long blonde ponytails whipping in the wind. Although I was fifteen years their senior, I had no trouble matching pace with those strong young women. No way was I going to let them break away. Not if my flashing plan had any chance of succeeding.
The girls came looking for hills and they found plenty. Shortly after departing the midway rest stop at Grampy's general store, we came to a legendary stretch of road, the ride's namesake, The Dead Zone: seventeen continuous miles of hill after insanely steep killer hill. Even in cool weather those torturous climbs test one's stamina. In the sweltering heat of late August, each snail's pace ascent felt like desperately clawing your way out of hell. Up and down, up and down, on and on we went.
Patty seemed to be managing okay in the oppressive heat but not Jen; she fell off the pace and her breathing became labored. Crossing a bridge over a small creek, Jen looked over the rail into the water below and commented, "Oooh! That looks sooo good!" which I interpreted as expressing desire to plunge her overheated body into cooling refreshment.
Not that I enjoyed watching Jen struggle, but her distress played right into my hand. I knew the countryside intimately. A few miles ahead a turnoff led to a popular swimming hole on Big Sandy Creek where I had skinny-dipped for decades. If I could persuade the girls to take a break there, I would be able to flash them. After all, swimming is quite appropriately done in the nude. At least in my opinion. And who knows, might Jen be so desirous of a cooling plunge that she would skinny-dip as well? Patty too? Hopefully yes on both counts.
Anticipation!
On a short stretch of flat road, I pulled up beside Jen who was riding single file behind Patty.
I spoke up. "Before long, we'll be comin' to a great place to go swimming!"
Jen smiled weakly and looked at me through the mirrored lens of her wraparound sunglasses. "Really?" But just as quickly as her smile blossomed, it withered. "But I didn't bring a swimsuit." She sounded genuinely disappointed.
"Awww, you don't need one there," I assured. "It's really secluded."
Jen didn't say a word. She downshifted and kept pedaling, her tunnel vision fixed on Patty's rear wheel as if weighing the gravity of my proposal and mulling her options.
At length, she said, "Like, is that okay? I mean, I don't wanna get in trouble or anything."
"You won't. I've gone skinny-dippin' there for years. It's cool."
My comment didn't address her question about the legality of being unclothed on public land but it planted the idea that casual nudity on the Big Sandy was commonplace. It was. (And still is) I was optimistic because she seemed more concerned about legality than modesty.
Patty overheard our conversation. She glanced over her shoulder and piped up. "Jen, you wanna stop?"
Jen thought for a moment. "Yeah. I really need t' cool down."
Explosive anticipation!
Another grueling climb followed by a swift descent into a deep, forested valley brought us to the Big Sandy turnoff. A half-mile of crumbling pavement on the abandoned road led to a dead-end turnaround where remnants of a late-night party, scores of empty beer cans, littered the ground. Wisps of hardwood smoke curled from the smoldering embers of a nearly dead campfire. No cars were parked; no other skinny-dippers there. Unusual for such a sultry day but it wasn't yet noon.
Jen and Patty didn't know me from Adam; they had met me only three hours before, yet they had no qualms about following me down that dead-end lane into the woods. Had either of them been alone I doubt they would have done so, but together they possessed strength in numbers.
Five minutes of walking our bikes along a narrow trail amid the lowland deciduous forest delivered us to our destination: a broad sandbar shaded beneath spreading sycamores. Across the way, a sandstone bluff, festooned with ferns and ivy, rose past the treetops toward the hazy summer sky. Between the two flowed the Big Sandy, deep, cold and inviting. Eden on the last day of creation.
"Here we are ladies, nudie heaven! Do whatever strikes yer fancy."
Patty chuckled at my portrayal of the place then leaned her bike against a sycamore log. I wasted no time in removing my helmet, sunglasses and cleats. Jen did likewise but that's as far as she went. Only now, with her helmet off, did I get an accurate read on her height; barely five feet, just up to my shoulder.
Neither girl undressed as though they had changed their minds and weren't going swimming. I couldn't understand why. Who could resist a refreshing plunge on such a hot sultry day? Did they believe I was nothing but a prankster, that my motive for taking a break was just a ploy to get their clothes off? (Uhhh, well . . . ) Or were they waiting for me to strip first before following suit?
I peeled off my jersey. Jen's blue eyes shot right to my hairy chest. "You going in?" she asked.
