Breakaway

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A bicycle ride takes a delightful turn.
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eCaldwell
eCaldwell
22 Followers

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.

"Yeah!"

"And you're sure it's okay?"

"Definitely!"

Jen seemed indecisive. She glanced into the forest then up and downstream as though she wasn't quite sure the creek was sufficiently private for skinny-dipping. Moreover, her nervous behavior suggested this might be the first time she ever contemplated stripping off outdoors in mixed company.

Not wasting another second, I peeled down and off my black spandex bike shorts, leaving me starkers. Jen flicked her eyes onto my groin. Her worried expression morphed into a wide smile. Finally she was convinced that if I felt the creek was sufficiently private for skinny-dipping, that was good enough for her.

Jen turned her back and stripped so rapidly there was scarcely time to savor the spectacle of colorful spandex being peeled off her sweaty body. A fast, frenzied, multihued blur resulted in nakedness then she made a mad dash for the creek, hurtling some driftwood along the way. Flushed from the heat of her exertion, her bouncing bare buttocks were on fire, a mere shade lighter than her hot pink bike shorts! Running into the creek, she high-stepped as far as possible before ungracefully tumbling into deep water, completely submerging herself. Upon surfacing, she hollered, "Oh yeah! Totally worth it!" then cut loose with a primal howl that echoed through the forest.

Between fits of laughter Patty called out, "Hey Jen, I didn't know you were a nudist!"

Jen stopped splashing in the cooling comfort only long enough to shout, "I'm not!"

Ahhh, yes! College girls! Ya gotta love 'em!

Amid the bucolic scene dwelled underlying tension. Neither Jen or Patty seemed accustomed to being in the company of a naked man; both acted like they were uncertain where to aim their eyes. Standing nearby, Patty stole a quick glimpse then swung her attention toward the creek where Jen bobbed up and down in deep water.

I turned to Patty and asked, "You going in?"

"Nah, I'm good." She glanced at me again before turning away to retrieve Jen's discarded jersey and bike shorts. She draped the colorful spandex over the sycamore log on which she sat taking off her cleats. That done, she rolled up the cuffs of her bike shorts and waded into the creek to cool her hot legs and tired feet.

In my estimation, Jen was a newcomer to the practice of social nudity. Her verbal disclosure verified as much. While I stood on the sandbar, she occasionally glanced in my direction, but when I ambled toward the creek and got closer, she behaved as Patty had done and looked away, perhaps believing it was impolite to stare at my nakedness.

Into the creek I plunged and swam to where Jen was bobbing up and down in the deep pool carved out beneath the undermined roots of an ancient sycamore teetering on the opposite bank.

When she came up for air I said, "Yer not a nudist huh? Coulda fooled me!"

Treading water, she looked me in the eye and replied, "I've never been to a nudist camp if that's what you mean."

"It's not where you go. It's an attitude."

She thought for a moment. "Well, bein' naked's not that bad. Not really."

"Sounds like you got the attitude!"

Jen grinned then drew a deep breath and submerged herself again, seeking the deepest, coldest water.

Having modestly turned her back while undressing, I beheld nothing but Jen's cute butt as she ran toward the creek. A stirring vision indeed, but I desired a comprehensive overview of this spirited nymph. I knew how I might achieve it.

When Jen came up for air I asked, "You wanna go jump off the ledge?"

She looked up at the bluff where layer upon layer of sandstone formed a natural staircase leading to a prominent ledge fifteen feet above the creek. I had jumped off there many times.

"Sure!" she bubbled, "Let's go!"

Out of the creek I clambered onto the rocks then began climbing the bluff. Jen followed close behind and I swear, I felt her eyes burning my butt. At the top, I turned around and found her climbing the final few steps unreservedly full frontal. Her sustained gaze met mine as though she felt no concern that I was visually ravishing her body. And more to the point, she seemed to enjoyed it. Her initial blush of embarrassment was long gone, displaced by her newly acquired attitude.

For a moment we lingered on the ledge peering down into the abyss, time allowing leisurely appreciation of Jen's athletic physique. Her tan lines suggested a preference for sleeveless tops. Shorts she wore often, especially bike shorts; the darkest tan anywhere on her body were small patches directly atop her knees. Confirming her declaration of being a novice nudist, her creamy white bikini shadow gleamed brightly even in the deep shade of Eden.

Jen's tiny button nipples seemed a perfect fit on her smallish breasts. How shrunken they appeared, a consequence of an extremely low body fat content resulting from a rigorous training regime. Charming they were in a young girl sort of way, as if her breast development had ceased during puberty while the rest of her body, and mind, matured.

To prevent chafing where my anatomy contacts the bike saddle, I shave my perineum and testicles. Having no hair grinding between my skin and the padded chamois in my bike shorts makes for comfortable long-distance cycling. For that same reason, I presume, Jen shaved also. From a cyclist's viewpoint, she was fortunate to have meaty outer labia that pinched tightly, completely enveloping and protecting her sensitive inner folds from the ravages of saddle soreness.

From the sandbar across the way, Patty trained her eyes on the ledge and projected her voice. "Shoulda brought my camera!"

"Eeek!" Jen squeaked then clamped both hands over her vulva. The mock embarrassment lasted for all of two seconds before she released her grip and made eye contact. "Good thing she didn't bring a camera. Don't need my boyfriend seein' a picture of this!"

"So jump already!" Patty shouted.

Jen looked down. "Is it deep enough?"

"Yeah, ten feet at least but your feet might touch bottom."

She took a deep breath then leaped feet first into the void but her style was less than stellar: legs spread a bit too wide.

Surfacing, she whined, "Ohhh . . . owww . . . " Treading water, Jen had no option but to listen to Patty's diabolical laughter. I had to chuckle: those two must have been a hoot to hang out with no matter what the occasion.

I took the leap and my toes lightly touched the sandy bottom. When I surfaced, my balls ached, but not as a result of jumping from such height.

Only ten minutes longer we stayed in the water, sufficient cooling time but short enough to prevent leg cramps from setting in. Nevertheless, I was experiencing other stiffness. Out of the creek and onto the sandbar we strolled, Jen squeezing water out of her long blonde ponytail and me pleasingly plump, a half-cocked condition both girls noticed. Their only reaction: subtle grinning and silently glancing at one other. I would have given a king's ransom to know what they were communicating using their spooky female telepathy.

Neither of us had a towel so we putzed around for five minutes drying in the breeze, more time to appreciate Jen's beautiful bare body. With both hands, she swept sheets of water off her skin; down her arms, legs, and off large expanses of her torso. Gently she flicked grains of sand off her small rosy nipples, all the while unconcerned that I was watching.

Yeah, she had the attitude. Amazing how fast it takes root.

All of my adult life I have pursued active outdoor recreational sports. Many of the adventurous women I've had the pleasure of meeting along the way have been amenable to casual nudity in mixed company if their primary concern of safety is addressed; safety of their person and safety in terms of the law. Whenever those two areas are covered, oftentimes the stage is set for them to feel secure enough to uncover their bodies. Jen fit that profile.

Skintight spandex comes off easily even when sweat soaked; you simply peel it inside out. However, when it's damp and your skin is too, it's almost impossible to pull on. Jen's hot pink bike shorts went on grudgingly, a task which took considerable tugging and hip wiggling before full coverage was finally achieved. Her jersey proved to be equally daunting.

"Help!" she hollered, laughing, when the jersey got stuck trying to slip it on over her head. Appearing like a headless, topless torso, she staggered aimlessly until Patty came to her aid, and even then with both of them tugging the jersey resisted their efforts, requiring follow-up adjustment to align the fabric properly and smooth it down. By then I was already dressed so the full mast of my arousal was evident only by the bulge in my black bike shorts. Watching an alluring young woman get dressed is nearly as arousing as watching her strip off.

Everyone covered and our vitality restored, the bicycle trek resumed. Before long, the oppressive heat hammered down with renewed vengeance, rendering the cool respite in Big Sandy but a distant memory. However, vivid images of Jen naked and Patty glancing lingered far down the road.

Weather for the September critérium was perfect; sunny and comfortably mild. Dozens of cyclists wearing garish racing get-ups milled around the start/finish area of the short, twisting, turning street course laid out downtown. While the men's race was proceeding, I found Jen and Patty warming up and stretching amid a group of friends.

"Go Jen! Go Patty!" I hollered.

Jen's blue eyes found me in the crowd and she waved. "Hey!"

She pointed me out to a male companion (boyfriend?) and stated, "That's him!"

The good-looking fellow approached me. "You're Ed, right?"

"Yeah."

He shook my hand. "Hey, thanks for givin' Jen the heads-up on that cool swimmin' hole! We drove out there yesterday."

"Yer welcome! Tell all your friends. More the merrier."

I turned to Jen and half-whispered, "So, are you a nudist yet?"

She shrugged. "Well, I guess." She seemed a tad embarrassed, but not terribly, that her friends overheard my question.

The guy smiled big time. "Yeah, she is!" He gave me a thumbs up.

Jen looked me in the eye and grinned. Another convert!

Fifty colorfully clad, athletic young women straddle their bicycles and line up for the start of the race. Forty laps to go, 22.5 miles. Jen and Patty breath deep, priming their muscles with oxygen. Gripping the drop handlebars, they stare straight ahead through the mirrored lenses of their wraparound sunglasses. Intense focus.

The race official raises the starting gun: BANG! They're off! Round and round they go, lap after lap, rainbow blurs and whirrrrrrrrs of rolling rubber. "Go Jen! Go Patty!" I shout each time the girls flash past. Midway through, five riders on a breakaway lead the peloton by a wide margin. Other cyclists attack, trying to catch the breakaway, but fail and fall back. Jen and Patty mount a feverish tandem attack, lap after lap pacing each other faster and faster, inch by inch gaining ground on the breakaway. Speeding through a tight corner, Patty's rear wheel gets loose; she can't hold the line and without warning, BAM! crashes hard. Very hard. Ouch!

Her teammate sidelined, Jen continues attacking, a gutsy solo effort, steadily advancing . . . the goal in sight . . . finally catching the breakaway with two laps remaining. She tucks in behind and hangs tight. "GO JEN!!!" I can barely hear my own excited voice above Jen's screaming friends.

One lap to go, then, here they come into the home stretch! Every rider leaps off the saddle for the final sprint; muscles straining, faces grimacing, lungs heaving, everyone pedaling like mad!

Jen didn't have enough leg to get over the hump and finished a respectable third. So she didn't come in first place. So what? In my book she's still a winner!

eCaldwell
eCaldwell
22 Followers
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5 Comments
lowkeyonelowkeyoneover 8 years ago
GOOD STORY.

Thanks again.

SandraMustardSandraMustardover 11 years ago
Welcome to Literotica

I'm pleased that you accepted my advice to bring your excellent writings to this site.

AnonymousAnonymousover 11 years ago
Factual validity

Enjoyed your depiction of both the cycling and the nudist lifestyle. Give us some more.

abc101abc101over 11 years ago
Great story

This was very sensual and enjoyable. Its nice not to have to read the usual story of WAM BAM thank you ma'm. Please write more.

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