Naked and Unyielding - Portland’s “Emergency Ride” Defies Rain, Power, and Moral Panic

It was cold, it was pouring rain, and yet none of the roughly one thousand people on Portland’s Burnside Bridge seemed to feel it that gray Sunday afternoon. Their bodies were painted, some colorful, some with political messages, others covered only by a hint of color. And then they lay down - dozens of them, motionless, right in the middle of the asphalt, while cars and streetcars stopped on both sides. A silent moment, a “die-in,” a staged interruption of everyday life that became global news within seconds: once again, Portland had found its own way to show resistance.

This year’s World Naked Bike Ride was not a usual one. It called itself the Emergency Ride, and that was no exaggeration. For weeks, the city had been rumbling over the federal government’s plan to send new security forces into the metropolitan area - officially to “protect critical infrastructure,” unofficially to suppress protests considered too “anarchistic.” At the same time, a new ICE facility on the southern edge of the city was nearing approval - a concrete monolith, a symbol of Trump’s immigration policy, and for many Portlanders a moral foreign body in a city that sees itself as a refuge.

“We’re here to show that our bodies can’t be disarmed,” said one participant as she tore off her rain poncho. She stood on the wet asphalt, her skin blue from the wind, her voice calm. “If they take our space, we’ll take it back.” Such words sounded that day like a return to Portland’s old roots - the city of barricades, of artists, of body freedom.

The march began around three in the afternoon at the Oregon Convention Center, where hundreds of bikes, painted helmets, and improvised signs came together. “Protect Bodies, Not Borders” read one banner, “Naked for Justice” another. The procession moved through the streets, accompanied by a mix of music, laughter, and the rhythmic clicking of wet chains. When the group reached the Burnside Bridge, which connects the heart of the city like a pulsing artery across the Willamette River, it came to an abrupt halt.

Then came something Portland hadn’t seen since George Floyd: silence. Dozens of riders set down their bikes, sank to the ground, stretching out their arms and legs - pretending to be dead, a “die-in,” as activists call it. For minutes there was only the sound of the rain and the distant honk of a car that didn’t know why. And then applause, shouts, laughter, drums. Out of collective silence came triumph.

The “Emergency” theme of this year was double-coded: an emergency call against state overreach but also against forgetting. Portland, long a stage and sanctuary for progressive movements, has in recent months seen radical groups criminalized, social projects cut, and local media come under pressure. The participants of the Naked Bike Ride therefore combined old themes - environment, mobility, body freedom - with new, urgent ones: migration, police violence, federalism.

There were no official figures, the police spoke of “several hundred participants,” observers of more than a thousand. The organizers had deliberately kept the exact route secret to avoid interference. That didn’t stop right-wing counter-protesters from gathering at various points downtown, some carrying banners like “God Hates Sin” and “Repent, Portland!” A video that went viral on social media shows a man holding a Bible on the roadside shouting “Shame on you!” - while behind him a group of young women laugh as they ride by, painted with the words: “We were born naked. You added shame.”

For many observers, the protest was a demonstration of self-empowerment - but also a political statement in a city that increasingly defines itself as a moral counterweight to Washington. “There is no provocation in this nakedness, but truth,” wrote the Portland Mercury in its evening commentary. “It shows that political exposure requires more courage than any uniform.” Even local station KPTV, usually careful to keep its distance, spoke of “an unusually clear message in an unusual form.” The bridge where the “die-in” took place was temporarily closed entirely. But it remained peaceful, no arrests, no incidents - only a few angry drivers honking in their SUVs as the crowd rose and continued on, heading southeast toward the ICE facility that for many symbolized the true endpoint of the ride.

There, at the fence, the protest ended in a mix of music, tears, and defiance. The police kept their distance. The rain had stopped, the air smelled of asphalt and cold metal. A few dozen participants held up signs reading “No cages. No fear. No borders.” Others danced barefoot on the street as a small speaker played the song “Freedom of Choice” by Devo.

Reactions in conservative media were as expected. MAGA commentators spoke of “moral decay” and “pornographic activism.” In talk shows, right-wing pastors quoted Bible verses about shame and discipline. But in Portland, people saw it differently. Here, where political resistance often merges with art and the body, they had once again shown that protest is not measured by decency but by impact. The “Emergency Ride” was not a mere performance but a visible uprising against a time that has begun once again to control the body - through border fences, through censorship, or through fear. The people on the Burnside Bridge knew that. They lay down in the rain as if to say: if you take our freedom, we’ll at least take the weather. And in that mixture of defiance, beauty, and vulnerability lay - for a brief moment - everything that makes Portland what it is.