Scooters Sunflowers Nudists 11 Shanelynd -

I turned, expecting a fellow photographer or perhaps a farmer.

It was neither.

About twenty yards away, standing in a small clearing between the stalks, stood a man. He was wearing nothing but a pair of gardening gloves and a pair of Crocs. He was holding a pair of pruning shears.

We made eye contact. It was the kind of moment where time stretches out. I froze. He froze. A bee buzzed loudly between us. scooters sunflowers nudists 11 shanelynd

Then, as if this were the most normal thing in the world, he raised a gloved hand in a polite wave and said, “Good evening. They’re particularly tall this year, aren’t they?”

I won't bore you with the internal dialogue that ran through my head in that split second—the confusion, the second-guessing of my own eyesight, the sudden awareness of how hot it actually was outside.

I waved back. “Yes,” I managed. “Very tall.” I turned, expecting a fellow photographer or perhaps

It turns out, the adjacent field was private property belonging to a local naturist club. The fence line had become overgrown, and the sunflowers—being the opportunistic growers they are—had spilled over the border. The man was simply pruning the border to keep the pathways clear.

It started, as most chaotic good days do, with the buzzing of a 50cc engine. I took the scooter out past the city limits, chasing the kind of golden hour light that photographers would kill for. There is something humbling about a scooter; you aren't dominating the road, you are flowing with it. You smell the cut grass, the exhaust, and the rain before it hits.

I was aiming for the countryside loop—about 11 miles out—when I saw the sign. It was handwritten, stapled to a fence post: “Sunflowers – You Pick. Left at the old barn.” He was wearing nothing but a pair of

The hardest part of this lifestyle is other people's opinions. You will hear, “You’ve gained weight.” Or, “Should you be eating that?”

Prepare a script.