Evolution of the Naked Pumpkin Run

The year: 1999.

The setting: a brisk, monotonous October evening at the 32nd house, slightly South and East of Boulder central.

A lone man by the name of Francis, cheeks nestled comfortably within the well-worn groove of chair, sits idly, unblinking orbs boring far beyond the pages set before him. The textbook, Traditional Theists: the Essays, is a visual apparition, existing without substance, momentarily and thoroughly ignored. The man’s grip…tightens. A vein, scoured across the left side of his temple, pulsates to a hastening beat—the book…. rises, slow at first and then quickly his arms cock back ready to hurl the time-gluttonous beast against the wall… but, closing it, he softly rests it upon the table. Instead, our man grabs the phone, finger stabbing vehemently across the keypad. “Sandoval…. get the ass on over hayre! …… You’ll find out…hurry!”

Nose still cherry-red from the nipply trek, Sandoval enters, his eyes widening from the words produced by Francis’ face. His musculature begins a violent tremor, six pack bottles clinking, as Francis pulls out a foot-long butcher knife from beneath the text. Again his arm elevates, Gin Sue steel glinting menacingly and then all at once he grabs the head flips it jabbing a two-inch slit up hefty pumpkin ass! Sandoval releases a shriek, acquires his own metallic Sharpie and surgically disembowels another orange sphere.

A couple hours and sixers later the pair find themselves, respective pumpkins in hand, lurking in the dark behind a residential string; soccer field island oppressive in its quiet, solemn suburbia. Independent and simultaneous, they peel first shirts followed by trousers, boxers and each sock. Standing stark and tall, chests out, perhaps a wee bit shriveled the very naked men re-adorn themselves, proud and magnificent as they slide comfortably inside their organic, slimy crowns. Facing the length of green turf, kneeling side by side, the chums allow their massive headdresses to fully feel gravity’ plumpness—it’s all they can do to resist the top-heavy forward flounder—yet they’repoised, three-point stand ready. Old school style, “On your marks…… get set….. “GO!” And they’re just fuckin’ off, poor visuals through lantern face, 20 lbs. of orange flesh thrashing atop their heads, the boys weave and stumble, legs pumping, vocal cords straining, childhood resurfacing through glory of the old fashioned foot race . . . and so the magic began.

From these humble and courageous beginnings, the Naked Pumpkin run began to grow. Two participants exploded into eight, eight into twenty-five. Word spread far, flung forth mightily upon the wings of exhibitionary spirit. What was originally just a group of friends turned into its own community, a community tied together by the excitement and camaraderie of participating in something new…. something greater. Sheltered in the womb of South Boulder, it planted its roots deep in the hearts of all who ran. But even the most beautiful creature must eventually be set free and in 2002 the Naked Pumpkin Run found its way to the infamous University Hill.

Attention! There is some naked picture in the following url. Make sure you are over 18 before you enter the website!