It was early spring of 1991.

I had been editor of Old Cars Weekly for about three months when a flyer landed on my desk for the Nude Car Show. The photocopied announcement -- printed on heavy, blue paper -- looked no different from the literally dozens of similar car club promotional flyers I received each week but the subject matter caught my attention right away.

I immediately called Larry (no last name given -- not that unusual in the car show business), who was listed as one of the organizers. He explained to me that the Valley View Recreation Club was a year-round nudist camp that was always looking for ways to introduce receptive people to the idea of clothing-optional living. Since several of the members were involved in collector car clubs, the idea of holding the first-ever VVRC Nude Car Show was an au naturel.

The group was expecting 30 or so cars -- about what any small car club can expect to draw the first time it puts on a show -- and a hundred or more people. In short, it sounded just like any other gathering of old car enthusiasts, except that clothing was optional.

Now, to understand why I wound up actually attending the show and participating, you have to realize that I have been on a self-improvement/self-actualization kick since my late teenage years. There was a time in my life when I was intimidated by just about every normal situation -- talking to people, having a different opinion from those around me, standing up for myself, etc. -- and I hated it. Help came in the form of the book "Will" by Watergate poster boy G. Gordon Liddy. Liddy, it seems, also grew up in fear of his surroundings and sought out a system that would rein in his inhibitions whenever need be. In short, any time he felt the familiar pangs of fear in his stomach, he would charge into the situation and become stronger for it. For example, Liddy overcame his fear of rats by chasing one down, beating it to death, cooking it over a makeshift fire and eating it. (I believe psychologists call this "immersion" therapy.)

Admittedly, I've never eaten any rodents I killed with my bare hands and I haven't entertained any thoughts of political espionage, but Liddy's book had given me a role model for emerging from my shell of congenital shyness. Anytime life introduced a situation that got the gastrointestinal butterflies swarming and my feet wanting to run in the other direction, I remembered the promise I had made to myself to accept and enjoy the challenge.

Well, needless to say, all that high-and-mighty, deep-thinkin' philosophy ran headfirst into the idea of walking around nekkid in front of people. With Larry still on the phone, I briefly entertained the idea of attending the show and the butterfly collection got loose.

That's when I became determined that I was going to go!

"I'll do it," I said aloud.

"Umm, do what?" Larry asked.

"I'm going to cover the Nude Car Show for my magazine."

"Great, we look forward to having you. A lot of people in the club read Old Cars every week."

"There's just one thing, Larry...as a guy, I'm, of course, concerned about the reaction we guys have to naked women..."

"Don't worry. It'll take care of itself."

On the second weekend that August, I made myself load up my Ranger pickup with the usual stuff I would need for overnight camping and drove the three hours to the little town of Cambridge. Along the way, my mind kept coming back to all my friends (and family members) who promised me I would chicken out before I got to the nudist camp. Only my friend Leslie understood my determination to shed this inhibition, although her actual words were, "You're just crazy enough to do it."

Larry met me at the gate, which doubled as the check-in point for show registration. He wasn't wearing any clothes. Neither were the three very congenial ladies at the registration table.

He told me I should just keep my clothes on and walk around a little bit before attempting to take the plunge. He assured me it would take no longer than 15 minutes before I felt silly wearing clothes while everyone else was completely enjoying the sunshine and fresh air.

We walked around and looked at the cars on display. From an automotive standpoint, the show resembled a normal general-interest club event -- there was a '20s Rolls-Royce, a '59 Cadillac convertible, a couple of Porsches, a few sky-high 4WD trucks, a Corvette or two plus a couple of dozen other '50s and '60s cars.

It only took 10 minutes for me to throw my clothes (except my tennis shoes) into the back of the Ranger and start really enjoying the beautiful summer weather. I slept that night in the back of my truck and showered next to the pool the next morning. That afternoon, after the awards were given out for the different classes, I packed up, put on my clothes (boy, that felt weird) and headed back to Iola. At the very moment I got in the truck to leave, I realized the worst thing that had happened during my weekend of nudity was a sunburned butt.

It turns out I wasn't the only one interested in the Nude Car Show. As soon as my article ran in Old Cars, several magazines contacted me in regards to any pictures I might have taken and any comments I might like to make on the matter. I was happy to have AutoWeek (in America) and AutoClassic (in England) both declare me to be the first nude automotive journalist.

It's a title I still cherish.

(Postscript: I attended three more of the Cambridge Nude Car Shows and even visited the camp one weekend when I wanted to forget about work. When a nudist camp in Michigan began running a similar car show, I drove over to participate. That show, unfortunately, was during my last year at Old Cars and I haven't been back since.)