Dropped off the car at the dealership for a repair. So I would ride into the office from there—and pick up the machine after work. As I unloaded the bike from the trunk—it dawned on me. My helmet… on the kitchen table.
It was weird not having the helmet. Not having a helmet equals death (in my mind) if I should hug terra firma. Gentle Reader, as you know, I traded in the horses for bikes, and I have the faded plastic surgery scars to remind me what happens you find yourself flying off the back of a horse and landing on your head. I broke my cheekbone, and some other bones with names I can’t pronounce broken up around my temple and eyebrow—oh, let’s change the subject shall we?
Riding without my helmet I was fearful of all that mess.
Good news; I had another helmet here at the office, the one I use with the campus bike. So I had a helmet for the ride back to pick up the car.