The Bike Helmet Blues

I went to bed feeling down last night and I am still not my usual bubbly self today.

Last evening, I hauled two big trash cans to the street for pickup this morning and inside one of those cans was a treasure I was finally persuaded to part with. That exalted item was a brand new bike helmet that I bought and its only sin was that it was left outside. Rain, snow, hurricanes – it had seen it all.

Still, it looked as good as the day I bought it. It was a big, round, white affair, not unlike the kind astronauts wear. It had a variety of straps and velcro pads and was about the ultimate in modern head protection. Alas, however, maybe because I don’t have a modern head, I never wore it. Still it was not something I was ready to part with but I was outvoted at a Summit Meeting of the Family Council, so into the garbage it went.

A couple of times during the night, I resisted going out to the street, bringing my helmet back in and hiding it in the shed. However, I live in fear of sanctions from the Family Council.

Morning came, and it was gone.

Those heartless individuals lined up against me at the Summit Meeting made the point that I don’t actually own a bike. They argued that not having a bike pretty much cancelled the need to have a bike helmet. But I couldn’t follow their reasoning.

This afternoon I sat staring at the place the helmet used to sit, and got a bit emotional.

“Goodbye, old friend,” I whispered. “I tried to save you.”

Like always, I save my emotions for the important things.

©2021 Jim Hagarty

Author: Jim Hagarty

I am a 72-year-old retired journalist, busy recovering from a lifelong career as an unretired journalist. This year marks a half century of my scratching out little fables about life. My interests include genealogy, humour and music. I live in a little blue shack in Canada and spend most of my time trying to stay out of trouble. I am not that good at it. I also spent years teaching journalism. Poor state of journalism today: My fault. I have a family I don't deserve, a dog that adores me, and two cars the junk yard refuses to accept. My prized possessions include my old guitar and a razor my Dad gave me when I was 14 and which I still use when I bother to shave. Oh, and my great-great-grandfather's blackthorn stick he brought from Ireland in the 1850s. I have only one opinion but it is a good one: People take too many showers.