Protesting personal protective equipment is sooooooooo American

These guys don't protest helmet rules

In 1981, I was a staff writer at the Elizabethtown Chronicle. I was assigned to write about the anti-helmet law demonstration at the state capital. I was the only motorcyclist on staff and always wore a helmet, so I was not sympathetic with the demonstrators.

I wrote about the demonstration and reported the opinions of the demonstrators as accurately as I could. I remembered some of their arguments from a decade before when I heard the arguments against wearing seat belts. The protesters insisted that riding a motorcycle was just as safe with or without a helmet.

Since it was a weekly newspaper, I had a chance to update my story the next day with a report of the death of a motorcyclist leaving the rally riding home in the middle of the night with a blood alcohol level that made him legally drunk. He died of massive head injuries. Since he was dumb enough to drive a motorcycle while drunk his lifespan was probably destined to be short anyway.

Personal protective equipment has always been controversial in freedom worshipping America. We are free to be as stupid as we want to be. We do not want people to tell us to wear masks or seatbelts or helmets or safety glasses or wash our hands.

We wear personal protective equipment for ourselves and for those who love us and for those who could be hurt if we don’t as in the case of facemasks. The trouble is there is no dramatic feedback for safety. We wear a seat belt and walk away from an accident that could have killed us.

There is an old proverb that says above all do not become a proverb. Do not be that blind man who refused safety glasses at work. And do not be the motorcyclist who protested helmet laws and died on the way home of massive head injuries. Fifty years post mortem you are still a proverb.

Every Time I Put My Helmet On, I Could Die

In Michigan earlier this month, a drunk, high or otherwise screwed up pickup driver ran over nine bicyclists, killing five and maiming the other four.

So many cyclists are on social media acting surprised.  They shouldn't be.  Riding a two-wheeled vehicle is dangerous anywhere.  Sharing a road with hundreds of two-ton vehicles makes it more dangerous.  When the drivers of those vehicles hate bicyclists, someone is going to get hurt, and that someone is not the driver of the two-ton vehicle.

And the hostility on the road from the two-ton cowards in pickup trucks is increasing.  The Republican nominee trashed John Kerry last week for crashing on his bike during a State Department trip.  Dumpy Trump told his even fatter fans that he, Donald Trump, would not fall off a bicycle.  Because, of course, Trump would never get on one.  Many conservative talk show hosts have attacked bicycles for various reasons that can be summarized in a fat man's envy of men who are in shape.

Most of the real hostility I have suffered on a bicycle in the last 20 years has been from pickup trucks.  If a driver swerves, spits, hits me with a can or bottle or yells "Faggot!" it is a fat guy in pickup truck.  If there are bumper stickers on the truck, they are Republican/conservative.

In Iraq when we were on the airbase, we did not have to wear battle gear, but when we went outside the wire, we wore helmets and body armor.  In Iraq, putting on the helmet meant leaving the patrolled perimeter of the Ali Air Base and flying to somewhere that we had not "won the hearts and minds" of the local people.

Although we were safe on Ali Air Base, there was on place I felt vulnerable.  I rode the perimeter of the airfield to get everywhere on base.  This nine-mile road was mostly far from the perimeter, but near the junk yard on the east side of the base, the perimeter fence was an easy rifle shot away.  As I rode around the base, especially at night with a red light blinking under the bike seat, I imagined an Iraqi with an AK-47 looking at me like I was an arcade target.  And the Arab aiming his Kalashnikov would not even know that I am half Jewish by birth, so for him I would be a double score target.

In the end I rode more than 5,000 miles in Iraq and have ridden more than 150,000 miles in the last two decades, so I know rationally, that road riding is statistically safe.  But now that I have turned in the camouflage helmet, I am very aware that the greatest routine risk I face is a porcine pansy in a pickup truck.  Sometimes people ask me how I can enjoy riding in New York City or Philadelphia or Paris.  There may be heavy traffic in cities, but there is not the malice of cowards in pickups.

Every Time I Put My Helmet On. . .

. . . Shit Could Happen.

Yesterday, was a beautiful morning, 45 degrees, clear sunny.  What could go wrong? I rode with two friends, Bruce and Lois.

The seventh mile of the 35-mile route drops steeply down from a ridge for about a quarter of a mile to a 14-foot wide steel bridge that is 270 feet long.  I usually hit 35 mph going into the S-turn that leads onto the bridge.  When the road is dry I zip across the bridge at 50 feet per second then slow as I approach the stop sign at the other end.  When the road is wet, I slow to 10 to 12 mph and pedal gingerly across the bridge.  At full speed I cross the bridge in six seconds.  In the wet, the crossing takes a very long 12 - 15 seconds.

The type of bridge I am talking about is pictured below.  As you can imagine, falling on this kind of bridge can be horrible.  I knew a guy who broke all the fingers on his right hand on one of these and had some nasty gashes on the rest of his body.

Open steel span

Up close looking through the steel span at the water.

So yesterday I descended to the bridge braking lightly at the bottom going 30 mph when I rolled onto the span.

The road to the bridge was dry, but the night was cold and the bridge was WET.

As soon as I was on the bridge my tires started squirming on the steel squares.  The rear wheel wobbled under my seat and slid left.  I stayed as still as I could and just touched the brakes as the bike squirmed more and seemed to lose no speed.

Both sides of the bridge are steel girders.  I hoped I could get to the end of bridge before I slid into the side of the bridge. I knew if a car came on the bridge I would hit it because I could not steer or stop.

At the end of the bridge the road drops away steeply down to a stop sign 20 feet away.  I went off the bridge in the air and landed with my rear tire skidding and sliding left.

There were no cars on Conestoga Boulevard, so I swerved into the road and sat up.  Lois and Bruce crossed the bridge slowly so I had 30 seconds to calm down before they caught up to me.  Bruce said, "You flew over the bridge."  If he only knew.

I changed the subject.

But it reminded me that experience gives us a store of info to avoid big mistakes like this.  I haven't ridden on a steel bridge on a cold morning for years.  The road was dry so I rode fast.

The reason I wear a helmet on the bike and wore one in the Army was for that moment when a small mistake, or a big one, means my head is going to suffer a big hit.

My wife decided to train for an Ironman.  She is a good runner, a great swimmer and almost never rides.  She has a lot of training to do before she can ride 112 miles at speed after a 2.4-mile swim and before a marathon.  I know she can do it.  But I do worry about the many hazards that bicycling puts in the way of every rider.  Experience really helps, but the only way to get experience is to ride without until you have it.

So now we can worry about each other on the bike.

And the first thing we are buying for her together is a good helmet.