A fond farewell

On Friday, I laid my motorcycle helmet to rest in the trashcan in our carport. 

I debated for a while, having left it on the bar table for several months after Anne retrieved it from the tow yard. I really haven’t been ready to say goodbye, even though I know it’s for the best.

I set it outside near the can and came back into the house, wondering if there might be a day we’d reunite. 

I said to Anne, “You really don’t want me riding again, do you?”

“We’ve had this conversation. No, I do not.”

I asked myself the same question and grudgingly admitted that I felt the same way.

I opened the lid of the trashcan and cradled the helmet for one last moment. It was scratched and marred from 15 years of riding. Still, as I tapped a knuckle twice on its top, it had a hollow thud, like tapping a melon in the market; it was intact as it was the day I bought it. 

It had more rides in it, but I don’t. 

On Thursday, I had more x-rays taken. My orthopedic PA came into the room and asked how I was doing. 

“Well, you tell me,” I said.

“Things are looking good,” he said.

He showed me evidence of bone growth, squeezed my leg, took my pulse, then said I could start to walk without the braces. I’ll need physical therapy and use crutches as necessary until I gain strength and mobility. I can drive, too. 

I was over the moon with joy. It was the best news I’d had in months. My friend Miki, who has driven me to all but one of my appointments, drove us to the Bohemian to celebrate after my appointment

As we drove to the Bohemian, I began to think of how that same trip might feel if I were riding. I’d not wanted to ride since my accident, and now, having been given the green light to be normal again, I wondered if I might ride once again.

I won’t. 

The thought of riding stopped appealing to me after I was hit by the truck. The details of the accident have, thankfully, faded from memory. That may be why I began to think of riding again.

Each time I do, I stop and remind myself of how I've lived these past three months, and how there is no guarantee there won’t be another accident in my future. 

Now, not riding is a conscious choice and not one based on fear.

Before parting with my helmet, I held it in front of me, above shoulder height, and dropped it on the concrete. It bounced and rolled, and sounded like a melon when I tapped it twice for the last time before closing the lid.

It was still a good helmet.