Yesterday's post, Watching her crash, may have led a few of my readers to suspect that I advocate helmet-wearing by cyclists. Forgive me for misleading you.
I meant guys like me: Mortal, fragile bike riders susceptible to injury or worse from unnatural contact of our heads with pavement or steel. For folks like me, I do suggest regular wearing of protective headgear. Makes sense. Lord knows: We might fall.
A few talented, lucky cyclists, a group I like to call supercyclists, need not trouble themselves with helmets.
If you are one of these supercyclists, so on top of your riding as to make a crash nearly impossible; if you are never surprised or frightened by the acts of other road or path users, please do not let my paranoia give you even a moment of hesitation. I didn't mean you.
I had the other ninety-nine point nine percent in mind: Men and women with scars and lumps and lingering memories of crashes ancient and recent. You're in another class entirely. Sorry.
Especially if you are among the elite - a grizzled, weary urban road warrior of the knicker sect, rest assured. I'd never try to influence you in any way. You are a Lord of the Stiff Hub, Emperor of Elm Street. I'm not fit to carry your axle wrench. Live long and whatever.