This evening, my bike took me south on Smeltzer, down Gooding, south on Dunbar, to Prospect.  Heading back toward Marion, I remember passing a dead cat in the middle of the road—a black cat, no less.  It had been hit by a car not long before I came along.  I felt sorry for the little creature, blood pooling beneath its head, but I kept heading north so I could make it home before sunset.

Approaching the CSX rail crossing on SR 4 just north of Crissinger, I knew I might be in trouble.  The tracks cross the road at a severe angle, making it difficult to keep a bicycle upright.  Sure enough, my narrow tires got caught in the groove beside the track.  Before I knew what was happening, I was down.  I must have pitched off the bike head first.  I remember hearing the top of my Trek helmet scraping along on the asphalt about an inch from my ear as the momentum pushed me forward along the road surface.  I remember thinking, in that instant, how grateful I was to be wearing that chunk of plastic and foam on my head.

As I write this, the helmet is beside me.  The top is scraped perpendicular to the air vents molded into the helmet.  Parts of the veneer are ripped.  There is a crack all the way through the inch-thick foam under the veneer.  It is the most beautiful piece of plastic I’ve ever seen.

Those scrapes could be on top of my skull.  That crack could run from my ear to my temple.  I could look like the black cat back down the road.

Instead, I picked myself up, checked out the scrape on my knee, re-attached the chain to its sprockets and got on my way.  As I continued north on Prospect Street, another fellow was headed south on his bike.  He had a helmet too—dangling from his handlebars.  I wanted to yell at him, “Put it on!” but he was past before I could think of it.  He had two sets of tracks just ahead of him.

Tonight I will lay my undamaged head on my pillow.  I will wake up in the morning and say hello to my wife, my son and daughter.  I’ll probably get on my bike tomorrow and take it for a spin.  And I will, again, strap on my Trek helmet.  Like the young lady in the pickup truck who yelled out the window, “I like your helmet,” I can now say with extra enthusiasm, “I like it too!”

There’s an old joke in biking circles:

“What do you call someone riding a two-wheeled vehicle with a helmet on?”

Answer:  “A cyclist.”

“What do you call someone riding a two-wheeled vehicle without a helmet on?”

Answer:  “An organ donor.”

Keep your organs intact.  If you bike, wear a helmet.  It saved my life tonight.  It could save yours tomorrow.