the unhelmeted truth

and the path of two wheeled anarchy

When did you experience your first taste of freedom?

For me, it was on a bike.

My first bike was yellow. It had a black crossbar. On it written in yellow were the letters ‘MX’.

I think MX meant ‘motor cross’.

The bike didn’t have a gas motor. It wouldn’t tackle any of the rutted muddy routes that any small, two stroke motor bike would in the day.

That bike did have a motor however: Me.

I began with training wheels. Those damn handcuffs seemed to be there for decades. In reality? They were likely only there a few weeks.

I remember the first night I rode without training wheels My dad removed them and went inside to put them away.

I was afraid to ride without them. I had fantasies of lining our walkway with pillows but my dad put the kibosh on that idea.

I’ll just hold your seat and run along behind you.

I then suggested hockey gear - elbow pads, helmet, jock - one can never be too careful when protecting your cocknballs - but my dad shut these ideas down.

When he was in the basement, I pushed off and pedaled. I pedaled down the walk, up the driveway and bombed down the hill that was beside our house ending with a big, gnarly skid that left a very satisfying black line on the pavement.

I kept going, my mouth gaping and eyes wild. Is this what an Osprey feels like when it’s diving down to kill a rat?

Everything was clear, instinctive and flowing. I’d never felt such freedom. My bleach blonde hair flowing in the wind.

Did I mention that there were no helmets in the 70’s?

I still ride when ever I can sans helmet. I rode in Paris, New York and San Francisco without a helmet. I worked for years as a bike messenger in Toronto without a helmet.

And every now and then in the quaint little village called ‘Halifax’ some Johnny-doo-gooder makes it his business to comment on my lack of helmet.

It’s dangerous to ride without a helmet you know.

Maybe if you’re shitty at riding bikes bud.

It’s also dangerous to stick your nose in other peoples business.

Sometimes they’re more inquisitive:

Where’s your helmet son?

(why do these fucking boomers insist on calling me, a 53 year old man ‘son’? I have a dad and when I was shitty at bikes he wouldn’t let me have a helmet so piss off)

My response is classic:

Right next to your muzel you flaming sack of fish guts.

The doo gooders in this city are the kind of nanny state ninnies who want to sanitize everything.

They build bike lanes, they encourage 'safe' cycling.

They don't get it. A bike isn't transportation. It's a two-wheeled gateway to pure, unadulterated freedom.

A device of glorious chaos and anarchy. No gas, no tax, no license, no helmet. Just two simple rules: Get there fast. Survive.

And that feeling? That osprey dive, wild and free that I felt on that first ride? It never left. You wanna see a middle-aged man fly? It happens on two wheels.

And if you want to domesticate that same middle aged man?

Go on, see what happens when you come at me with a leash.