Also known as: "The Hall of Lame"
A popular theory (especially popular with helmet manufacturers) is that you should replace your helmet every 3-4 years. It's been 9 years since my last new one, so what with the new bike and when the current helmet fell off the seat twice a month back and messed up the faceshield, well, maybe it was time for a new one.
No worries. Off to the local store to see what they have.
The first thing I find is that helmets have changed a bit in the last nine years. It is harder and harder to find a simple color scheme. Most of them look like either they have been used for paintball target practice, or maybe for a graffiti "tagging" contest. After a while, I give up and decide on a Shoei that only has 4 colors on it, although the sparkling gold dragons on the side liven things up a bit. It was either that one, or the similar version with the dark skulls on the side featuring glowing red eyeballs. A tough choice, I know.
The easy choice was the size: Shoei medium. It would be my fourth Shoei, and my fourth Shoei medium. And then I'm thinking, maybe I should do the internet shopping thing here. I know what I want, maybe I can save a few bucks. A bit of time with Google and I find a place in Utah that will sell me the helmet for $250, which is quite a bit less than the $370 at the store. That would be enough to get one of the snappy looking reflective gold tinted visors, pay shipping, and have plenty of gas money left over. The Utah store has only a few left, but they do have my size. The helmet has been discontinued, so all sales are final. Not a problem: Shoei medium please, in black and white and gold and red, and not the black and white and gold and blue.
Smoooooth sailing.
It arrives in three days, and looks great. OK, so the dragons or chimeras or whatever they are a bit more frou-frou than skulls with red embers for eyes, but all decisions are final, so I'll live with it.
At this point, a set of events conspire to prevent me from trying it out for the next four days. But finally, it is the big day. I strap it on, and find that it is "snug", just like it should be. And then, the morning blast down Black Road. Black Road is a narrow, bumpy, reasonably steep descent of about 2000 feet in 4.5 miles. It helps to concentrate, because if you go off the road, you will end up way down some hillside, and it will take the authorities a week to find you laying face down in a field of poison oak. So normally, when blasting down Black Road, I forget about everything: how cold it is, what I need to do at work, everything. Today, I'm thinking, dang, this helmet sure is snug. By the time I get to the bottom, the helmet has gone beyond snug, and is headed towards "small". I'm thinking, I sure would like to get to work so I can take this stupid thing off. By the time I get to work, the helmet is pretty damn tight. I check the bathroom mirror, and my forehead has the traditional red tattoo marks of a too-tight helmet, which also explains my splitting headache.
What was that return policy again? Oh yeah. Shit. So I squish on the helmet foam with my thumb to try and get another millimeter of space for my throbbing skull for the return trip. After a few hours, the headache subsides. A few more and it is time to go home.
This time, the helmet starts off pretty frigging snug. As before, it seems to get tighter as the miles roll on. I'm just hoping for none of the traditional traffic jams on 17 so I can get home and toss this thing way into the back of the closet. By the time I get to Los Gatos, it has become apparent that I'm not wearing a helmet, but some sort of giant fiberglass hose clamp. Every bump I hit ratchets the clamp tighter. I add to the traffic noise by howling at the top of my lungs, and imaging tossing it into the Lexington reservoir as I go past. Traffic is not too bad though, so I don't need to go postal or anything. And then, up Black Road.
Going up this time, all I can think of is the torture device strapped to my head. I'm thinking that hitting a deer would feel good today, if it would just take my mind off this crimp ring I'm wearing on my head. So I blast up the road, fly around the first corner, and encounter a Honda Civic wobbling up the hill at the 17 MPH pace of a flat-lander who gets very nervous when a situation calls for turning the steering wheel away from dead center. In fact, they are braking for the uphill turns. All I want to do is get home and cut this thing off my head with the plasma cutter, and they are braking for uphill turns. So instead of the usual 1'45" to get past the school, the Tuono's stopwatch feature tells me that I am running closer to 5 minutes.
There is something going on at the school, which explains all the flat-landers on the road. The rolling roadblock Civic pulls off into the school parking lot, and with a sigh of relief, I open the throttle. A right, a left, and whoa, what's this?
Nail the brakes!
A line of cars appears in front, all of them with flashers flashing. Not a good sign, to be sure. So I take a gander up the road to see what the issue is. It appears that a full size 18-wheeler tractor pulling a 25 foot trailer rig has tried to descend Gist Road and turn onto Black road. Problem is, why the HELL are they trying that? There is no GOD DAMN way they can make that corner, and don't they know my helmet is TOO FREAKING SMALL?
But they have tried.
And they end up with the tractor cab at 90 degrees to the trailer, front bumper smack into a tree, on the edge of a cliff. Problem is, Gist is a steep road, and now the trailer is resting on its back bumper, with its rear wheels dangling about 2 feet off the ground. They are not going forward; they are not going backward. I think they are going to need a cutting torch.
So, I turn around, resigned to take the extra-long way home, back through Los Gatos to Saratoga, and up Hwy 9. As I get to the bottom of Black Rd, some woman heading up does a double take to look at the helmet and waves at me. I don't recognize her, but I figure that she is thinking, "That's odd, I don't remember a Shoei helmet model in black and white and red with dragons on the sides and a flaming skull with glowing red eyes". I would have stopped to explain that the flaming skull and glowing red eyes were actually my own, but my forehead is burning as my brain collapses to the density of a neutron star, and I don't feel like stopping.
I steel myself to deal with hitting every red light between Los Gatos and the base of 9 in Saratoga. I am not disappointed. And then, it's up Hwy 9. I figure there will be traffic, and there is. I mentally review all the passing lanes and do the calculations. At one car per passing zone, it does not look good to get past everyone in front of me. Given the current rate of contraction, by brain will shrink to a singularity, my own personal black hole, before I can get to the top. Things are not helped when the Suburban directly in front of me blows through the first two passing zones without pulling over. I think that my increased blood pressure causes my flaming eyeballs to begin to pulsate red, visible even through the gold tint visor. The Suburban driver finally notes the demonic nature of their pursuer and drifts to the side to let me by. A bit of speed, some open road, and I get to pass someone [legally!] in the last zone before the top. After that, I encounter one last person who immediately pulls over to the side, probably terrified by the sight of the bones in their hands gripping the steering wheel, due to the X-rays blazing from my eye sockets.
On to Skyline. Look out, deer. Get in my way today, and I'll cut you in half with my very head. And the deer understand, and stay in the bushes.
I get home, pull into the driveway, undo the chinstrap, and the helmet pops off like like when you shoot the air chuck off the end of an air hose. Ahhhhhhhhhh, it's Miller time! I go into the garage, grab a beer, and hold it to my forehead.
Relief.
The headache lasts for another few hours, My buddy Bill next door makes dinner, and I alternately drink beers and apply them to my pulsating forehead until the pain subsides.
And the next morning, I wear it again. This time, I get to work and the headache only lasts an hour. Another week, and my head should be fully broken in.
Mar-04: My head does not seem to have gotten smaller over winter. I took the Tuono out for a hour or so on the weekend and came home with a pretty good headache. I'm starting to think that the helmet might be too darn small.
It will be worth it in the end.
Wright Cyclone in full song.