sometimes I think I’m mad

And that this is the silliest endeavour a human being could possibly undertake. There is, after all, no point whatsover in getting fixated about bike helmets. Hardly anyone likes bike helmets. And I’m not even *that* qualified to be a helmet buff, given that I can hardly remember the names of brands and models, or even any technical details about the helmets. For me, it’s mainly a kind of vague “pretty” and “not pretty” kind of differentiation. That’s when I think I’m mad as a “helmetter”. That this is just a bastion for my bad puns and pathetic one-trick novelty hobby.

On those days, I think that no one is reading and that even if there were people reading, they’ve gotten very bored by now and have moved on. And they are reading fyxomatosis and cyclingtips and candycranks and other people who have cool things to say about whole bikes. The environmental ones are reading bamboo bikes. And I am alone in my silly endeavours.

Then, on other days, I think – and even a little bit fear – that this is the most important thing that I do in my day. If not a little bit my life.

On those days, I think that meeting random people in the street and talking to them about their bike helmet is the kindest, most interesting, most personable interaction that  a person can have some days. That all the other things, the work, the work, the work, the whatever, the new government, the tax return I need to file, the list of moving things to do, the farewell drinks I want to organise but keep wondering when I’ll fit it in, the button that needs sewing on my suit.

All that means nothing.

Because today, I met Hank.

I might not have stopped to talk to Hank normally, because many older people don’t really get why I would want a photo of their helment for my, “what did you call it dear?” blog, and they feel weird and I feel weird.

But I passed Hank coming up Gertrude St and said, “passing on your right”, as is my wont. And he turned to me as I passed, smiled this enormous smile and said, “off you go!” Later at the lights, he ducked up on the footpath with a cheeky grin saying, “passing on your left”.

I knew I’d found a fellow traveller.

Turns out that Hank, who has the most lovely lilting Dutch accent (as he told me, Holland is totally flat, “so we have 17 million people and 20 million bikes!”), has lived in the commission flats in Fitzroy for some forty years and even now – at 82, he loves his life. He has a beautiful view from his apartment and sees the sunset and the sunrise.

He also has three bikes. He uses them to get to and from his various band gigs. As a former member of the army brass band/bugler/musician, Hank now keeps busy playing in the Huffers and Puffers, who specialise in playing war time classic big band music. He has a petrol powered bike, but can’t take it on the train. For longer journeys, he takes this folding bike, which neatly fits his trumpet and even his trombone when it is needed.

Other times, however, he rides his old track bike.

Now that’s cool.

At one point, Hank apologised, for taking so much of my time. “I live alone, you see, so I don’t get to talk to many people”. I wanted him to know that it was no trouble, that he wasn’t wasting my time, and that – for me too – this conversation had been lovely, gentle part of my day. Talking bikes and bands, seeing a photo he had of himself as a young man of twenty, all lean limbed and bright hopeful outlook, just joking about about traffic and transport.

On these days, I remember that I love helmets and the people who wear them. And that I don’t much mind if you’re not reading, that you’re off loving busyman or cruising with skelly, because today, I met Hank.

And I’ll be happy when I met you too.