Last year while l was passing through South Carolina I pulled up next to a kid on a sport bike. Flip flops, tanks top, baggies and no lid while I sweltered in my helmet boots and jacket. We both looked at each other like "you're crazy man.."
And so it goes, two sides to riding never too close the gap. Each to his own.
Like Bucky, I read the road rash girl story and it made me cringe. It made me remember Raleigh, NC in 1980 I was a lighitng guy for a Delbert McClinton and Robin Thompson Band show at the city theatre. While up on top of a 24" Genie Superlift focusing the lights either the stage lip cracked or the outrigger failed...doesn't matter as the whole assembly tipped off the stage into the audience area. That's when the slow motion perception began. I rode it for the first 28 feet or so and actually managed to get myself situated on the side of the lift where I was planning to jump into the aisle in hopes of only spraining an ankle. Then the boom hit the floor and the inertia flung me like some giant hand would toss a rag doll into the third row. Shattered elbow, broke all of the left ribs and a gaping hole in my left thigh. Right up to that point I was pretty athletic.
The memory of being out of control makes me wear gear. Sometimes not as much as I should but always boots and helmet.
Self preservation first, "freedom of the road" second; a free corpse is still dead and isn't going to get much riding done.
