Yesterday, biking home, I saw another biker who instead of wearing this
It was a little dissonant, merging two worlds in an unexpected way. It made me think, of course, about the few years I took English horseback riding lessons, starting at age 11 when we lived in Scotland. I didn’t want to learn to ride a horse because of the velvety helmet, but it didn’t hurt! Mine had a golden yellow satin-y lining. I remember the helmet measured 6 and 7/8 inches. Meaning my brains were not overly large.
I loved my helmet, I loved my jodphurs, I loved my riding crop. I loved riding a horse whose ears pricked forward. I remember Amber who was enormous and named for his color, and who earned me a grooming commendation at horse camp because his coat glowed so and his mane was made for plaiting. I remember Pokey, who was named ironically. I remember Blueprint, who threw me, and Colonel Flaxie, who was the first horse I ever road, and Shawnee, who had such a gentle lope a person could have taken a nap on her back.
The woman on the bike had the right style going, but I doubt she’ll be making the sort of memories with her bike that I made with horses – even if she does have the right headgear for it.