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They say that Louis XIV had the inscription Ultima Ratio Regum cast into all the cannon of the French Army. It means “The Ultimate Argument of Kings,” and that always struck me as one of the most honest and up-front things any ruler or would-be ruler ever said. “We can dress it up prettier than this, but when it comes down to the unvarnished truth this is what it’s about: You’ll do as I say or I’ll send my goons to kill you.”
I thought about that for a long time. If there’s an ultimate argument, it seems only logical that there must be an ultimate answer. For years I thought the ultimate answer must be the bullets in my rifle, but it never seemed quite right. I’ve got bullets – he’s got frigging Cannon Balls. I mean, if there were three hundred million rifles throwing bullets at him, then maybe. But we all know that’s not going to happen. So if there’s an ultimate answer to his ultimate argument, it sure as hell ain’t bullets.
It finally came to me – and that’s when I abandoned the city and most of my stuff, and gave all that was behind me a good stiff Randian Shrug.
The ultimate answer to kings is not a bullet, but a belly laugh.
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I have this conversation with myself every time I use my bike.
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A) Their ads are better than our TV shows.
B) Yes, please wear the damn helmet. Hair can be redone; your cranium, not as easily.
C) Road surface inches from your face at 60 mph is a fascinating sight as the visor shatters. Not that your bike goes that fast on purpose, but still…
D) Stay well.
Consider me another “yes” vote for helmets.
A dissent: Its up to the individual rider.
Personally, I usually wear a helmet but if I dont I do so with the full knowledge that I alone am responsible for the risks and consequences.
Back in the 70s the guy next door bought a bike and borrowed a helmet from me so he could go to work — Goodyear to Scottsdale. Hit a cow in the dark at 60mph. Speed according to him. Tore the face shield male snaps out of the helmet apparently as he skidded across the asphalt. Never found the shield or snaps. His face was mush. Taxpayers paid for his many surgeries. Brains were OK but rest of him wasn’t. I never complained about the military making me wear a helmet after that and I rode for two more decades. He never rode again. One thing to say you’re accepting the risk — quite another to fully realize what those rsks feel like from the inside.
Roomie’s brother retired and one week later crashed on his Harley. No helmet. A week later they pulled the plug. Roomie had a fatal heart attack one or two weeks after that. Life is uncertain. Skew the odds with a helmet. And better cardiac care.
And, if I ever start riding again, it’ll be with a full-face wraparound.
I wear a helmet on the motorcycle, but just can’t stand a full face one.
I recall a conversation I had with my daughter many years ago. There was a guy who really wanted to be her boyfriend, and as far as I was ever able to tell his only selling point was his motorcycle. He wanted her to go for a ride with him, which – rather to my surprise – she reported to me.
By this time in her development I was well aware that if she wanted to do something I would probably object to, the last thing in the world she would do was involve me up front. But I also knew that an absolute prohibition would probably drive her in the opposite direction. So I said something to the effect of the following:
“You know enough about my history to know I can’t be happy with the thought of you on the back – or the front – of a motorcycle. But you’re old enough and sneaky enough that I can’t stop you, so I’ll just tell you a short story before I state my one condition.
“When I was your age I worked at a movie theater. The ticket taker was a pretty blond girl who had a boyfriend with a Harley. One evening she didn’t show up for work: It seems she and her boyfriend had dumped the Harley. Technically she wasn’t all that badly injured, except she plowed the pavement with her face. They put it back together as well as was possible back then, and she even came back to work at the theater after some months. But she wasn’t the ‘pretty’ blond girl anymore, and she never would be again. All for a moment’s slip of a tire.
“So here’s my condition: If you decide you want to go out with this guy I won’t try to stop you. My only condition is that you agree to let me buy you a full-face helmet, and you agree to wear it whenever you’re on that bike. More than that I speak not.”
She may have already decided she didn’t need that particular boyfriend: I never heard any more about it.
I was taught “If you have a $10 head, get a $10 helmet.” Yeah, dating myself a bit.
I wore one of the most expensive full-face helmets there was at the time, one that passed the only test there was at the time for efficacy. Never regretted it for a minute. I also wore gloves, long jeans, boots and at least a jean jacket, even in the middle of a Southern summer. Sweated some.
Wrecked once, at low speed in a turn. My fault. Didn’t get a scratch, but did get a few bruises. Bike got some scratches, but an application of money fixed that.
No application of money can fix someone with TBI. And you’d really rather buy a new leather jacket than go through the fun and joy of growing a lot of new skin.