Surely, I Wear a Helmet, Always

It was the year California finally broke its long drought with relentless winter rains. After days of heavy downpours, the sun finally broke through, washing the sky clear and drying out the pavement. It was a crisp Sunday in March. I hadn't been on a road bike in months, but the sudden taste of spring sparked an irresistible urge: I was going to ride up Old La Honda Road.,

I mounted my bike onto the rack behind my car, slipped on my cycling gloves—a strange thing to do while still behind the wheel, but done on a whim—and drove down to the intersection of Edgewood Road and Cañada Road in Redwood City. I parked, locked the car, clicked into my stiff road shoes, and set off.

It was a gorgeous morning. The sun was warm, and the air smelled like early spring. Still, Old La Honda is never a casual cruise, it's a relentless climb, gaining about 1,300 feet of elevation over just three miles.

My legs burned as usual, but I pushed through, reaching Skyline Boulevard at the top. Feeling victorious, I took a quick summit selfie and turned around to begin the descent. The narrow, winding road is carved directly into a dense redwood forest, a ribbon of asphalt shared by cars, cyclists, and the shadowy canopy above.

Even though it hadn't rained in 24 hours, the road beneath the dark trees remained slick with lingering moisture and fallen pine needles. But I love fast descents—it’s the ultimate reward for the brutal ascent, and I let gravity take over.

About a mile into the ride down, a sharp hairpin curve came up fast. I squeezed the brake levers hard, but my tires lost traction. The bike skidded, out of control. From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a massive SUV coming up the hill. A split second later, everything went into a blur, ending with a deafening crash against the steep, wooded embankment.

The next few moments were pure agony. My left knee was badly skinned, burning with a sharp, fiery pain. As I lay in the dirt, I looked up from my awkward position and froze: the rear driver-side tire of the SUV was hovering just inches from my face.

A woman’s voice pierced the shock—loud, panicked, and desperate. “Are you OK?! Are you hurt? Should I call 911?!”

The pain was so intense it knocked the wind out of me; I couldn't even form words for the first minute.

Slowly, carefully, I pushed myself up to a sitting position. Beyond the bloody knee and heavy bruises, nothing was broken. It felt like a genuine miracle.

I caught my breath and assured the frantic driver that I was going to be alright, given the circumstances.

She let out a breath of relief, then looked at me with a sudden frown. "You need to be more careful! And you should really wear a helmet!"

I was taken aback and replied instinctively, "I always wear a helmet."

She looked confused. "Then did it fly off during the fall?"

I reached up to touch my head. Bare head. No straps, no foam, no shell. I looked around the crash site—there was no helmet anywhere on the road or in the brush.

That’s when the memory of my morning ritual flashed through my mind: pulling on my gloves while driving the car. That single anomaly in my routine had tricked my brain into believing I had already completed my full safety check, helmet included.

I had ridden all the way up and down a mountain totally unprotected, blindly assuming I was safe.