I rode on Gene’s bike last weekend for the first time in quite a while. Actually, for this particular bike, it was the first time ever, although it’s the same type of bike Gene had before. I didn’t consciously note that it was a different vehicle until I typed the previous sentence, which is a little bit disturbing. Gene replaced his destroyed bike with a near-exact duplicate, kind of like in “Face/Off”, when John Travolta replaces his dead son by adopting Nicolas Cage’s kid and then no one’s sad anymore.
Thankfully, we don’t live in a world with dangerous face-switching technology, at least not yet. An attempt at such a procedure would leave our faces with horrific scars, much like a motorcycle crash, which is ironic since one of the few people I could imagine Gene trying to switch faces with is Seal.
Previously, I had used Gene’s spare helmet, which was too big for his Special Lady, but fit my head like a heavy Kevlar glove. Since then, Gene has acquired a Lady-Sized Helmet, which is even smaller. Wearing it approximates sticking my head in a vise, albeit a vise with a windscreen. To make matters worse, I am becoming convinced that my already-massive Celtic head is growing.
I've always had an unmanageably large cranium, but it's been getting worse recently. I put on a party hat a few months ago, and it only took about fifteen minutes for the elastic to snap. My Giants cap fits so tightly that I can only wear it for a few innings at a time. When I turned it inside out for a Rally Cap, I could feel brain cells begin to die, as I cut off the circulation to my skull. And any novelty hat, be it pirate-, or fireman-, or even cowboy-themed, tends to simply balance atop my head, like a yarmulke.
There are no easy answers to explain what's happening to me. Is someone covertly slipping human growth hormone into my food? Am I empathizing too much with Barry Bonds? It can't be my swelling ego, since I'm usually just ashamed of myself, particularly when I think about my freakish, gargantuan skull. I may have to buy my next Giants cap a few sizes too big, just like shoe shopping for toddlers, only with less velcro and slightly more whining. I'll adjust my lifestyle to accommodate the noggin - always sitting in the back row of movie theaters so it doesn't block anyone, buying an extra seat for it on planes, and injecting steroids directly into my neck to help prop it up. Eventually I'll have to sleep sitting up amongst a nest of pillows, like John Merrick, so that the weight of my head doesn't suffocate me during the night.
And I probably won't be able to ride on a motorcycle anymore, since if Gene stopped abruptly, my head would drill him like a wrecking ball dropped out of a blimp.
In other bike-related news, my dad has purchased a pair of riding pants. All I know about them is that they are made out of "synthetic materials". I'm a little disappointed that Dennis won't be tooling around the neighborhood in leather pants, but I appreciate his commitment to the welfare of cows. Like the Elephant Man's mom said, nothing will die.