Billy Connolly's Route 66_ The Big Yin on the Ultimate American Road Trip - Billy Connolly [9]
Before I took the beast out for the first time, I did something I’d never done before. I strapped on a helmet. That’s right, I bought myself a crash helmet. I’d always thought I was the last person on earth who would do something like that. I didn’t know whether it was my age or the age we lived in, but before I left home, I’d done a bit of serious thinking. Now, some American states allowed bikers to ride without a lid while others didn’t, but I wasn’t going to go splitting hairs over it. It wasn’t like I wanted to be on some kind of bloody crusade. I’d always enjoyed the freedom of wearing only a wee leather hat. After all, I had three wheels, so it wasn’t like I was going to fall off. But then I started thinking that somebody might thump into me. Don’t be a bloody penny pincher, I thought. Just wear a helmet. Then my wife said, ‘Wear a helmet,’ and that sealed it.
I’ll repeat that. I thought, Wear a helmet. My wife said, ‘Wear a helmet.’ So I did.
Actually, that’s a complete lie. I didn’t even consult Pamela about it this time. But she’d always thought I should wear a helmet, even on my own trike in Scotland. So I decided all by myself: Cut out the crap, Billy. Get a helmet.
Then I thought of two more good reasons for wearing a helmet.
Gary. And Busey.
In 1978, Gary Busey was nominated for an Oscar for his portrayal of Buddy Holly in The Buddy Holly Story. He also appeared in A Star is Born, Top Gun and Lethal Weapon. But in December 1988 he had a bike accident. He fractured his skull and suffered permanent brain damage because he was not wearing a helmet. In time, he recovered, but life was never the same for Gary.
So, I found myself in a Chicago motorbike store, looking for a helmet. The choice was overwhelming. First up was a whole-face helmet, like the ones that assassins wear. It was easy to decide against one of those because the camera crew and viewers needed to see my face when I was riding my bike. But that still left hundreds of open-face helmets. I asked someone in the store for advice.
‘Does this look okay to you?’ I said. ‘Is it the right fit?’
‘Yeah,’ said the guy.
Then I realised he was carrying a bag of groceries and didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. He’d just wandered in on his way back from the supermarket.
Eventually I found someone who actually worked there and was instantly reminded that most Americans are brilliant salesmen. Not only did this guy sell us a helmet; he ran out and bought cheeseburgers and soft drinks for all the crew, told jokes, had a laugh and made us all feel absolutely welcome. A great representative of an extraordinary country.
I’m one of those guys who looks slightly odd in a helmet, so I had to be careful about exactly which model I chose. I tried on one that was very popular with American bikers – it looked a bit like a Third Reich helmet. I was relieved when it didn’t fit, because I thought the Nazi look was much better left under the bed. In the end I settled on a black open-faced number with a visor. And to my surprise, having bought it, I didn’t feel any less cool. I was even looking forward to wearing it. It was fitted up electronically so I could hear music on the trike, which was brilliant, like having a jukebox wrapped around my head. And it was rather comfortable, as long as I didn’t put the visor up. If I did that, it caught the wind, so I decided that I’d either have to remove the visor or keep it down at all times. No visor, I suspected, was going to win, and I’d wear the helmet with my fishing glasses. ‘Wait till you see them,’ I told the crew as I tried them on with the helmet. ‘They will blow you away. They’re yellow, kind of amber, polarised lenses with silver sides.’
I