ode to a helmet

Though you sit on my head like a wonky walnut shell, tilted always at an unfashionably rakish angle, though you wobble, bobble, and bang against the granite, when I pull myself up beneath a roof, I have not given you, dear helmet, the credit you deserve.

Today, helmet, we became more than just friends.  Today you showed me just what you are made of: very hard plastic, and for that I am forever in your debt.  Yes, it’s true that yesterday I likened you to wearing a greenhouse on my head for all the condensation (okay, it was sweat) dripping down my brow.  But I take it all back, helmet!  Sweat in my eyes is more than a fair trade for a fully-intact skull.  Yes, I have clipped you to my harness, carelessly banging your once-bright surface along the rocks and tree trunks of many a descent trail.  And, I’m ashamed to admit, I didn’t even invite you to Greece for a holiday.  It was wrong of me, helmet.  To so carelessly scratch your powder-blue exterior.  To curse your poorly-designed chin strap.  To doubt your ability to remain on my head if I’d been moving any direction but up.

Okay, enough with the ode.  I think the helmet gets the point.  I originally intended to write in the style of one of my favorite Romantic poets, Mr. John Keats.  Keats has a real way with the ode.  Take his “Ode to Autumn” for example, in which he exalts the “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!/  Close-bosom friend of the maturing sun;”  How charming!  Autumn is fruitful–it is harvest season–but not aggressively so, like summer’s relentless abundance, and Keats is attentive enough to note this.  And how inviting, as if the mature sun is bringing everyone to its bosom, rather like my grandmother at Thanksgiving.  Perhaps I could write to my helmet:

Dome of plastic and July afternoons!

Your snug-fitting strap caresses my chin;

Enveloping my head, a full blue moon

lights midday sky and lets no danger in.

But iambic pentameter is perhaps too formal for my helmet.  Mainly, I want it to know that even though I sometimes act as if it is a burden, I am grateful for its companionship, and, today, it’s protection.  It was not unlike that scene in The Bodyguard where Kevin Costner’s character jumps between a bullet and his client/true love played by (I know I don’t have to tell you this) Whitney Houston back when she was very glamourous and capable of cranking out a killer movie soundtrack all on her own.  But it wasn’t a bullet; it was a rock, a rather large rock that was quickly approaching my head as it–my head–made its way to the ground.  And you’ll be happy to know that my helmet has survived to tell about it.  Though it isn’t talking much right now.  It’s had a long day.

This small(ish) stone.

It all begins with a stone.

Then it goes like this: you push out of the hack to deliver your stone to the house, trying to get it as close to the button as possible.  Sure, I may sound like I’m speaking MadLibs, but these are the real words, people: the illustrious language of curling.  (see illustration of hack pushing (fig A)/stone delivery (fig B) below)

A.

B.

Unlike some other physics-based games (yes, all games are based at least in part in physics, but I’m referring to those whose strategy is determined by friction, momentum, and geometry– think bowling, pool, or shuffleboard) curling requires a kind of enthusiastic stick-to-it-ive verve to achieve success, hence why I was totally charmed by the game.

Let me start at the beginning.  A couple of weeks ago, we were hanging out with our legitimately Canadian friend Kyle (yes, I have several legitimately Canadian friends here in the Great White North, but I often find myself surrounded by immigrants, particularly ex-pats–whose company I do enjoy despite its tendency to water down my Canadian experience).  And Kyle invited Justin and I to participate in a curling tournament.  I probably don’t have to tell you that the obvious response to such an invitation is, without question, a hearty and resounding “yes!”

In my ongoing quest for Canadiana I’ve had some success (maple-smoked salmon) and some failure (maple-flavored beer).  But here was a chance to authenticate my indefinite stay here in Canada beyond the maple leaf–and it’s literal and symbolic produce.  And I was psyched.

We found ourselves in the North Vancouver Winter Sports Centre.  Under the roofs of this admittedly giant complex were both tennis courts and hockey rinks, girls in sequined leotards with thick nude tights and boys in hockey pads and jerseys, an adults-only lounge and even a swimming pool.  It was not unlike the upper-middle-class, moderately-gender-segregated country club of my childhood–only Canadian.

So, you walk through these doors and things get serious.  First someone hands you a broom.  Then you hit the pebble.  You gingerly step one foot on the slider and one on the hack.  You squat down, note the icy cool in your loins, and grab the stone.  Then you brace yourself (you’re on ice after all) with your broom, and you begin delivery.  With a burst of momentum and balance–if you’re wondering if balance can burst, I say to you “yes” and “go curling”–with a burst of momentum and balance you spring from the hack and, with any luck, you glide with some grace across the ice, ever so gently releasing your stone toward the distant house.  From your destination, the skip commands your teammates: “Sweep, sweep, sweep.  Hard!”  And with furious determination, they escort your stone across the ice in a flurry of legs and broomsticks.  “Sweep, sweep!” You watch hopefully as it soars past the guard and toward the button. “Sweeeep–off!  Off, off,” yells the skip.  Brooms lift and you stand back, willing the stone to edge forward or hang back, awed at how a hunk of granite can move in a way that is simultaneously sluggish and aggressive.

This is the joy of curling–the way a weak throw can, with some savvy sweeping, slide far.  The way a weighty hunk of granite can curl itself delicately into place.  The way your abs are surprisingly sore from the frantic action of heavy sweeping.  The anticipation as the skip crouches down, hand on the hammer, ready to clean the house.

An addendum:  When asked what I should write about curling, Justin responded, “It may look dumb, but curling is dangerous.”  His ankle is still sore from one of his three banana-peel style slips on the ice.  So, to provide a balanced perspective, I must acknowledge, curling is not for everyone.