The parent wears the helmet. The child doesn’t.
Every day I ride my motorcycle to work and back, and every day I see the same things on the road.
One of them, I still don’t understand.
A parent on a motorcycle with a helmet on. And on the same bike, a child with no helmet at all.
Sometimes it’s their own child. Sometimes it’s a nephew or a niece. But the helmet is always on the adult’s head.
This isn’t one person. I see it often enough that it’s a pattern. Not every parent. But some parents, some guardians, enough of them.
And every time, the same question comes into my head.
If you care about your own safety, why don’t you care about your child’s?
I’ve tried to find the reason. The only one I can think of is this: nothing has happened yet.
No accident yesterday. No accident today. So it feels okay.
Maybe it’s okay to them. It’s still not safe for the child.
The strange part is that the parent already has the right habit. Helmet on, every ride. If something happens, their own head is covered.
The child’s head isn’t.
Here’s what worries me. What happens if there is an accident?
If it’s a small one, and nobody gets badly hurt, maybe it becomes a hard lesson. A big lesson, but one they get to learn from.
But if it costs a child’s life, I don’t think any parent could live with knowing it was their fault.
There’s a Malay saying I keep coming back to: malang tak berbau. Bad luck has no smell.
It doesn’t give you a sign first. It doesn’t say, “Watch out, I’m coming.” It happens when it happens. It happens first, and the regret comes after.
And once it has happened, being sorry doesn’t undo it.
Semoga kita semua dijauhkan. May we all be kept far from it.
The second thing I see on the same ride is people running red lights.
Even when the light is red and it’s the pedestrians’ turn to cross, someone on a bike or in a car still goes.
Traffic lights are there for a reason. If everyone tried to use the same road at the same time, we would crash into each other. So the lights give each of us a time to go and a time to stop.
That time belongs to someone. When it’s the pedestrians’ turn, the road is theirs. Why take it from them?
Waiting is simple. A few seconds. Maybe a minute.
And if people don’t follow the lights, there’s no point having them at all.
Now, before this sounds like I’m standing above everyone else on the road, I’m not.
I’m on that road too. And I don’t always get it right.
Some days my mood isn’t good. It’s my turn to go, the way is mine, and someone else pushes in anyway. On those days, I do tell them off.
“Eh, sekarang ni jalan kita orang. Bukan jalan kau.”
It’s our turn now, not yours.
I may be right about the turn. But a bad mood on the road doesn’t keep anyone safer, me included. That’s something I need to think about again too.
The helmet on the parent and the car through the red light have something in common. Both say the same thing: nothing happened last time, so nothing will happen this time.
Bad luck has no smell. The helmet goes on before, not after.
We don’t only look after our own safety on the road. We look after each other’s. Everyone at that light is trying to get somewhere, and most of us are trying to get home.
So if the helmet is on your head, put one on the child too.
Tomorrow I’ll ride to work and back again.
I hope the child on the bike next to me has a helmet on.
One thing that worked
The problem: You end the day tired and stiff, and a massage takes time and money.
What I did:
1. I found a stretching app with video guides on Google Play and checked its rating.
2. I paid for a full year. It cost less than paying monthly.
3. I followed the videos, starting with 10 minutes.
4. I built up to half an hour, then an hour.
How I know it worked: Within a day or two I felt the same relief as after a massage. After a tiring day my body feels lighter, and I sleep better.
Try ten minutes tonight.
This one needs a paid app. This is what worked for me, not medical advice. If you have pain or a condition, see a doctor first.
That’s all for this week.
See you next Saturday.
Cheers,
Farhan Terubos
One true story from my own week, every Saturday.
Written for people building something of their own around a full-time job.
