Review: Troy Lee A1 MIPS Helmet

Troy Lee’s A1 is MIPS equipped
so there’s slip if you fall a bit skew-whiff
Your head won’t rotate as your lid tries to skid,
so your swede will remain unimpeded
by torsional force.
In short, it’s all good.
It apes the shape of the regular A1, without MIPS, and fits the same,
and the brightness means there’s no blame
if your dome finds its new home monochrome:
no, it’s not tame.

Only you can decide if it’s a sight for sore eyes
or a fright for your wiser friends clad in dark tones
because first up, this is WAY bright.
It’s a sight to see if you’re bogged down in fog
and you’re looking for a trail to escape
if you’ve failed to make the break to the pub
with your ‘great’ mates –
The ones who dress in grey, and so may be visible
on a bright day.
But this is no way one of those.

No, your head shines out like a cheery crest for those seeking a beery rest
– or at least the muppet who’s stuck when he chucked his bike
when he should have hucked the trail feature,
which instead was a teacher of the benefits of practice
before the test.

But it does look good, the peak’s tweakable on the oblique
But not enough to give your goggles a place to perch.
If that’s an urgent need you’ll just have elsewhere to search.
But there’s a lip at the back which catches the strap and prevents
Catastrophic goggle collapse as you
jump
that
gap.

And to those that scoff?
Explain to them your cranium’s
refraining from being plated with titanium
thanks to a little dome of bombastic plastic,
flourescent yellow head protector
to deflect the knocks and render them quiescent
but not the gaze of admirers
who may well acquire one of their own.
A new favourite.

Review Info

Barney Marsh

Barney Marsh takes the word ‘career’ literally, veering wildly across the road of his life, as thoroughly in control as a goldfish on the dashboard of a motorhome. He’s been, with varying degrees of success, a scientist, teacher, shop assistant, binman and, for one memorable day, a hospital laundry worker. These days, he’s a dad, husband, guitarist, and writer, also with varying degrees of success. He sometimes takes photographs. Some of them are acceptable. Occasionally he rides bikes to cast the rest of his life into sharp relief. Or just to ride through puddles. Sometimes he writes about them. Bikes, not puddles. He is a writer of rongs, a stealer of souls and a polisher of turds. He isn’t nearly as clever or as funny as he thinks he is.

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