A curious thing happens on the roads of New Hampshire when the weather turns nice — a phenomenon visible on almost any road crossing the state line. Wait long enough, and you will see a motorcyclist enter from out of state, stop immediately after crossing the border and take off their helmet.
During the summer months, the roads of New Hampshire are packed with motorcycle enthusiasts. They move across the state on two (sometimes three) wheeled machines, exposed to the rushing air and seemingly unburdened by risk. Happy and free on the road.
According to the State, a little over 25% of all vehicular fatalities involve a motorcycle. In 2023, the state hit a 20-year high with 41 fatalities, doubling the historical average. Thirty-one of those deaths were attributed to not wearing a helmet.
By several measures, New Hampshire isn’t even among the most dangerous places to ride. You are far more likely to die in a place like Texas or even Hawaii, both of which have stricter but no universal helmet laws. But to me, one preventable death is one too many.
With over a quarter century in health care, I have borne witness more than once to the results of a motorcycle accident. I have seen someone’s life end far too early because they chose not to wear a helmet. Personally, the death of a friend on a motorcycle caused me to stop riding them altogether in my twenties. The data is not subtle: helmets save lives. You only need to look at Missouri, where fatalities rose after the repeal of its universal helmet law.
For Granite Staters, the decision not to wear a helmet is not just about safety — it’s about identity. In a state where personal freedoms are closely protected, the right to “Live Free or Die” is ingrained in almost every decision, and helmets, regardless of the facts, can feel at odds with that idea. But what if that understanding of “Live Free or Die” is not the original meaning, but a narrower version we have come to accept?
The state’s motto is attributed to John Stark, a New Hampshire-born Revolutionary War General, who wrote in a letter declining an invitation to a reunion of soldiers from the Battle of Bennington. In that letter, he included a simple toast: “Live free, or die — Death is not the worst of evils.”
It’s a line that has endured for over two centuries.
In 1945, the phrase was officially adopted as New Hampshire’s state motto. In the decades since, it has evolved into a rallying cry for personal liberty, limited government and individualism. Sometimes in the face of better judgment. That evolution is not without contradiction. In the early 1970s, the state fined and even jailed residents for covering the state’s motto on license plates. It was not until the Supreme Court intervened in Wooley v. Maynard that the state’s practice was ruled unconstitutional.
On the surface, Stark’s words are clear — a simple right to live one’s life at one’s will. Yet, what Stark understood was something far more arduous. Freedom is not just a right; it’s a responsibility. The freedom he wrote about was not individualism or immediacy, but rather collective and hard-won through sacrifice and effort.
Today, what we call freedom feels different. It is personal, immediate and rarely requires anything beyond the assertion of choice. Democracy was never meant to work that way. It is fragile by design — extremely difficult to build, ridiculously easy to lose and often counterintuitive to those who hold power. It requires participation, restraint and a willingness to place something larger than ourselves above our own preferences.
Every generation since the founding of this nation has been asked, in its own way, to protect that idea. Yet, in the absence of an overt and oppressive struggle, it becomes easy to believe no more work needs to be done. It becomes an idea that freedom is secured rather than something that needs to be maintained. That quiet assumption is dangerous. Without engagement, accountability and a shared sense of responsibility, freedom disappears. Not at once, but slowly until it is no longer recognizable.
As the nation approaches its 250th year, countless motorcyclists will once again ride into New Hampshire and remove their helmets at the state line. For many, it is a small act of freedom, almost instinctive in a place where “Live Free or Die” is more than a motto.
But the freedom Stark wrote about was never simple. It was collective, difficult and sustained through sacrifice. It demanded something more of those who claimed it.
Two hundred and fifty years after the founding of the nation, perhaps the question is not whether we are free, but whether we still understand what may be lost when freedom asks nothing of us at all.
Robert Fabich lives in Keene.