The kid–probably in college or law school–couldn’t have been out of his early 20s based on the aggressive posture he assumed on his bike.

And what a bike! It was a Yamaha sport model, probably an YZF-R1, done up in a jaunty orange and green that was surely done aftermarket and at great expense. The kid was astride the thing in that feral, fetal position sport bike riders assume, in a helmet and jacket that were color-matched to his mount and probably cost a pretty penny themselves.

Behind him, riding ‘bitch,’ was a similarly-dressed figure in maroon. From the fleeting glances I got, it seemed a sure bet that it was the rider’s girlfriend, her hands on his waist. Even though they were behind me on a narrow city street adjoining a municipal park, the entire unit seemed like it might, at any moment, peel out in a cloud of rubber smoke and zoom away, faster than the speed of cops.

I’m quite sure that’s the aesthetic both the young driver and his squeeze wanted to cultivate, at least.

It’s too bad that the entire time they were in my rearview mirror, his left blinker was on.

Unbeknownst to either rider or passenger, they were proceeding down the road like an old man with turn signal blazing. The turn they’d made to fall in behind me had been a right, too, so it was turns and turns ago that the left would have been used. And it was still defiantly signaling left even as the riders slipped into the park, presumably for a walk.

The whole time they were on the road, they were probably looking at me tailgate with cool confidence–an old man, by their standards, in an old man’s car. Little knowing that their fast, brash image was, at that very moment, fatally compromised by a sparkle of old man–a glimmer of cranky age–glinting on their left mirror.

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