I am not going to provide an analysis of the behavior recounted below. If you have read the content previously posted on this site you should be able to handle that end. The following is just some oral history from the point-of-view of a humble ghettoite making an honest attempt to enjoy his habitat…

Last night, at 10:20 PM, on a Baltimore City boulevard, its four lanes divided by a spacious grassy median, I stood alone in the cold spring air waiting for the bus. The sky was clear and stars twinkled overhead. If I had paid more attention, had been a more precise stargazer, I might have noticed the Nike tracks in the sky that indicated their descent from On High. Although I missed their angelic fall to earth—and the accompanying hip-hop soundtrack—I soon spotted them in the distance, two small figures, appearing to speed toward me in a standing position a mile away, each occupying a lane on the shadowy boulevard, with no need for a car, just divine man-children gliding my way.

Was this it?

Was this the Second Coming?

Was this really the return of Run DMZ?

Was Steven Tyler lurking just around the corner?

At first I thought they were gliding my way on skateboards. Two youths on skateboards in this area sometimes entertain me—a mere klutz who never could stay on a skateboard—with their ESPN2 vintage street tricks.

No, they were moving too fast, looking back over their shoulders, as if expecting pursuit. I could see now, through my expired prescription eye-glasses that they were on bikes. The taller boy was on a mountain bike that was far too large for him and he was weaving from the occasionally missed peddle stroke. The shorter boy was on a child’s BMX style bike that was too small for him, causing him to peddle furiously from a half-squat, unable to sit or stand.

Lately, when it is unseasonably cold, I feel old, feel as if I never had a youth. These two came as a blessing. I forget about keeping up the reclusive image of the stay-behind white-trash guy with the C-4 strapped to his chest and the detonator in his pocket, who most sensible hood rats would step around at the bus stop.

I was having a blissful, even pastoral, evening, thinking back some forty years to the last time I peddled a bike. Seeing those two boys having their nighttime adventure recalled some of my own misadventures from childhood, like the time I stole that stuck-up kid’s bike and then wrecked it, pan-caking on my face in the alley. As they neared I wondered idly if I could even still peddle a bike, if I ever would again, and if I did, would some half-forgotten ligament pop like a broken guitar string. For the two minutes or so it took them to cover the mile and close in on my position I just stood there living through them, enjoying their Abbott and Costello performance on the mismatched bikes.

By the time they neared my position there was still not a vehicle in sight and they were getting into a rhythm, cruising along smoothly. Then the shorter boy on the child’s bike looked up and took notice of me, and swerved out of formation and headed straight my way. I was thrilled as his friend questioningly inquired, “Yo?”

It had been years since I had watched cable sports programming and thrilled at those trash sports jocks jumping their stunt bikes off of hardwood ramps and obstacles of steel and concrete. I was wondering if he was going to get hurt showing off for me. I was going to get a front row seat as he ground his peddle on the curb. But no, he was headed straight for me. His friend exclaimed, “Yo!”

Then, as I stood watching his peddle-work and he reached the point at which he would have to yank on the bars to jump the curb and either graze me or plough into me, he lost his nerve, almost dumping the bike, but somehow saving it with a tire-abrading triple skid. His friend had slowed down, and exclaimed caustically as his wingman rejoined formation, “Yyo?”

While they regained formation and resumed peddling together the architect of the aborted stunt apologized, “Ma bad—he black!”

And off they sped, without even waiting for me to declare the 8.5 score I wanted to award him for not dumping the bike in the gutter.

"Well," I mused, "my virtual tan has not faded completely. I’m still an honorary African American, at least up close."

A moment latter two cop cars roared by, headed in the opposite direction, with flashing lights and no siren. Then my bus came, and for one of those rare moments in my adult life I actually wished I were a boy again, still chronologically qualified to have an actual non-violent adventure.

Tuesday, April 2, 2013