I was by my motorcycle at the curb at the last slope of road leading into Griffith park. Dusk was falling, dust motes floated in the fading gold air. And I was pulling on my dumpy black sweatpants—I wasn’t pants-less. Just putting more clothes on over my hiking clothes so I could ride safely.
A black Prius rolled by slowly. I stared at it wondering what was wrong with this picture, other than the creepy slow drive-by.
The man in the passenger side had his window rolled by. He was a young 20-something white male with an older white male in the driver’s seat. Father. Uncle. Grandfather. I wasn’t even sure if they were related. The young man had a narrow, oval face. The older man had a round face with the red, broken capillary nose of someone who drank to much.
Both of them turned their heads as the car slowed near me.
"Very sexy," said the older man. He had an accent. Russian, I’d guess. I could be generalizing. He could have been Ukrainian, Latvian, Bellorussian. I don’t know. I’m no expert.
"You should turn your lights on," I told him. That’s what was nagging at me when I first saw the car.
"And smart, too!" The older man added, looking at the younger guy as if nudging him and saying, "yeah? yeah? You like her? She is being your type? Yeah?" The guy looked a bit embarrassed and didn’t fully look at me.
Fortunately, they never stopped their slow role so they passed by and carried on up the hill.