It wasn't this Harley...
...but a Harley much like it that approached on my right as I waited for a notoriously long red light to change to green. Astride the big bike was a large, scruffy, big-bellied man wearing shorts and a faded T-shirt that barely covered his bulging gut. Stopping his loutishly loud Hog next to me, he glared with disdain at my neat, clean, quietly purring Vespa GTS 250.
First, he sneered with disgust as he pointed at my Vespa, then turned up his mouth in a nearly toothless grin, and laughed hard, lifting his fat, bearded face toward heaven, and shook his head so hard that the hankie covering his huge bald skull fell off.
Revving his Harley to space shuttle liftoff decibel levels, he patted his gas tank lovingly, and roared at me:
"Wouldn't you really rather have one of these?"
Here's the layout of the encounter, with my escape route indicated by the arrow.
(This is where it gets linguistically tricky.)
"No." I replied truthfully, after the din died down. "I am a more than adequately equipped man. I have no need to compensate mechanically."
You get the idea. Using my cruder words, hankie-headed Harley man understood.
Follow the arrow - I made an illegal right turn against a red light to escape the now red-faced, roaring blimp-on-a-bike. Doubling the 25 mph speed limit, I didn't look back.
I didn't want to become a headline obituary:
"Elderly Scooter Rider Beheaded By Furious Harley Biker"