So the other day I was riding my bike through New York City, as I do almost every day on my way back home, and I stopped at a red light. A cab driver pulled up next to me in one of the ubiquitous hacks that cover the streets in yellow plague of overgrown metal locusts. He had his window rolled down and his elbow is resting out, and he kept looking my way like he wanted to talk. So I flipped up the front of my helmet, exposing my face, and I smiled amicably.

“Nice bike,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said.

“I’ve got a Vulcan 500.” He was small and had a warm face, and his accent sounded like he could have been Indian or Pakistani.

“Cool,” I said. “Ride it in the city much?”

His face turned very serious and he shook his head at me. “No, no, no! Never. The cab drivers here are too crazy!”