I often have business near the neighborhood where I grew up. It’s one of the older neighborhoods in the township. Before the surrounding area was developed it existed solely as two roads crossing to form an L with a few one-block cross streets on one leg, no major traffic.

Come summer, back in the day, the neighborhood was absolutely bursting with action. Ball games, kids on bikes, skateboards, you name it – kids everywhere, and the sounds of play could be heard from dawn to dusk.

Today things are different. The streets are largely deserted. I guess everyone’s busy. Kids just don’t recreate outside anymore, the way we used to do so long ago. Instead, what I see most of all in the old streets are marauding bands of fat girls.

I was motorcycling through, my son on the pillion, returning from an event at the high school. There, ahead, were a group of them. About eight bodies. All girls. All fat. All Black. Arrogantly sauntering, occupying most of the street, apparently deliberately oblivious to any traffic that may come along. Some were using their cell phones.

Now my scoot ain’t exactly quiet if you know what I mean. They had to have heard us approaching for blocks as we slowly cruised at perhaps 15 MPH, dead-center down the middle of the street. My throttle hand was rock-steady, keeping characteristic sound of the V-twin even and unwavering.

They waited until the last possible second to make a hole for us.

I signaled my turn at the end of the block, dabbed my left foot to the pavement briefly in deference to the stop sign, and accelerated.