As I coast to a stop at a red light in downtown Baltimore fully kitted up, a group of black teens standing on the corner decked in hip-hop gear see me and sense an opportunity.
“Yo, you know Lance Armstrong?”
“No,” I reply. “You guys know Jay-Z?”
“Awwww, shit,” they retort with laughter and wry smiles.
I’ve passed their test. We’re cool.
