Either motorists or I need to wise up and be warier: one of us is gonna get carjacked or kidnapped.

Perhaps it is that I ride a bike; perhaps it is my boyish charm, or my lanky, gawky physique, but motorists love asking me directions; maybe it's because I am usually eating candy. They see me as non-threatening, though I am actually bad to the bone (that's right, ladies).

I think it's the bike, based on Monday's interactions. I was asked twice to navigate travelers through our burg. One was a cyclist seeking Return to Eden and on the wrong side of the hill, having received erroneous directions from a competing natural foods store. The other was more typical: a motorist viewing me as a two-wheeled info kiosk.

Such interactions are more than just asking directions. They flag me down to do so: rolling down their windows; leaning over and opening passenger doors; stepping from their vehicles; calling me over across several lanes of traffic. "Where's the Sovereign building?" "How'm I gonna get to the Dome?" "I need to get to the Ritz." And so forth.

Folks, use some caution. It is OK to roll your window down, ask directions in public or crowds; however, if it's just you and one dude on a lonely, poorly-lit street, use some sense. Just because you see a guy on a bike, just because he is taking a break to enjoy some Swedish Fish, don't assume he is not bug-shit crazy. He could be crazy as hell. While giving you turn-by-turn directions to the fabulous Fox Theatre, I could be mulling how best to stab you through the eye and wear your face as a hat. Not really me: I am not a threat (though I am bad to the bone, ladies), but someone might.

Some, like my family, might say I am in danger, that I could be coasting into weirdos' creepy clutches, as good as handing over my wallet or life. Always a friendly kid, my parents bought me a kidnapping education book called 101 Ways to Say No, fearing that I would someday hop in a stranger's Honda and be gone (that's actually true). Unlike now, then I would likely have gotten some candy. These motorists never offer candy. If I am going to get kidnapped, I ought to at least get some fun-sized Snickers.

But a woman cruised up to me at Kosher Kroger as I secured cat litter to my rack and strapped on my helmet. She waved me over and rolled down the passenger window, and I leaned on it. "Do you know where the Book Nook is?"

I frowned and, being bad to the bone (even I am tired of this joke by now, ladies), asked her, "Ma'am, what makes you think I wouldn't carjack you?"

Her: speechless with mild surprise, like I had just said squatternut bosh instead of butternut squash. So I sighed, pointed to the other end of the shopping center and gave her directions, then repeated them. "Thanks!" she said, smiling, and motored off.

Not a single Snicker. Not one Musketeer, let alone three.