The Bakersfield Californian Herb Benham column: Herb Benham: If you let finger do the talking, be prepared for mouth to back it up

Sep 29, 2008 (The Bakersfield Californian - McClatchy-Tribune Information Services via COMTEX) -- CPKI | Quote | Chart | News | PowerRating -- Recently I was on a bike ride where one of our riders was nearly run over by an angry cage fighter driving a white pickup truck.

We were on Calloway, at the end of the ride and, being tired, it is possible that one or more of the group was riding a foot or two outside the bike lane.

Bakersfield has an uneasy relationship with bike riders. It's better than it was years ago when anybody riding a bike was thought either to be homeless or a recent transplant from Mill Valley. However, cyclists are still seen by some as pests and deserving of being taught a lesson.

Every so often, somebody steps forward to deliver that lesson. In this case, it was a sturdy man in a white half-ton pickup who went by, shook his fist and swerved uncomfortably close to the lead rider in our group of four.

Normally, the wisest response is to ignore this show of bravado because in a contest between cyclist and truck, the truck normally prevails.

However, because the driver had nearly nicked the lead rider, the response from said rider involved a yell and a hand signal not often seen as an invitation to friendship. I saw the hand signal and had a funny feeling that we might not have seen the last of the white truck.

One thing is clear about the hand signal. The signaler must expect a response, and if he or she gets one, they must be confident in their abilities or that of their wingmen.

In this case, his wingmen, of which I was one, were not formidable. We were like the Scarecrow in "The Wizard of Oz." Brave until the blackbirds landed.

Best case scenario, the truck drives on, everybody takes a deep breath and the incident is forgotten. Worse case, he stops and we sort this thing out or, in the case of the weak wingmen, get sorted out.

I looked ahead. The truck had pulled into the parking lot at California Pizza Kitchen and flipped a U. A big man stepped out of the truck. He looked like he had just returned from the Olympics, where he had successfully competed in the heavyweight division of the bench press competition.

What to do? Go straight? Or pedal backwards and complete the ride in reverse?

I opted for the element of surprise and rode my bike straight toward him. When I arrived, I unclipped from the pedals and removed my helmet in the same way that a man would remove his baseball cap before saying the Pledge of Allegiance.

I started talking. I had a lot to say and probably not a lot of time to say it.

I spoke of the need to pull together as a country in these divisive times. I spoke of the non-violent way. I spoke of many things, most of which I couldn't even remember after I said them because I said them in a hurry.

He was not happy. He was not in the mood to become happy. At one point I looked over his shoulder and spotted his young son in the car peering over the dashboard.

"Listen, I used to ride a bike," he said. "I'm an athlete, I've lifted weights, I've fought." Fought? What do you mean by fought? Do you mean that light repartee in which husbands and wives engage or something that involves Don King and pay per view?

I thought of telling him that I had a car too. Even a white truck. We were almost brothers.

The problem was he wasn't looking for any brothers. He probably already had a brother. He may not even have liked the brother he had, and if so, was probably not looking to add one. Eventually, we reached a shaky peace. Both sides admitted some fault. He returned to his truck and we to our bikes and our cornfield.

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