David and Goliath on Asphalt

The trucker was rolling a full gravel trailer and running a hole in the wind. The tarp was rolled tightly up against the top front, either forgotten or purposely neglected. Pebbles and rocks bounced into the air and rained down upon travellers who made the mistake of following within a hundred feet of the Gatling-gun gravel mobile.

One stone bounced from the top of the trailer and ricocheted off the pavement to impact the helmet of a biker. The biker took advantage of a break in the traffic to move to the left lane and ride up alongside the truck driver, motioning with hand over head to indicate that the load was uncovered.

The trucker was busy on the phone, but he did take a moment to gesture at the biker with the rudest hand signal an American can conjure.

The biker returned that favor in an admittedly unchristian manner and rolled the power on, leaving the spewing truck a mile behind in a few instances.

In most cases that would be the end of it and the two antagonists would never have seen or likely even thought of one another again. This was not most cases. The biker eased over to an exit ramp a few miles up and was forced to a halt behind a stack of cars awaiting the coming of the glorious green light. It was a long light, and before it changed from red glare to green chill the gravel truck came lumbering up behind the bike, having utilized the same exit.

The trucker pulled up so close that the front bumper was nearly touching the back tire of the bike, then the driver side door on the tractor popped open and Telephone Boy started stepping down those two diamond plate stairs.

The motorcyclist sighed, remembered a few words his daddy had taught him long ago, began to take off his helmet and dismount simultaneously.

The helmet wasn't coming off out of any sense of fair play. This guy used to be a cop, and he still believed the important thing to do at the end of the day was come home to mama in one piece. That helmet was going to be used with an intent that was total anathema to that with which it was created. It would be a tool of battle to hammer on Telephone Boy's head. Motorcycle Man wasn't gonna fight fair, he was gonna win.

And if the helmet didn't do the trick, there were other equalizers close at hand.

Perhaps Telephone Boy remembered some of his own father's words of wisdom, or maybe he just saw the determination in Motorcycle Man's eyes. Whichever it was, it lifted him right back up those steps and into the cab. The door snapped shut and the window rolled rapidly up, then Telephone Boy got real interested in something outside the right window and refused to even look back at Motorcycle Man again.

Motorcycle man shrugged and remounted his bike. The light went green and the two bundles of testosterone went their separate ways, never to see each other again...until maybe that great day at the Bema seat when one or both will be reminded, along with every other sin they agreed or refused to commit over their lives, which one of them was wrong and which was right.

Motorcycle Man knew as he took a bead on the south side of Grapevine lake that he'd been at least partially wrong.

He grinned.

And went home to mama in one piece.