and said, very clearly, what translated to, "F**k you.  You back up." Joan was not the sort of person to whom it was wise to respond thusly.  She blew a lock of black hair out of her face, set her jaw and gripped the wheel.  "We'll see about that," she said.  She inched the car forward.  The man on the motorcycle folded his arms and refused to budge. "Maybe you should back up," I said.  "What difference does it make?" "To hell with that.  He's a bully," said Joan. By now, several cars had appeared behind us, which meant, even if Joan chose to back up, she couldn't.  And then two cars came down the mountain, blocking the motorcyclist.  We were in a stand-off. Car horns bleated.  First one, and then two and then a chorus of horns.  Someone shouted and someone else shouted.  I couldn't make out what they were saying but none of it sounded good.  Arms waved from rolled down car windows.  Gestures, some involving middle fingers punctuated the air.  My heart began beating rather erratically. "I think we should move," I said. "Where do you think I should go?" Joan jutted her chin in the direction of the gorge. A man was at the driver's window.  He was wiry, unshaven, with a missing tooth.  The smell of cigarettes wafted in on the hot breeze.  He shouted at Joan, told her to get off the bridge. "I've got the right of way," she yelled back. The man