What would a Hare Krishna do? Not a question I ever envisioned asking myself, but I did this morning during a 30-mile bike ride in rural Orange County.

Earlier on the ride, Alan and I were heading east on Arthur Minnis Road, about to turn left onto Borland Road. We were riding single file, me in front, Alan on my wheel. As the turn approached, Alan looked back, saw a car approaching in the distance, announced there was a car but that we had time to turn. I signaled a left turn, heard a car accelerating, then the horn. Just as quickly as she had sped up to pass us she hit the brakes, rolled down her window and started chewing us out.

“You bikes are always clogging these roads!” she yelled.

“I signaled and I had the right-of-way,” I yelled back. I’m not big on confrontation, but I also don’t like being yelled at for no reason. Or especially for a bad reason.

She yelled about bikes being nuisances, I yelled about cars that don’t pay attention on the road. She called us a name that seemed gender-inappropriate to me but worked for her. I refrained from suggesting she was mad because we were keeping her from responding to the “Hot! Now!” sign flashing in town. We agreed to disagree (in a way) and went our separate ways.

Alan kept quiet during the exchange, realizing that once the yelling started any hope for a meaningful exchange had vanished. When we continued on, Alan, who rides this road much more than I do, pointed out that this woman probably lives in the area and likely has to deal with arrogant bikers on a regular basis. Not that we’re arrogant, he was quick to add, but he sees plenty in the area who are. Cyclists who run stop signs, who pass each other by crossing the double yellow line, who ride three and four abreast, oblivious or worse, indignant, to car traffic. Guilt by association, he suggested.

Now, I’m not a fan of yelling. In fact, I rarely raise my voice, and when I do it’s usually a red flag that I’m overreacting. I didn’t feel like that this time, though. I kept my yelling reasoned, didn’t throw my bike at the car, didn’t challenge the woman to a rumble, didn’t play the Krispy Kreme card. And yet … .

As we rode on I had this vague nagging feeling that I could have handled the situation more … constructively. I felt I’d missed an opportunity.

That’s when the Hare Krishnas came to mind.

Back in the ‘60s and ‘70s, the Krishnas were the picture of evangelical determination. Before they were banned, they were known for their dogged pursuit of travelers in the nation’s airports. At the time, Hertz ran a series of commercials featuring O.J. Simpson running through airports, hurdling chairs and small children. The conceit was that he was late for a plane; I always figured there was a Hare Krishna hot on his heels. Despite their determination, I never saw a person they approached accept their literature, let alone shed their civvies, don an orange robe and shave their hair on the spot.

What keeps them going? I wondered. On Dairyland Road, it dawned on me: A deep, unshakable belief in the Krishna way. They believed, they made their case. If the proselytizee didn’t bite, the Krishnas simply moved on. That was my missed opportunity. This driver’s reaction was less about bikes, more about something out-of-whack in her life. She was stressed and unhappy long before she came upon us. Instead of yelling at her, I should have given her my card and suggested she call and talk about relieving that stress and unhappiness in the best way I know possible: By riding a bike.

And if she called me that genderbending bad name again and suggested where I could ride my bike, so be it. At least I tried.

Just like those Hare Krishna’s hot on O.J.’s heels.