Four years ago I was picking up an autographed John Elway Wheaties box I had framed over by DU and missed my turn. Did I cut across lanes or make a U-turn? No, I dutifully drove in a square through unknown side streets in order to take a left back on to University. Unfortunately, the street where I chose to make my left had no green arrow. When the light turned green, I was stymied. There was oncoming traffic; they all seemed to be turning, but I could not be sure.

Keep in mind that I am not a frequent city driver. In the suburbs, we often have arrows for right turns, just in case there's any question about it. I sat and considered my options a minute, but found it increasingly difficult to concentrate as the person behind me leaned heavily on his horn.

At this point I said, "You can wait a second" with maybe a little added color. Whether the driver could read my lips in the rear view mirror is debatable. He did choose that moment to ram my bumper.

I turned to my then-13-year-old son. "Did that guy just hit me?"

He may have answered but I was distracted by another bump, which confirmed he was ramming me, particularly since college girls on the street corner were suddenly more animated. I put the car in park and got out, my only mission to get his license number.

The offender chose "the best defense is a good offense" approach. He called me several unflattering names for backing into his car. Breaking my vow not to engage, I commented, "No, it was you that hit me," pointedly looking at the frenzied gaggle of eyewitnesses.

I retreated to my car and finally made my left. He stayed alongside me for a few blocks, apparently too busy gesturing to attempt a side-swipe. My son remarked that my body language when approaching his car had been remarkably similar to a gorilla.

Friends say I should have had a cell phone, but I remain unconvinced. I doubt phoning the police in his presence would have scared him into submission. If I called while driving away, I probably would have enraged someone else for driving while on the phone.

However, by the time I did call the police at my original frame shop destination, I mixed up the license number, despite repeating it like a mantra several hundred times. By then my bumper had popped back out and my son said, "What's the big deal anyway? It was just a couple of bumps."

Some have suggested my assailant may have had unbearable pressure on him at that moment and I could go with that. Perhaps he'd just lost his job as a motivational speaker or his wife announced the end of their marriage on her way to the emergency room.