One day, upon returning home from yet another victory, Wu Li found himself rushing through a marketplace and bumping into an old man carrying a basket of potatoes. Potatoes went flying everywhere and the old man fell to the ground with a thud.

"Old man!" shouted Wu Li, "Get out of my way! Don't you know who I am?"

The old man looked up, squinting.

"Oh yes. I know who you are," he replied. "You are Wu Li. Second best archer in all the land."

"Second best?" bellowed the gifted one. "Second? Not so! I am the best. There is no one in the world who can beat me."

The old man smiled as he stood, slowly gathering his potatoes. "Yes, you are great! But there is one even greater than you!"

"Greater than me?" replied Wu Li. "Impossible! No one has ever beaten me. No one can beat me. Who is this imposter? Where does he live?"

"Oh," the old man said slowly, as if entering a temple. "His name is Master Po. He lives many miles to the North -- high atop Mt. Heng Shan.

"Then I will challenge him!" the archer exclaimed. "And put an end to such nonsense."

Pushing his way past the old man, Wu Li stormed off.

For 60 days he travelled. Through underbrush and overgrowth. Through overbrush and undergrowth.

When he finally arrived at the foot of Mt. Fuji, the young archer could not believe his eyes. The mountain was sheer rock face, covered with ice, and pitched at a 90 degree angle straight to the top, hidden by clouds. A lesser man would have ended his journey then and there. But not Wu Li.

He climbed.

On the 8th day of his ascent, the young archer found himself at the top, seeing what appeared to be a little old man sitting on a blanket.

"Welcome wayfarer, I have been expecting you."

The young archer took a deep breath. "I... am... Wu Li... best archer in all the land and I... I challenge you!"

The old man smiled, bowed once, then looked to the sky. "Very well, as you are my guest, please go first."

Without a second's hesitation, Wu Li grabbed an arrow from his quiver, notched it on the string of his immense bow, closed an eye, tilted his head, looked up, drew the string back and with all of his might, let the arrow fly. As it neared the top of its flight, he pulled a second from the quiver and shot it high, halving the first in two and, in a rapid succession of ten, continued, each arrow splitting the one before it, arrow halves landing in a perfect circle around the seated master and making the ancient sound of "Hmm," upon entering the ground.

"Hmm," said Master Po. "Impressive. Most impressive. Now, I believe, it is my turn."

Reaching behind him (where there would have been a quiver if he had a quiver), he pulled what would have been an arrow (if he had an arrow), notched what would have been a string on what would have been a bow, closed one eye, pulled slowly back, paused for what seemed like eternity, and then -- in slow motion pantomime -- let go.

Smiling ever so slightly, he turned to the puzzled challenger.

"You, my friend," said Master Po, "have mastered the art of shooting with a bow and arrow. I, on the other hand, have mastered the art of shooting without a bow and arrow."

Excerpted from Awake at the Wheel.