Andy Young: Unsolved mysteries, part deux

By Andy Young

Last week I tried figuring out why so many otherwise well-adjusted adults experience pure joy watching their pint-sized offspring chase a soccer ball around, yet somehow morph into raving lunatics a decade later when their now-larger spawn get involved in games that, like the ones ten years earlier, have little to no long-term influence on the lives of the participants or the spectators.

It turns out irrational behavior at youth sports events isn’t the only thing I don’t understand.

Last Sunday was gorgeous, so I took a bike ride to Gray to run a couple of errands.

Unfortunately, the store I pedaled nine miles to get to didn’t have the specific item I was looking for. However, what was far more vexing involved something I see far too much of these days: trash, primarily bottles and cans, along the roads I was biking on.

I’ve never understood littering, an act requiring laziness, selfishness, and utter disregard for the planet inhabited by me, my family, my friends and the litterers themselves, among others. I’ve never met anyone who brags about what a great spreader of debris they are, or that their child is. No one I know boasts about how much garbage they toss out their car windows or deposit along hiking trails in the woods.

There are, to my knowledge, no litterer’s rights organizations, no littering clubs that take weekend outings to dispose of waste in and around state and national parks, and no National Trash-Strewers Association that lobbies Congress for less Draconian anti-littering laws, not that the ones currently on the books are having much effect.

I started counting the number of recently tossed soft-drink containers I passed on my bike ride, but lost track after hitting five dozen. Even more distressing: there’s every reason to believe there’s at least as much garbage on the side of the road I wasn’t biking on as well.

Had I stopped to pick up every deposit bottle or can I saw on my ride, I probably would have had at a nickel per container better than $3 worth of rubbish.

Full disclosure: shamefully, I did nothing to alleviate the mess along Route 115. I didn’t pick up even one piece of litter myself because: A) I’d have been stopping every 50 feet or so in order to grab every offending object I saw, plus I wanted to get home before dark, and: B) I’d have looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame with all those cans and bottles in my backpack.

Actually, my backpack would have been stuffed to capacity long before I hit the Windham town line. In fact, had I been driving and stopping to pick up all the refuse I saw, I’d have easily filled my car’s trunk, and maybe the back seat as well.

It’s reasonable to assume that litter along roadways has been tossed there by drivers rather than pedestrians. Few people take nature walks along the roads I was traveling, where the posted speed limit along the sidewalkless part of the route is 50 mph. This is where my inability to understand gets even deeper.

What is so tough about keeping one’s trash inside their car until arriving someplace where there’s a receptacle specifically designed to receive rubbish? Trash cans can often be found outside places of business, or in public parks. Some crazy neat freaks like me even keep trash cans inside our homes!

But enough venting. I suppose I should stop complaining and count my many blessings. At least there aren’t any youth littering competitions with corporate sponsorships being televised on ESPN.

Yet. <

Andy Young: Enjoying the continuing search

By Andy Young

I’ve been looking for a specific person for years, and about a month ago I thought I had found him.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get his name, but I can describe him.

He’s about half my age, stands somewhere between 5-foot-10 and 6-foot-1, and weighs between 170 and 180 pounds. Our paths crossed on the home stretch of a 25-mile bike ride I was taking. The athletic-looking cyclist glided past me like I was standing still. But that happens all the time, so I didn’t have any particular reaction.

Pedaling past me on a titanium bike, he was outfitted like a Tour de France competitor, so he probably wasn’t overly impressed by my ensemble, which consisted of old basketball shorts, a T-shirt, and the long-sleeved, size Triple XL green hoodie I bought because it was 80 percent off. Wearing that hood under my helmet protects what my dermatologist tells me, and my children gleefully remind me of every chance they get, is a rapidly expanding bald spot which needs perpetual protection from the sun.

Doggedly pedaling away on my generic road bike as the mystery cyclist zipped by me like the Roadrunner passing Wile E. Coyote, I turned my attention to the pavement ahead, a section fraught with the sorts of imperfections which, while they’re mere bumps in the road for someone piloting a motor vehicle, are potential teeth-rattlers and/or tire flatteners for self-propelling bikers.

After successfully navigating between potholes and reaching a smoother, wider section of road, I passed him. He was re-mounting his bike after having pulled over to take a quick drink from his water bottle. Going by I gave him a quick wave, knowing he’d soon overtake me on the hill we were about to ascend.

Except … he didn’t pass me. Not for a while, anyway. But when he finally did, he slowed just long

enough to say, on his way by, “Man! You must be in great shape. You kicked my butt going up that hill back there!”

He didn’t have to say that. He didn’t have to say anything. But he took the time to share some words of encouragement that made a total stranger feel like Superman. That spontaneous bit of altruism was what led me to believe that my lengthy search was over, and I had finally located and identified the world’s kindest person.

But then a wonderful individual bought a copy of the book I just had published, plus five additional copies to give to her friends. Then the week after I wrote a column in this newspaper bemoaning the lack of vegetarian ramen in local stores, someone mailed me a dozen packages of the stuff. Shortly after that a man let me in front of him at the grocery store checkout counter when he saw I only had two items. Then there’s the fellow who periodically sends me vintage baseball cards while expecting nothing in return, the student who, with no apparent ulterior motive, brought me the world’s best cookie, and the old friend who, for no discernible reason, sent an amazing letter informing me that I am truly making a positive difference.

All these random acts of kindness have me somewhat conflicted. Here I thought I had solved the
mystery of who the world’s kindest person is, but subsequent developments have left me more confused than ever about this individual’s identity.

I’m probably no closer to locating the world’s kindest person than I was when I began my quest to find him, her, or them a few decades ago. But for now, I’m perfectly happy to continue enjoying the search. <

Andy Young: Back on the bike

By Andy Young

In my youth I customarily got from Point A to Point B by bicycle.

Right up until the day I didn’t.

My reluctant but inevitable progression to chronological adulthood led to my purchasing (and subsequently relying upon) a motor vehicle, which correspondingly led to several bike-free decades.

Since I spent much of my 20s and 30s working in a profession requiring frequent relocations, the few large tangible items I owned were transformed from possessions to burdens. But at some point (possibly when I noticed my waistline expanding) it occurred to me that if I were ever to settle down in one place for a while, it might be fun to acquire a two-wheeler.

The opportunity to do so occurred at a random barn sale shortly after realizing that, with three small children and a semi-permanent job, I might actually end up residing in southern Maine for a spell. That’s why I invested a whole $10 in a one-speed bike (the gearshift was inoperable; thus the unusually reasonable price) with two round tires and semi-functioning brakes.

Whoever said, “Once you learn to ride a bike you never forget how” knew exactly what they were talking about. I bought myself a cool helmet and was back in the saddle!

A couple of years later, some “friends” began chiding me about looking like a cross between Pee Wee Herman and the Wicked Witch of the West on my barn sale special, so I traded up for a hybrid model designed specifically for someone my size. That allowed me to log countless additional miles while expending far less energy doing so. During the summer months I routinely pedal 100 or more weekly miles just running errands or grocery shopping. I regularly replenish the fresh produce at our house, but in limited amounts since I can only fit so much in my backpack.

Hard experience has taught me that trying to lug both a five-pound bag of onions and a gallon of milk five miles on one’s back is a bad idea. Thankfully I haven’t had to learn too many similar lessons through such ill-considered trial and error. I instinctively knew I’d need a car to effectively and reliably buy and transport eggs and/or ice cream. And what’s more, I figured that out all by myself.

Biking is beneficial both environmentally and economically. This summer I went a month without putting gas in my car once school let out. And my big boy bike allows me to go up any hill in Maine without getting off to walk. However, I’ve long since learned hills aren’t a cyclist’s primary enemy. Both wind and sand can be far more challenging.

There are other downsides to biking as well. When I began riding regularly, my doctor, an experienced cyclist, told me he’d have me arrested if ever saw me riding helmetlessly. He helpfully added that there are two types of bicyclists: those who’ve fallen off their bike, and those who haven’t fallen off their bike yet.

It didn’t take me long to join the first group, and as inevitably happens with those who cycle frequently, I’ve literally hit the road several times since then. My most recent fall occurred last week when I came around a corner at an angle and hit a patch of sand. As a result, I’m currently sporting scabs on my left hand and left knee, and a small scrape on the right side of my face.

Too bad my doctor wasn’t with me. He could have helped. Plus, I was wearing my helmet, so he wouldn’t have had me arrested. <

Andy Young: Karma pays a dividend

By Andy Young

Special to The Windham Eagle

I have logged over 2,000 miles on my bicycle since taking it out of the basement back in late April. That fact alone might lead some people to assume I am an experienced, proficient cyclist.

But most competent bikers travel with mini toolkits that allow them to make roadside repairs to any routine problems they encounter along the way. I do not carry any such implements; for me they’d be mere ballast. My mechanical skills are, to be blunt, nonexistent. Giving me a wrench and expecting me to fix a bike is the equivalent of handing a rhinoceros a fishing rod and asking him to tune a piano with it.

Which explains how, late last Friday afternoon, I was wondering exactly how to proceed when I found myself and my bike, which had a rear tire that was flatter than a pancake, stranded on the side of a rural road more than a dozen miles from where I live.

The good news was that I had my cell phone, an item I often forget to stick in my backpack before I go pedaling off seeking adventure. Taking it out, I called my friend Brian, who I know for a fact would drop everything to help someone in need at a moment’s notice. He also has a truck that even a bicycle as large as mine can easily fit into, and he resides no more than five or six miles from where I was stranded. He picked up on the second ring, we exchanged pleasantries, and I explained my situation to him. And as I expected, he said, “I’d love to help!”

“But,” he continued, “I’m already halfway to Houlton.” Which, as I recalled too late, is where he and his family go every year for an extended weekend in early October. (Note: in order to keep from upsetting anyone, I have purposely avoided using “Columbus Day weekend” or “Indigenous Peoples Day weekend” here. Choose whichever phrase you prefer.)

At that point I should have been thinking about my next move, but I didn’t have time to do so, because as I was telling Brian to enjoy his weekend up north, a car that was approaching slowed. Lowering his window, the driver asked me if I was okay. I told him that I was, but that my bike most certainly wasn’t. He pulled over, got out, said, “I can take you wherever you need to go.”

When someone with a disabled bike is stranded in the middle of nowhere with darkness no more than an hour away, the only thing he or she desires more than a random humanitarian to appear out of nowhere is having one arrive with a vehicle that’s equipped with a bike rack. Sure enough, my rescuer’s car had one.

Twenty-ish minutes later we were in my driveway, and along the way I learned a bit about an ordinary, extraordinary fellow who I hadn’t known before. I figured he wouldn’t take any money for gas if I offered it to him, and of course he didn’t. That’s why, when he wasn’t looking, I a dumped a HUGE load of good Karma into the back seat of his car, one that I expect will last him and his family well into 2021.

At the risk of sounding a little too giddy over my unlikely rescue, I believe the man who extricated me from my predicament last week was more than just a Good Samaritan. I think he was my guardian angel.

Why?

Well, because - and I swear I’m not making this up - his name was Gabriel.<