Andy Young: A good oh-for-three

By Andy Young

My baseball career was modest at best. After warming the bench at ages 9 and 10, I played regularly during my last two Little League campaigns, making the all-star team in my final season. Three years of Babe Ruth League ball followed, with similar results. I was named an all-star at age 15, but only because every team needed a representative, and I was judged by the selection committee to be the least incompetent player on the league’s last-place squad. I may have had a couple of two-hit games along the way, but once pitchers began throwing curveballs on purpose, I experienced a lot of oh-for-threes.

Baseball is America’s traditional summer game, and that’s relevant because on days within a week of the solstice I can leave home on a bicycle at 7:30 p.m. for a grocery store that’s four miles away, pick up bananas and a half-gallon of milk, and pedal home with daylight to spare. And that’s important, since my bike is a Wrigley Field model. Which, as old-time baseball fans inherently understand, means it has no lights.

Virtually everyone around here knows how late darkness arrives during June’s last week, but relatively few are up when the sun first peeks over the horizon in the morning. But those of us who leave for work early in the a.m. know, the unaccustomed early morning glimmer changes a few things about our daily commute.

The biggest difference involves some of our fellow mammals, specifically the ones that live outdoors. Their existence is more directly impacted by the early daylight than the lives of those of us who live and work inside enclosed structures. Normally timid animals are more brazen about crossing the road this time of year, since they aren’t discouraged or intimidated by oncoming headlights.

Which brings me to a recent incident. It was 5 a.m. and I was no more than two miles into my ride to work when, 50 or so yards ahead of me, a large deer suddenly emerged from the bushes on the road’s right side, ambled onto the pavement, straddled the yellow lines in the middle of the street, then paused to casually observe its surroundings. Fortunately, I was driving the speed limit (which rarely bothers anyone at that hour), so I had sufficient time to slow down and allow the animal to glance my way, shrug, and then canter off to continue its day.

I would have liked to exhale at that point, but not a half-mile later a squirrel scurried out of the underbrush to my left and sprinted across the road no more than 10 yards ahead of me. There was no time to stop, but the bushy-tailed rodent timed its dash well, because there was no thump, and a split-second later I saw him disappear into the weeds to my right.

I didn’t have time to pat myself on the back, though. No more than a minute later, I was picking up speed on a straightaway when I detected more motion. It was a turkey that, like the squirrel, was attempting to cross the road from left to right. And even though the confused fowl’s gait resembled a knuckleball’s path (as opposed to the squirrel’s straight fastball), avoiding him was a breeze, as I had seen him and was able to decelerate with more than enough time to spare.

Within a five-minute, three-mile span three animals had darted onto the road without warning, and I didn’t so much as foul tip any of them.

Going hitless isn’t always a bad thing. I’m still grateful for last week’s oh-for-three! <

Andy Young: The Price of Driving

By Andy Young

Late last year the Maine Turnpike Authority announced it needed to collect more revenue (AKA money) on Interstate 95 (AKA the Maine Turnpike), and as a result the toll rate was going to be adjusted (AKA raised). 

While the reasons given for the escalation were understandable (continued cost of road maintenance and a COVID-related decline in toll revenue, among other things), the bottom line was that the increase was going to hit five-morning-per-week turnpike drivers right in our already-slender wallets.

It could have been worse. I travel south on the turnpike each day to my place of employment, but for those northbound folks who enter near where the York Toll Plaza used to be, the cost of getting on I-95 jumped to $4 dollars, a 33 percent boost. The hike for us southbounders wasn’t quite that steep, but still, an increase is an increase.

One of my north-in-the-AM co-workers began taking U. S. Route 1 (a toll-free path which runs parallel to the turnpike) each morning, and suggested I do the same. Ordinarily I’d have dismissed that proposal out of hand since the portion of the road I’d need to travel contains 39 traffic lights between Scarborough (where I’d get on) and Kennebunk (my destination). However, there’s not much traffic to compete with when I customarily hit the road. At that hour (around 5 a.m.) most of the signals are either blinking yellow or can be beaten by carefully slowing one’s approach to a red light, then prudently accelerating the moment it turns green.

Taking the toll-free route was a good plan, until the very day it wasn’t. One morning while zipping through Saco I saw blue lights in my rearview mirror. Compliantly giving way so the officer could continue pursuing whatever dangerous menace to society was on the loose, I was stunned when, after obediently pulling over, I discovered I was his quarry! 

The uniformed public servant approached my car and asked if I knew how fast I was going. The truth: of course I did, since there had been a big “49” displayed on my digital dashboard when I first saw the blue lights. But my (apparently involuntary) response was, “Ummmm, I think I was going 48, sir.” 

Fortunately, it was too dark for the officer to see my almost-immediate shame. Not only had I fibbed, but I had done so by one (1) mile per hour. Who lies by one mile per hour? And what good does it do?

Then he asked if I knew I was in a 35 mph zone, and I truthfully responded I did not. He took my license and registration, leaving me stewing over the irony and stupidity of getting a $200 speeding ticket because of a flawed effort to dodge a two-dollar toll. 

But providence smiled on me; the officer returned, presumably after ascertaining no warrants for my arrest existed, and told me kindly but firmly to please drive safely, which I pledged sincerely to do.

Lesson learned. 

Or perhaps not.

Early in the a.m. less than two weeks later I was motoring through Saco on Route 1 at what seemed like a snail’s pace when once again I saw blue in my rearview mirror. This time I was clocked at 47 mph. But once again I wasn’t ticketed, just cautioned (by a different, though slightly less friendly officer) to please slow down.

Is the old saying about the third time being the charm true? I for one do not intend to find out. Since that second encounter with the police, I’ve taken the turnpike (and grudgingly paid the toll) every morning. <