I love to drive, always have. There's only one thing that bothers me, other drivers.

My motto: everybody else driving on the same road as me is nuts. Dangerously nuts. According to a Boston Globe article I read some time ago, 20% of the drivers out there threatening me don't know the rules of the road. I think it is safe to say an even larger percent don't care, as long as they get to go first.

A few days ago while driving my Island Explorer bus through an intersection in Bar Harbor -- you remember Bar Harbor, that quaint little New England village to which the hordes flock in summer to get away from it all, I dared to observe my situation for a moment. I counted five different activities going on around my bus at the same moment, cars coming at me, cars pulling out in front of me, cars ahead of me, a pedestrian trying to decide whether to jump out in front of me, and a car door opening 20 feet in front of me.

One day a passenger asked me if I ever drive through Boston, and I replied, "Yup, I drive through Boston for practice in driving through Bar Harbor."

The fair city in the wooded outskirts of which we live, Ellsworth, is probably even worse. I can understand Bar Harbor. Many of those drivers are 'from away' and don't know where things are in Bar Harbor. Some are from New York and think you're supposed to park on the street. But in Ellsworth it's different, sure a lot of those we meet on our eternally-under-construction streets are also 'from away.'

But most are fairly local. The other day, while Dolores and I sat, waiting to enter an intersection with no traffic signal, we faced a line of cars in the oncoming lane waiting to turn left. Because we couldn't move forward, I allowed one of those oncoming cars to turn left.¹ Then traffic ahead of me moved forward, but I couldn't. Four more cars literally forced their way to a left turn in front of our 'Ellie' Toyota.

All of them carried Maine plates. Not many out-of-state cars have Maine plates. The last one, driven by an elderly lady who obviously only drove her Buick to church, blasted her horn at us as she forced her way in front of 'Ellie.'

Obviously she felt her Buick was more worthy than our little Toyota. Perhaps when you calculate the fuel cost for her to drive it compared to that of 'Ellie,' she was right.

Ellsworth offers a fascinating choice of where to get stuck in construction. For much of the past dozen weeks, Route 1 eastward was under construction. Myrick Street, leading from Route 3 to Route 1, was under construction. An intersection of Routes 3 and 1 were under construction. An intersection of Routes 1 and 3 and an entrance to a mall was under construction. Another intersection of the same routes and the same mall was under construction and has been left temporarily unfinished -- don't think we're done with you yet. The parking lot of the mall was under construction -- and still is. Construction equipment for the new McDonald's located at one of the construction spots helped that feeling of golly, gee, this is fun.

Then, having discovered 'they' missed an escape route, 'they' added Water Street to the construction list.

Now 'they' got us.

A favorite motorist sport is to pull out in front of my bus, then drive 30 miles per hour for 100 yards or so before making me stop while the motorist waits to turn left, facing an endless line of oncoming traffic. He would have been really slowed down by waiting for me to pass at 45 miles per hour rather than pulling out in front. I know that driver was under a death threat to get to the discount T-shirt store before I got past.

A bicyclist in downtown Bar Harbor tried to pass my bus on the right between the bus and vehicles parked along the road. He had a lot more faith in my ability to drive in a straight line while dodging oncoming traffic and parked mirrors than did I. My bus actually went faster through the heavy traffic, so the bicyclist didn't get to pass me after all.

Most motorcyclists don't bother me, except for the racket that a few testosterone-driven ones have to make to prove they are men -- or something. They generally give me and other traffic lots of room. I would too if I were wrapped around a hot motor facing and being followed by a gang of idiots talking on cell phones. I'd be very careful.

Ah, cell phones and that far-away look you see on the drivers faces while they chat away and nearly knock you out of the saddle as they turn left toward you at an intersection. That far-away look ain't your imagination, in case you were wondering. That is, in case you had time to wonder while trying to figure out how to best avoid the cell-phone addict's taking your left front fender.

A defensive-driving CD we Island Explorer drivers saw last month explained. That far-away look, that stare at nothing you see on those drivers' faces who are either talking on their cell phones or whose minds are on some different planet causes tunnel vision. Those drivers have no peripheral vision. If you're alongside them or off to one side of them at an intersection, they have no clue you're there.

The CD also noted that tailgaters can't enjoy the scenery or even protect themselves by being aware of traffic conditions around them. All they can do is look intensely at the rear of the vehicle they're tailgating, so they can try to stop within the 20 feet or less they've allowed themselves should the brake lights of that vehicle come on. Scary, not only for the tailgater but for me when I'm the tailgatee -- another new word from the woods of Maine.

I don't normally glue myself to the screen during those CDs, but this one had a third interesting idea, one which I find myself doing kind of automatically. And, if you're driving behind me, I hope you do too. By staying well back from that car in front -- approximately four seconds by checking against a stationary object that car passes -- it gives me enough time and playground space to keep an eye on what's happening around me.

If I'm headed for the left lane down the road a bit to make a left turn, that playground space gives me time and space to see what the next vehicle behind or beside me is doing. It allows me to wait to be sure that pickup already in the left lane ahead of me is not going to stop and try to turn left against heavy oncoming traffic, delaying my own left turn at the traffic light by being stuck behind him.

And -- I enjoy this -- that playground space gives me time to move my eyes (moving the eyes increases peripheral vision), resting them from the glare of sun on bright chrome and allowing me to look for critters in fields or edges of woods along the way. Looking for critters is one of the reasons I moved to Maine 43 years ago.

Which is one of those old-guy take-me-back-to-the-good-old-days memories. Forty-three years ago I drove down the roads of Maine and wondered how all those other drivers knew me. They were all waving at me. Later in my new Maineiac life I learned that everyone in Maine waved to everyone as they drove -- waved with five fingers, not one.

I liked that and still do. One of the joys of heading upcountry once in awhile is finding a place like that, such as Wellington, Byron, or Milton Plantation, where they still do wave. It's great to be waved at by people who have time to wave and remember how.

A great old Maine tradition that I hope isn't run off the road by speeding, tailgating motorists.

Last November I finally made it to the barber shop after a busy, busy summer and fall. My regular guy must have been closed, because I had gone to a different one, located on High Street within sight and sound of the traffic streaming by.

In 1937, someone had suggested a bypass around Ellsworth but the local businessmen raised a hue and cry that a bypass would end motorists' stopping to shop in Ellsworth. That bypass suggestion raised its questionable head a few times since, and each time the business community slapped it around so it never developed.

Now there's probably no place for a bypass.

Being around the State of Maine a bit, I know of a fair number of Maine towns with bypasses which don't seem to lack business. I can't ever recall a glaring headline, "Businessmen blame bypass for reduced business."

The barber and I were chatting about traffic, and I mentioned how upset I became and other drivers looked as they sat in gridlocked Ellsworth traffic waiting to move on to Bar Harbor or Downeast or even home three miles out in the country. He offered the classic line that with a bypass, motorists wouldn't spend their money in local businesses.

"Would you like me to go out in the street and tap on gridlocked motorists' windows and ask them if they'd like to come in for a haircut while they're waiting for traffic to move?" I asked.

He offered no response.

After a pause, he said, "Heavy traffic only lasts for one month."

"I've been trying to get to the barber shop for three months," I replied.

I didn't think he needed to know all the details involved in that reply.

¹ "Allowed." I paused just long enough in inching forward so that car could turn left in front of me. I never, never, never motion a driver or pedestrian to do something. Today's world is populated by too many lawyers and too many drivers and pedestrians who would just love to get their greedy hands on my remaining nine dollars if they follow my hand motion and have an accident. By just pausing, I'm not signaling. I'm enjoying a quiet moment, perhaps remembering a time when I could just drive without sitting in traffic.

Milt Gross can be reached for corrections, harassment, or other purposes at lesstraveledway@midmaine.com.

Milton M. Gross Copyright 2008