He was just sitting on his lawn tractor by the edge of the road. His name was Everett. It had to be. I had never met him before, but he looked like an Everett.

You know. The green work shirt and matching pants. He even had the nondescript green work cap that meant he was doing some serious yard work.

As I approached on my bicycle, he shifted the rider mower into forward. He looked up long enough to make eye contact and then it happened. The Yankee nod.

A slight movement of the head to acknowledge one another. It was simultaneous. No words were exchanged. Yet we conversed more in that single moment than some folks do in a morning of idle chatter over coffee and donuts at the local lunch counter.

It was “good morning,” “hope you’re well,” “nice weather”, and “that’s a fine bicycle-lawn tractor you have there” all rolled into one.

That’s what I like about cycling in this part of the country. It’s not just the scenery and the quaint villages. It’s people. Sometimes, like with Everett, you don’t even have to slow down to speak with them.

When you do venture off your bicycle you open up a vast array of possibilities. Just a quick duck into the local mom-and-pop store for a snack puts you in the position for talking about most anything.

It always helps to start out complimenting them on the appearance of their store. Gasping over an original hardwood floor is a sure thing. Then you can branch out into the weather, the traffic or lack thereof, or the name of the dog sleeping on the front steps.

It doesn’t seem to matter whether you’re wearing wraparound sunglasses and shiny blue lycra shorts. Yankees are just good, friendly folks. Except for the ones who have the “Welcome to Maine, Now Go Home” bumper stickers. They’re grumpy, angry people who need therapy.

In spite of those bumper stickers, thousands of tourists flock to our little cluster of New England states for the single purpose of cycling. They love us. They love our Saturday night baked bean suppers. They love our flea markets. They love our music concerts on the village green.

There are some traditions, however, I could do without. I have never learned how to deal with farms. It’s so all-American to give a hearty wave to a farmer out working the fields. But if he’s spreading fresh manure … forget it. I grew up in northern Vermont and some of my best friends thoughtfully brought that aroma to school with them each day. But I never got used to it.

And contrary to popular belief, living in Maine is not necessarily life in the slow lane. Indigenous drivers seem reluctant to use their brakes … squeezing to the left or the right to get around cars or cyclists. I guess they’re in a hurry to get somewhere and relax.

That’s why I prefer back roads. If I may pilfer a phrase from the hardcore mountain bikers, “dirt rules.” The traffic is light and the scenery is great.

One problem. Dirt roads aren’t as plentiful here in Maine as in Vermont. I didn’t have to go more than a mile from my home in any direction before I encountered gravel. Vermont had more miles of dirt roads than paved when I was a youngster. Complete with washboards, ruts, loose shoulders and stones the size of baseballs.

We rode those rural thoroughfares with our prized 10-speed racing-style bikes. Skinny tires and all. Now I’m grateful for fat mountain bike tires and softer seats. Unfortunately, those amenities didn’t help in my recent attempt to conquer some of the back roads in my old stomping grounds.

Somehow, the hills were longer and steeper than I remembered. Buildings looked different. Some didn’t even exist any longer. That made it tough when you get to an intersection expecting to see the old Douglas farm on the left. No way I could be lost. This was my home turf. But after making the third turn based on a coin flip, I swallowed hard and uttered the words I thought I would never let pass my lips. “Does this road take me to Daniel’s Pond?”

The response was friendly. Not one of those snide “you can’t get there from here” comebacks you associate with crusty old New Englanders. I was relieved to see the bumper sticker on the Buick parked in the dooryard. “ILOVERMONT.” This was a man at peace with his Yankeeness.

He assured me my destination was over the next hill and went back to tending his garden. He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his green work shirt as I set off up the road. I’d never met him before, but I’m sure his name was Everett.

Bill Mason is a cyclist and free-lance columnist who lives in Bangor.