In the last two weeks, I have had to slam on my brakes a couple of times exiting our driveway.

Most recently, following someone to town who had been visiting us, I had to wait for two cars to pass before I could pull in behind. We regard that as congestion along the dirt roads where we live.

The July and August people are here. Our local markets and restaurants are busier, and I enjoy seeing strangers in the aisles, frequently just browsing or gawking at the smallness of our grocery boutiques.  There are very few of that sort left in the suburbs and big cities. They have been replaced by Whole Foods and Wegmans. So, the small grocers really do attract the interest and curiosity of visitors.

I remain one of those curious people when I travel through New England, always keen to pull into the local market, or inn, if there happens to be one.

Against the odds, we insist on keeping our village stores alive. The practical reason is that the supermarkets are 20 to 30 minutes from those of us in the smaller towns. To realize you are short of milk or eggs, and that restocking will mean a 45-minute, even hour-long, round trip to the nearest Shaw’s or Market Basket is the definition of discouragement, especially if you are held up by traffic at the end of your driveway.

The impractical, but maybe more important, reason is the extent to which these small markets contribute to our sense of community. They are, so we are. There are better and worse supermarkets, but what do they say about us or the places we live? How do they contribute to our identity?

I suppose if you live in a community with a Whole Foods, it says real estate is expensive and you can afford to live there. But the experience is the same inside. Same soundtrack. Same sushi. It really is more and more like shopping Amazon Prime.

Anyway, where was I going with this? The July and August people have arrived, bringing with them their patronage of our stores and their vehicles, requiring me to look both ways before pulling out of the driveway. All good. All fine. A seasonal phenomenon among people conditioned to seasonal phenomenon.

But may I say something about motorcycles? I have not been on a motorcycle since I was probably 20 years old. It was someone else’s. He drove it early one spring all the way from New York City to college in upstate, arriving half-frozen to death. It took a day to thaw him out.

Afterward, we all had a great time riding the motorcycle. It is very liberating, a feeling of being one with the road. In New Hampshire, riding without a helmet, I suppose it feels even more like being one with the road. (That may not have come out right. But you get what I mean.)

At my age, I have no desire to climb back on a motorcycle. I do, however, have a hankering for a Vespa, which is a scooter. More like me. “Gotta scoot,” I could say when it was time to go and mean it.

But motorcycles. They are inherently loud. Why is it necessary to make them road-rumbling, window-rattling, heard-you-as-you-crossed-into-New Hampshire-from-Massachusetts louder?

We know many of the old guard around here from our days as village grocers. Once upon a time, I asked one of them, whom I particularly admire, if he had big pipes on his motorcycle when he was young. A few bikes had just thundered down Main Street, halting all conversation, sending shockwaves against the buildings. He smiled and said, “Oh yes. We all did.”

Is it a guy thing? I am a guy. I do not believe I have ever turned my head to follow in awe the path of a motorcycle down the road thinking, “Golly, I wish I could be that loud and interested in everyone staring at me.”

Of course, I have a newspaper column, which anyone could say is equally desirous of people’s passing attention. Fair enough. And I plan to still be making noise with it in the winter.

But, you get what I mean.

Gotta scoot.

Jarvis Coffin writes fiction and essays on rural life. He is a retired media and advertising sales executive, and former chef/owner, with his wife, of New Hampshire’s oldest inn, the Hancock Inn. Reach him at huntspond@icloud.com, and keep up with all his musings at jarviscoffin.com.