Lest you think life has gone completely to hell and our society is in the toilet:

Usual Sunday ride, this time the '71 Gitane Tour de France which had a definitely worn and sketchy rear sew-up with a spot in the sidewall that I'd been watching since last fall. Decided to chance it anyhow, and about 12 miles from home on US301, the sidewall fails just where I expected it to and the tire blows. No real problem. Pull the back wheel, pull off the tire, a new layer of glue on the rim, new tire mounted, and a quick spritz with the CO2 inflator, I've got the bike back on the road in ten minutes, or less.

Except that, within this time, the elderly gentleman (OK, I'm guessing 5-8 years older than me, but I definitely have him by a good 20 years in physical fitness) whose yard I'd been doing the repair in has pulled up on his tractor to see if I need any assistance. Or use of his compressor. And I get to watch his eyes bug out as I explain to him that yes, you do glue the tires onto the rim. Passed the dead tire over to him so he could see what I was talking about. Meanwhile, another stranger southbound on 301 in a Suburban has pulled up to inquire whether I'd need a lift. Very gracious thanks to both gentlemen involved, and I'm on my way. Cut the day's ride a bit short as I no longer was carrying a usable spare.

I may live in rural, tea-party Virginia, but we're not totally populated by loud, redneck, militia cosplayers with "assault rifles". Civilized gentlemen still abound.