It Sucks to Miss the Bus

Being carless isn’t all healthy walks and eco-savings.

The truth is sometimes it can just plain suck. Two recent bad experiences I’ve had have underscored this, though I’m still trying to remain positive. But I want this blog to be an exercise in a loose form of radical honesty, so it’s only right to post about the negative experiences as well.

So, without further ado I present the cluster of what should’ve been a no-transfer, 15-minute ride turning into a two-hour ordeal.

The jarring reality check of an unplanned stop

A couple of weeks ago I was riding down Thomas Road from 40^th Street (i.e., the gym) to home, which means my destination was Thomas and 52^nd Street. It’s a short ride, with relatively few stops and the walk home from the stop in front of the slightly sketchy Shell station on 52^nd Street and Thomas is mere tenths of a mile.

My short, nomally direct route.

Today, however, the bus driver abruptly turned right off of Thomas Road and pulled into a 44^th Street stop.

Now, there is a Thomas bus that only goes to 44^th Street, but a.) this was not that bus and b.) that bus still stops on Thomas, not 44^th Street.

The driver got up and just told us confused riders the bus was stopping. He didn’t really explain why. Most riders got off muttering and went to the corner to get to the next bus stop on Thomas. I stood and watched them bob down the crosswalk in a loose line like a row of backpacked, slightly ruffled ducks.

I, however, was panicked and didn't want to leave the bus.

The Thomas bus, my anchor line, had turned. It was stopping service. My god, had North Korea finally nuked us? What kind of a world allows this chaos??!!

I knew the panic I felt was irrational. It’s about a 20-minute walk from that intersection to my house. A walk through a ginormous shopping center with all sorts of stores, including a huge grocery store and Target, both of which have water fountains and bathrooms and air conditioning.

Granted, a walk home would have been hot, uncomfortable and inconvenient, but it’s not as though I were Lawrence of Arabia, cast out into a merciless sun with no water. (Sidenote: The movie is spectacular; see it. The real-life person the movie is based on is awe-inspiring; read something, anything about him, too.)

Not actually my situation at all. But I felt like it was. 

When did I become such a pansy? I used to wander sketchy parts of Vegas at night with impunity (and, in retrospect, much stupidity and recklessness). I’m not proud of this, but as a punk ass teenager I frequently accepted rides from virtual strangers. Now, as a 35-year-old grown woman, I’m terrified of getting off a bus in the middle of the afternoon in a busy intersection. Have I been self-gentrified? But I digress. 

The driver, holding his phone and a bit frazzled himself, said another bus would come but that that bus would “probably turn, too” because “maybe everyone got the text message."

The driver said if that happened, that next bus would go down 44^th Street to McDowell, then down McDowell to 52^nd Street, then up 52nd Street to the Thomas and 52^nd Street stop (my destination stop).

Well, all right then.

A bit inconvenient, and would delay dinner, which meant no Quantico that night (damn), but I could catch up on the work-work I wasn’t currently doing this evening instead. 

Most importantly, I wouldn’t have to walk with my heavy gym bag in 98 degrees, which really was my main objective. I'd already lifted weights for an hour and exercycle'd nine miles. I'm getting in shape here, not training for Iron Man. 

Plan B was a LIE

So, I settled in for a bonus reading session at the bus stop on 44^th Street and Thomas.

I’m currently reading Franklin and Winston: An Intimate Portrait of an Epic Friendship by Jon Meacham. I quickly forgot my annoyance as I became immersed in Roosevelt’s careful maneuvering to pass the Lend-Lease Act and Churchill’s increasing desperation for U.S. involvement in the war.

After quite some time (the Lend-Lease Act was passed by a grudging and pacifist Congress), I looked up with a heavy heart. It's hard to read poor Chuchill’s eloquent, diplomatic, begging cables to FDR, most of which were along the lines of, “No, really, we’re commissioning milk trucks over here. FFS, get in the damn war already and, oh hey, not to be a jerk or anything, but like half the ships you sent me are broke." 

I was worried my sympathy for Churchill made me not notice the bus zip by. Reading books as opposed to articles at the bus stop tends to zone me out a bit, and a driver assuming I wasn't waiting for the bus because I'm happily reading is something that may or may not have already happened more than once.  

Fortunately, there was the next Thomas bus at the intersection. This time, I prepared for its mind-bending turn onto 44th Street. I packed up and stood up with my bus pass in hand.

Except the bus didn’t turn.

Like a lemming heading for its genetically programmed cliff dive, the bus callously glided through the intersection and stopped at the next Thomas stop. Which was way too far for me to make. 

Flummoxed, I hefted my bag on my shoulder and began to walk quickly towards the waiting bus.

Maybe the driver would see me and wait.

Maybe the bus was early and would wait.

Maybe the driver would wait because I was hot, sweaty again (especially annoying given I’d showered at the gym), and seriously beginning to worry about getting dinner made on time and having the mental energy to complete a highly-creative work project that evening.

The bus waited, huzzzah! 

…Unfortunately, it was the bus that only went to 44^th Street.

Oh. Right. That bus.

Back to Frankie and Winnie, who were slowing getting ready to meet with the help of their mutual friend Harry Hopkins. It was a good place to be stuck reading because Harry brokered this super-secret, historically momentous meeting on a ship after dealing with stomach cancer. Let’s think about that a moment: having 75 percent of your stomach removed in 1939, and then working 20-hour days for a wartime presidential administration, traveling repeatedly across a war-torn sea.

And here I am whining about waiting for a bus.

Well, played, universe. Well played.

There was a sleeping homeless man on the bench, so I stood with my bag. Bright side, I now know how to hold a book, bag and umbrella simultaneously! I truly can read anywhere, anytime. Other readers will understand how gratifying this skill set is to have.

Home, but not without cost

The next bus came 40 minutes later (somehow, Frankie and Winnie's meeting involving several military ship escorts and a literal brass band playing at different points managed to be a secret; no German spy movie will ever be the same). 

I got home about 20 minutes before Judd and so started making dinner right away.

By the time I was done with the cleanup I’ll admit when I sat down to my computer to work I was beat. Since the project involved some writing and marketing planning, it wasn’t getting anywhere and I had run out any plausible means to claim I was on Facebook for “inspiration”. My creative juices had clearly dried up in the heat that afternoon. 

Fortunately, I build in buffer days on deadlines and decided to just shut everything down and try again the next day. Sigh. At least I worked out and got a healthy dinner on the table, though.

I did email Valley Metro about the experience, emphasizing that I didn’t think the driver did anything wrong, exactly, but that perhaps they should implement better training protocols on how, when and why drivers inform riders about exactly what is happening.

I received an email response asking for more information, which I gave, that was then followed up with a form letter basically saying my complaint had been received. I hope the driver didn’t get into trouble; that wasn’t my intent at all.

So, that was my Bad Bus Day. I’ve had a couple since but, again, am attempting to focus on the positive during this transition.