Stop The Bus

I heard Grace Potter and the Nocturnals on the radio in the car the other day. I never hear them while in the car. Part of this is probably because I don't drive that often anymore. Apparently that's part of the culture out here. Everyone loves their bikes, walking shoes and public transit. Well - that's an exaggeration. I don't know anyone that loves public transit as much as they love the idea of it. I'm one of those. Not driving to work is pretty awesome. Ideally, that's a whole 25 minutes you get to listen to news podcasts (I'm a fan of Wait Wait Don't Tell Me and Science Fridays) or read your new favorite book just plucked from the shelves of the public library. If you're careful, you can even drink your morning coffee on your commute, maybe do some morning meditation to prepare you for the day. Plus, if you're lucky like I am, you live a few blocks from the bus stop. This allows for some blood flow to start moving and gets you exercise in disguise. Ideally, it is 25 minutes of bliss before you put your noise to the grindstone and glue yourself to your non-ergonomic chair.

Ideally. You all caught that right? The adverb means –

1. In accordance with the ideal; perfectly

2. In theory or principle

3. In idea, thought or imagination

I'd like to call your attention to the word "imagination" which, when used as a noun is "the faculty or action of producing ideas, especially mental images of what is not present or has not been experienced".

My bus rides have never co-existed with the ideal. Usually I am squished between two large men and their briefcases or sharing oxygen with someone who hasn't ever seen a toothbrush. Once I was fortunate enough to listen to Justin Beiber for 30 minutes through the incredible decibel levels of a young man 3 rows behind me. the doors have been shut on me as people push for position, fights as to whether or not the line begins at this corner or that one, unsolicited conversation and sometimes an ab and leg workout from having to brace oneself against the various speeds and brake forces needed to combat the hills.

I swear I am going to ride my bike to work from now on. Oh wait. . .

Cyclists have a whole different set of issues to deal with during the morning commute. I can only guess that since most of these folks are smarter and more fit than I am, they've avoided rush hour and/or know routes that do not include the major arterials. Still, they try to turn and a bus runs them over. They stay in the bike lane and a car door opens and slams them to the ground. Cyclists are a different breed. I want to be like them. I want to ride with one pant leg up (just like I learned at Lee Middle) with a fancy messenger bag that lights up even in the day time. I want to wear those fancy clip-in shoes to help with the peddling without falling at a stop sign. Sigh. One day. One day I will be brave. For now I just have this idea that I would end up staring up at the crux of my route, whimpering like a lost puppy in the rain, begging for a time machine.

Pax and I walk a lot. So much so that when I told my trainer (the JCC gives you one free session probably hoping that you'll love it so much you'll sign on for eleven hundred hours of personal training.) that I walk probably4 miles a day he scoffed at me. I don't know if he thought I was over or under selling but I did not appreciate it. Anyway, walking is dangerous too but I got myself a neon windbreaker that is just as functional as it is cute (super functional and cute boys). The neon helps with visibility but it doesn't keep vehicles from creeping on me in the cross walk as if I should be sprinting across. Heaven forbid they have to wait to make their turn. I was walking the street the other day - not jay walking - and had a little white man light telling me that it was safe for me to cross. At the same time, oncoming traffic had a green arrow, signaling it was okay for them to make a left turn. Say What? Some one is going to lose that battle and it's me against 2,000 pounds of steel. I concede and am left in the median crossing my fingers for an especially thoughtful motorist to slow long enough to make like a gazelle.

Commuting. It's dangerous.