Bus routes changing transportation
I am in utter awe of Logan’s bus system. It’s free. (Blah, blah, blah, don’t get all up and at me for the taxes that fund the service.) Sure, it takes a few more minutes, like an hour, to get to a place, but all the while you get to soak in the quaint Logan residential life and booming commerce of Main Street.
Main Street in Logan is a beast. Anything and everything is found on this bustling street that suffers from a stunning lack of left green turn signals, another reason to ride the bus. Main Street is a deceiving little trickster, she is. She makes you feel like you are in a big city, instead of a cow town, but that don’t trick no one, because a whiff of cow can be smelled at the gust of any canyon wind.
If you want a little bit of diversity and variety in your life, ride the bus, because it is the most ethnically diverse place to be in Loganville! It is hopping with culture. It is really easy to use, too. The drivers announce the major stops when it suits their fancy, but I do not recommend that you rely on ear alone, especially if it is your first bus adventure. “Yunka Gunka Cret Yoon,” the driver will garble into his or her scraggly mic as the bus whizzes by the destination.
That is why there are maps with simple color coded bus routes. And if worst comes to worst, remember this sage, generic piece of advice: “all routes lead to the transit center,” which is reminiscent of the movie quote, “all drains lead to the ocean,” or the saying, “all roads lead to Rome.”
I love pulling the cord that indicates that I want to get off the bus; it is the part of the trip that I look forward to the most. Actually, it is the highlight of my life. “Ding,” lights the sign, after I tug the nifty draped aid. It is a very satisfying action that triggers a state of contentment and well-being. Sometimes a fellow bus rider will beat me to it, which is a horrible disappointment. I let an angry grunge fester inside my soul all week.
Some people pull the cord with nervous anticipation. Others hang for a while, lingering with their movement, desperately searching for a moment of anguished respite. Me, the bus veteran, yawns and casually yanks it with a pinkie. You can read many types of personalities by observing the way a passenger pulls a bus cord.
The bus drivers tend to pull into the road while you are still making your way back to an open bus seat, creating inertia that makes you cling to an overhead bar to maintain proper balance so you do not impale the gentlemen sitting to your near right with your box of fruit snacks, but that does not bug me too much. When I went to Mexico City, the buses were as adventurous as Lagoon and as riotous as the White Owl, times ten. The drivers seldom stopped, even at the indicated bus stops. It is a most interesting situation to try to jump into a moving vehicle, count your pesos to pay the driver, get past the drunks and plunge into a seat, all without breaking a coccyx.
And the seats of the Mexican buses. Oh, the seats. It hurts my back to even think about them, because their metalness whacked my lumbar region with every jarring bump of each bruised journey. My spine was not spared. And my legs. Oh, my legs. Mexican buses were not made for my femurs. I had to sit sideways, well, kind of sideways, in order to fit, and when other people attempted to cross the aisle, I had to stand up, and sit down before I was thrown into the stratosphere. Up and down and up and down.
Riding Logan’s spacious public transit is like taking a breath of fresh air. So clean. So accommodating. So unpunctual. Really.
They, and do not ask me who “they” is, ought to supply the buses with super-jet rocket blasters so that these public vehicles can break the sound barrier whenever they need to catch up for lost time. Ahem. Route five. Or they should, at least, change the time frames of the pick-up schedule. Add a bus or two. Divvy up the routes. Purchase a time machine. I mean, for goodness sakes, it’s my sales tax money, isn’t it? Where else in the country is food taxed? I want super-jet rocket blasters.
Maybe we could strike up a deal with Mrs. Frizzle and borrow the Magic School Bus every once in a while. Then we could travel to Jupiter or Arnold’s esophagus, and experience science to the fullest. Ooh! Bill Nye the Science Guy has a pretty groovy eco-friendly vehicle with grass sprouting from its exterior. What if we planted a garden atop each bus? Then every time you rode the bus, you could snag a handful of freshly grown bean sprouts and bide your time happily, and healthily, even if you had to wait.
I realize I started this article to advocate the fine establishment of public transportation in our fair city – I mean, town – and I intend to end it that way. It rocks. Anyone with brains would abuse this opportunity to ride amuck in the neighborhood. Joy rides don’t get much more joyful than this, my friends. Live life on the edge and get off campus every once in a while. For free. Sort of.
Melissa Condie is a junior majoring in music education. Comments can be send to m. condie@aggiemail.usu.edu