I’ve Always Been Bad at Public Transit

Always.

I grew up in an oblivious small town in which a useless system of buses existed purely to appease senior citizens.  I basically skateboarded everywhere anyway, so figuring out routes and schedules was never on my radar. Bad weather was rarely a factor. It wasn’t unusual to see me skating home after a party during the beginning of a snowstorm. As long as there was a strip of relatively dry pavement, I was rolling…that’s what winter set-ups are for.

When I moved away to college, I would often (always) get on the wrong bus. The 1A instead of the 1, the northbound instead of down town, or the short turn that ended two blocks after I boarded.  On several occasions, I would wait an hour for a bus that was never coming because it didn’t have Sunday service.  I would get off a stop too soon or 5 stops too late like clockwork.

I swear, there was someone who smelled like they downed an entire bottle of gin on every bus I ever boarded just so they could have a bench to themselves.  Oh, and I would always sit directly next to the meth head who wanted to talk about how Jesus could change my life forever.

At some point, I just gave up on transiting, and would only use it a) at the insistence of others, or b) when I knew the route 100%.  I started walking basically everywhere. Three hour walks across town just to buy a FireWire cable we’re not uncommon.

I’m not going to get into what a mess I am at Union Station, or an airport.

Yet, whenever I travel, I insist on staying in neighbourhoods where public transit is necessary.  I look forward to meeting the meth head who wants to teach me about Jesus..

There’s some pretty views to be had whilst waiting for a train.

Waiting being the operative word here.

I try (claim) to be pretty green, yet I refuse to give up my car for the work commute.  Last week, my beloved 2001 Mazda Protege with 350000+ kilometres crapped out on me, and I’ve been forced to do the loser TTC –> GO Train commute.

It’s sorta pretty.  Since I can’t down a bottle of gin in the morning, I figured the best way to get entire bench to myself is to immediately pull out a copy of Requiem For A Dream when I sit down. Worked like a charm.

It’s growing on me, and I might be OK with it.  I’m less fat and I feel like I’m living in the lyrical content of an early Lawrence Arms album (spoiler: they all have a maniacal obsession with the Chicago public transit system)