Category Archives: Transportation

Some days I don’t even love myself.

A hunter orange jacket. A rainbow colored yarmulke. A full beard. He bowed his head four times on the bus.

A black leather trench-coat. A black fedora. Bleached blond hair that stuck out below the hat in the back, but not at all on the sides. Black, Frankenstein boots with souls two inches thick. He asked where Shinders Bookstore was, and I didn’t know. I pass it every day on the way to work, but I didn’t know the comic book shop with the poster of Wolverine in the window was called Shinders.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa.” Five times. Just like that. The cop whipped a u-turn, parked on the curb, and stepped out to utter those words. I was too busy making sure he wasn’t talking to me to notice who he was talking to. “What do you think you’re doing?” The questions continued for the man who crossed the street when the little red hand said don’t cross, but I was already crossing 8th street.

So many people, and I’m supposed to love them all? Some days I don’t even love myself.

You can get mono from riding the monorail.

I rode the bus today. Gosh I miss that. It was incredibly inefficient for the short trip I was taking, but it worked out. I just love being able to sit back and read on the bus.

One thing I’ve forgotten about public transit is the sort of people you see. I don’t mean to stereotype, I’m just reflecting on my experience. It’s an odd assortment, slanted to the type of people a suburban white kid like me doesn’t normally hang around. It’s public transportation, so invariably you have members of the lower class who don’t have any other method of transportation. These are the kind of people you don’t normally see in a white-washed suburban church. These are also the kind of people I envision Jesus hanging out with.

While riding the bus it struck me how apart I am from these people. I rode the bus for two and a half years with pride. I spent a hours every week with people not normally in my social sphere, and I thought it was good.

Today I realized that while that may be a fine and dandy experience, I can’t think for one minute that I’ve been with these people. Our location is the only commonality we share. They don’t know me and I don’t know them. I may sit next to them on the bus, but I still see them differently, still judge them, still don’t have a clue how to relate to them.

Just because you’re with people doesn’t mean you belong. Just because you sit next to someone or go to the same church or eat at the same restaurant doesn’t mean anything. Without relationship, without fellowship, and maybe even without love — because it takes love to overcome our programmed social boundaries — you’ve got nothing.

Aw, crap, it’s a girls’ car! I can’t drive this.

I have an odd relationship with cars. I grew up in an automobile-addicted house. My dad worked for Ford, loved to build model cars, and loved to work on real cars just as much. My brother followed very much in my dad’s footsteps, building model cars, working on his own cars, and eventually going to work automotive companies like Roush Racing and Cosworth.

In some ways, I followed their lead. I built model cars, but never really passed the beginner stage. I collected die-cast cars for a while, and followed the addiction to NASCAR, which I really enjoyed. I followed along to the car shows and loved checking out the fancy sports cars, the odd concept cars, and the usual things boys think are cool. But as I went through my teens I began to care less and less about cars. I still liked NASCAR, and like any teen I loved the idea of driving. And while I loved the feeling of doing a job myself, I really didn’t care for spending entire weekends with the car in the garage. Regular maintenance was enough for me — I had no desire to customize anything.

Initially, driving was the biggest thrill for me. It didn’t help that I spent a few years riding around with older brother while he pushed cars to the limit, living out his race car driver fantasies. But when I actually got behind the wheel several close calls and stupid mistakes taught me that hod-rodding really isn’t the smartest thing to do. Blowing out the transmission on my dad’s truck probably sealed the deal. He was understandably furious, and I was wondering if the thrill of driving fast and screeching tires was worth the possible outcome.

Now I’m a lot older, I’m on my own, and I pay for my own choices. I’ve found that my attitude towards cars has changed a lot. I still love to drive, and I like driving fun cars, but I’m a lot more practical. Having to take care of my own car has really made me think about the whole proposition. Frankly, I’d rather ride the bus. But it’s rather difficult to survive solely on the bus. Two years ago we bought a new Jetta to replace my beginning to fade Ranger, and now as potential jobs off the bus line loom in the horizon, we’re thinking about a second car.

With all of this history, buying a car is a weird proposition. Thanks to my dad’s job, I have immense loyalty to Ford. Not only have I been raised loving Fords all my life, but I can get a tremendous deal on a Ford through my dad. It’s a double-whammy that makes it difficult to buy a car anywhere else. Of course I did it two years ago, opting for the Jetta mainly out of the wow-factor.

We wanted a small sedan, and the choice came down to the Ford Focus, the Mazda Protege (since Mazda is owned by Ford, I can get a deal on those, too), and the VW Jetta. The Focus was blah. It was weak on standard features, it wasn’t very fun to drive, and the volume knob on the radio was irritating. The knob clicked as you turned it, but each notch of adjustment was too loud or too soft. I couldn’t turn the radio down enough to talk over it without shutting it off. As stupid as that sounds, it made me really dislike the Focus.

The Protege had a few better standard features, but overall the car didn’t stand out to me. It drove OK and it felt OK, but it just seemed like another car. I felt like I’d lose it in the parking lot. The best thing the Protege had going was the price, and the fact that they threw in a moon roof.

The Jetta was something else altogether. VW’s are certainly more expensive, but you get what you pay for. The standard features were ten times better than any other car (assuming you get the GLS, not the GL — which doesn’t even have a freakin’ armrest!). It had more safety features than we knew you could get, and it had all sorts of little features that made things really nice. The cup holder could actually hold different size cups and you didn’t have to lunge for your open can of pop when you went around a corner. When you popped the hood a little handle came out so you didn’t have to fish for the hood release. If you had to change a flat tire it came with a full size spare. The middle seat in the back had both a headrest and a shoulder harness seat belt. It came with heated seats. And best of all, it was fun to drive.

The combination of style, fun, and intuitive features made me feel like I was getting my money’s worth on a VW, so I did. Two years later as we’re car shopping again, I’m leery of spending as much money as I did before, but I’m noticing the lack of little features that make a car that much nicer.

This time I’m doing a little more research, and it’s really making me think twice. Last time I never really considered the depreciation of new cars, and it’s really making me think about late-model used cars. Of course with the discount I can get at Ford, it makes the new models tempting. But then as I explore the options I want, I have to pay a bit more. We’re looking at Ford Escapes right now, the small SUV — thinking ahead to having kids and needing to haul stuff that won’t fit in the Jetta’s trunk (the 18 inch trunk opening is a major limiting factor – two weeks ago we bought a fridge for a friend and had to wedge it into the front seat). Of course the basic model doesn’t come with ABS brakes, or even a 40/60 split bench in the back. Which means if you’ve got three people and you’re hauling something large, you’d have trouble putting the seat down and giving your friend a place to sit. It’s really stupid engineering — or a marketing scam to force us into a more expensive trim package. And living in Minnesota, we want ABS. So we’re up to the middle trim package, and the deal I was getting isn’t looking so good anymore.

To further complicate things, Mazda makes a replica of the Escape, which they call the Tribute (what kind of a stupid name is that?). While these two models are basically identical, there are some differences in the body style, the ride, and what kind of incentives you can get. Of course my wife likes the feel of the Mazda better, but I feel the same way about the Tribute as I did about the Protege. It’s so-so, lacking the style that even the Escape manages to exude.

But either way, the prices are a bit much for now, and it all depends on me getting a job off the bus line, which isn’t looking too likely right now. What really rattles me about the whole car shopping mess is when I start researching Consumer Reports. Based on reliability, Fords suck. Though that’s no slam on Ford alone. All the American manufacturer’s, and most European as well, don’t compare to the Asian cars. In problems per vehicle, the Asian cars do much better over time. That’s why you see mid-1980s Toyotas all over the place, why the Fords and Chevy’s have already been abandoned. Of course I don’t have a lot of personal experience to speak from. My seven year old Ranger was doing just fine. I did have a Mustang in high school, which was about the same age and started to have more and more problems. Of course my neighbor had a similar aged Escort, which hummed along just fine. But I didn’t know anybody with imports, so I can’t really compare.

But as I think about buying a second car, maybe not this year, but definitely down the road, I’ll probably be buying something slightly used and running it into the ground. When it finally comes time to part with it, I’d like to think fondly of the car, not of how many times it let me down. Are Asian imports really that much better? Consumer Reports things so. 75 percent of Toyota’s vehicles were given Consumer Reports Good Buy rating, while Ford had one or two vehicles in its whole line-up. I’m still loyal to my Fords, but what do you say in the face of that kind of evidence? Say it ain’t so, Ford, say it ain’t so.

So I find myself torn between my loyalty to Ford and my desire for a car that’s going to last. What are the Asian car companies doing differently, and why can’t Ford do the same? Why do I get such a good feeling when sitting in a Ford, and why can’t I feel the same thing in a Honda?

Why am I babbling on like this? I don’t know. You probably don’t care, but when you’re unemployed you have a lot of time to think. Cars are a big purchase, and I probably fret more than I should over them. Of course for now I’m just waiting for a job, hoping to ride the bus again and not have to play the car game for another few years.

Like football, I think cars are deeply ingrained in the American pscyhe. I think I want a car that says something about me, either the funky, elite style of a VW Jetta, or the down-home, family friendly strength of a Ford. I have no association with Mazda or Honda or Subaru, so I don’t want them. Maybe I’ll just wait for the hybrids to expand and I’ll get one of them, going for the environmental satisfaction over the deep-rooted brand associations. Oh the pitfalls of a consumer.

Another one rides the bus.

I ride the bus to work every day. Just like I did some ten years ago on the way to school, I stand outside every morning and wait for the bus. After a brief venture into the world of vehicular freedom, I’ve come back to blessings of mass transit.

At first riding the bus was a financial necessity. I was two weeks out of college, one week of a marriage ceremony, and one day into a brand new job. My wife had to get to school and I had to get to work, two destinations in opposite directions. The bus seemed like an easy solution, but I had no idea I’d like it so much.

I leave the apartment at 6:45 a.m., and if I timed things right, the #67 picks me up a few minutes later on the same block. If I didn’t time things right, it’s no big loss. I take a ten-block hike down to University Avenue and pick up the #16 or the #50 there. Ten blocks may sound like a lot, but it takes about seven minutes and is good exercise–something a desk-jockey like myself could use. If I was lucky enough to avoid my exercise and catch the #67, it just takes me a little farther down on University and I pick up the #16 or the #50.

At first all the numbers seem a confusing, and they are. But you get used to it. The #16 and #50 are actually the same route, it’s just the #50 is a limited stop route, which means it only stops at the major cross streets, which means it’s about 10 to 15 minutes faster than the #16. Of course the #16 comes every ten minutes, while the #50 only comes every half-hour. All this basically means if I miss the bus I don’t have to wait long for the next one.

My ride on the #16 or the #50 is the long part of the trip, and the part I like the best. This trip takes about half an hour, and gives ample time for letting your mind wander. But more on that later. Once I get to downtown Minneapolis, I have a few choices. I could opt for lots of exercise, and walk the ten blocks to my office, or I could catch one of the many buses that travels the same route. I only offer the walking option because for the first month of my commuting experience I didn’t realize I could take a bus. Now I always take a bus. And when I say one of the many buses along that route, I mean many. I could take the #4, the #6, the #12, or the #28. And those buses come at least every ten minutes.

With all those bus numbers and transfers and waiting you’d think riding the bus would be a hassle. And maybe it is. But it’s taught me patience. I’m the kind of guy who looks at my watch every two minutes, just to make sure things are still moving along. But when you ride the bus, you suddenly have to give up a lot of control. Even if I get to the bus stop when the bus is supposed to be there, there’s always the chance that the bus came early and I missed it. No matter how early I show up, the bus can always come late. It teaches me to just chill out and not be so worried. I know that eventually I’ll get where I’m going, I just have to be patient. Unfortunately, I’m still learning that lesson. I still try to leave work at 4:30 on the dot so I catch that 4:32 bus, even though there’s a 4:36 bus that still gets me home to my wife at about the same time. So there’s still some patience there to learn.

When you’re actually settled into the seat and riding the bus, it’s a wonderful experience. You don’t have to keep your eyes on the road. You can let them wander all over the road, dance across the many bumper stickers on the car next to you, even take in the sites of the city as you roll along. You can even close your eyes and drift off to sleep. This is a great option for those dark winter mornings, but there’s always the danger of waking up in the wrong city. A guy I work with often rides the same bus I do, and he often opts for the eye-closing option. I’ve had to wake him up on a number of occasions, and he has a few stories about missing his stops.

Zoning out is a great way to pass time on the bus. Rather than build up anger and frustration while you fight traffic on the freeway, you can just relax. Relaxing is a lost art when you’re hurrying from your front door to the car door to the entrance ramp to the exit ramp to the parking ramp to the cubicle door and back again.

But even better than zoning out is the opportunity to read. Last year I read 37 books, most of them while riding on the bus. Never in my life did I dream I’d read that many books. Not even in college when you’re supposed to read until you can’t see straight did I read that many books. Of course reading may not sound that exciting to you, but as a writer, it’s my livelihood. And reading isn’t the only thing you can do. You can write, you can read, you can listen to music, you can sleep, you can make new friends. Bus riding just has so many more options that driving in your car all by your lonesome.

Another one rides the bus.

We Bought Our First Car

vwdriver.jpg
vwfront.jpg
Mmmm…

We’ve just taken quite a leap in following the American Dream. We’ve bought our first new car, and gone deeper in debt. If you didn’t figure it out already, it’s a VW Jetta. I find it only slightly ironic that we’re following the American Dream and we bought a German car. Sorry, Dad.

There’s just something nice about a car you love to drive. A car where you can tell the engineers thought of everything. Don’t I sound like a VW salesperson? I think that’s their goal, and it’s probably a good goal. You know you’re doing something right if you can turn every customer into a non-salaried, non-commissioned salesperson. To quote our sales guy, “There’s a reason we’re ‘Drivers wanted.'”

Tonight as I drove the car for the first time (my wife drove it home from the dealer) I felt like I did when I was 16 and first pulled out on the road on my own. The excitement. The thrill. The butterflies. Mmmm.

It’s only a car, man!

Buying a Car

You know you’ve entered the real world when you decide it’s time to buy a car. And not just the old used car you drove in high school. The one your parents paid for. I’m talking about the time when you buy your first new (or close to new) car. The time when you walk into the dealer and you look at the sticker prices and you freak out and think you’re resigned to drive a rust bucket, but then your wife pats your arm and forces you to press on.

I’m talking about test drives and sales people and brochures that don’t tell you anything and those annoying car commercials with deals that sound so great until you realize the fine print targets the whole package at born suckers.

The other day we went to a dealer for the first time and had the quintessential salesperson experience. The guy was vague, overly friendly, and too eager to sell us something for as much as possible and give us as little as possible for our trade-in. The price he gave us, complete with rebates and discounts, was in the same range as the price the web site gave me. Something tells me he’s pricing us a bit high.

Tonight we went to a couple other places. One was hassle-free. Whoa. What a difference. At first the salesperson seemed kind of high and mighty, but then I realized he was just being hands off. He sat quietly in the back during the test drive and didn’t pitch the car to me. He only talked when I asked questions. He answered our questions and gave us tons of numbers to take home and pour over. The other place would let me right stuff down, but he didn’t give me any paper — just his ink-jet printed business card, which a sixth grader could do a better job designing.

Then we went to another place and had that feeling about a car that you really like. Suddenly you realize you can get something really nice for your money, and it’s a good feeling. It’s certainly no luxury car. It’s the car a college grad should be driving. Economical. But it doesn’t make you feel like a tight-wad. That’s always nice.

I’m a little scared of what I’m turning into. I think they call it an adult.

His name was Earl

He didn’t sit down. He landed. He bumped into me as he settled into the seat, and then turned to ask me what I was reading. I could smell the alcohol on his breath.

His name was Earl. He worked as a machinist, “a good one, too.” He would turn 59 years old this year. He wore a navy blue t-shirt and pants. His beard was long and curly, with bits of silver. His glasses were smudged and finger printed. He had a few stitches in the middle of his forehead.

He had been hit by a car going 65 mph. At least that’s what they told him. He was pronounced dead. Now he’s having a lot of back pain. “I won’t lie to you…” he said several times, then going on to tell me how he’d turned to alcohol. But it didn’t help any. He told me alcohol was far worse than any rock you could take.

He was on his way to the doctors, needed to make an appointment. He said the doctor wouldn’t see him like this, but he just wanted to make an appointment. He tried taking the medicine. Didn’t work. He’s in a lot of pain.

I hardly said a word. I just let him talk. What could I say? He was drunk, probably on his way to a hangover. I had to struggle to understand each word he said. Most of the time I just let him talk and picked up what I could, nodding my head when I understood.

“I need something to help me with the pain. Alcohol sure don’t do it.” He said. I wondered if I was supposed to tell a drunk about Jesus. I prayed silently, not wanting to preach to this guy. It was the last thing I wanted to do. But I also know this was one of those moments of truth. One of those moments I’d look back on and write about. But I didn’t say anything. I waited for an opportunity, and kept listening.

Finally my stop came, and as I gathered my things Earl said, “You should be a psychiatrist.”

I laughed. “Why?”

“Because you listen.” He said.

Can I Borrow a Cell Phone?

“Can I borrow your cell phone?”

“I don’t have a cell phone.”

“Can I borrow your cell phone?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Look, I’ll pay you for it, just let me borrow your cell phone.”

“I said I don’t have a cell phone.”

“Look, the batteries are dead in mine, let me borrow yours.”

“I don’t have a cell phone.”

“See, it doesn’t work.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“So let me borrow yours.”

“I do not own a cell phone.”

“You don’t? Man, you’re not with it? Even I’m with it.”

And on and on and on. Rule number one of riding the bus: don’t sit next to the drunk guy.