Lately I’ve found myself on the transit beat, covering the bus rapid transit project, High Valley’s new campus, the city’s alternative transportation incentives program, how a bus route gets made — one day I looked up and realized I should probably ride a damn bus.
I live in Salt Lake. It turns out High Valley actually has a commuter bus that runs between Salt Lake Central and Kimball Junction, the 107. I decided to put my money where my mouth is and see what it’s like.
Here’s the score: It’s typically about 50 minutes by car from my apartment in the Avenues to The Park Record office in Prospector Park. I usually show up to the office by 10:30 a.m. on production days. Could I become a bus-only commuter despite living in a different city?
I decided I would allow myself to at least drive to Salt Lake Central. The 107’s 90-minute frequency doesn’t exactly line up with my ideal departure time: I could either leave on the 7:41 a.m. bus and arrive in Kimball Junction at 8:45, or take the 9:11 a.m. bus and arrive in Kimball at 10:15. I’m not one for sleeping in, but my hour, hour-and-a-half, sometimes two-hour morning routine doesn’t really lend itself to leaving my house before 8 a.m. Good hygiene takes time. Not budging on that one.
I decided on taking the 9:11 for this experiment and left my house at 8:30 to give myself a buffer for navigating Salt Lake Central. I honestly don’t know the last time I was here. A hub for the city’s light rail, bus system and the Frontrunner train, the place is not particularly fun or friendly. It’s gray, drab, a place to get on, maybe off, and nothing else. There’s no one there to help you or talk to you. After parking, I walked up to a Greyhound building and pulled on the door handle. Locked. The building’s empty. I would have looked stupid if there were anybody around to see or care.
I walked around and saw a High Valley Transit bus in a sea of Salt Lake buses. I walked closer and realized the bus was charging, attached at its roof to a fixture above, parked in a drivers-only area. Whoops. The curb over here is painted red. The curb on the pickup area is painted bright lime green. Right, OK, I see that now. Going back.
It was a cold April morning. I hadn’t dressed warm enough, fool’s spring and all that. In a car you can crank the heat in July if you like. And here I am, bumbling in the nip, opting to be on someone else’s schedule.
But I love public transit — I used to ride the bus every day in college, and the best part of traveling to any major city is mastering the metro, light rail, train, whatever. Give me a station map to gnaw. A couple rides and I’ll have it memorized.
At 9:07, four minutes before the scheduled departure, the 107 drove past me. The driver looked at me and held his hand up in a fist, his thumb out, gesturing behind him. I’m sorry? I don’t know what that means. Does he want me to follow him? Is he abandoning me? Did he just receive news of a more interesting passenger down the way? I walked into the drivers-only zone again in awkward pursuit. He was parked behind a car wash building, idling. Another bus had taken its charging spot — he was just getting out of the way. Oh. Back to my bus shelter. He pulled up again at 9:10. I got on and said, “Hi!” He asked me if I was going to Park City. Yes, I am.
Being the first passenger on a bus is what I imagine being a feudal lord is like. My kingdom, every seat a potential patron for my ass. I selected one halfway down from which I might survey my incoming denizens. Another person got on carrying a snowboard and sat behind me, all the way at the back. Not even a “my liege.” I spun around. “Hi,” I said. “Do you ride this route often?”
He didn’t say anything, just nodded. He seemed taken aback. “I’m writing about this route for the paper. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?” He shook his head, didn’t even say anything. Apparently not even a lord is allowed to breach bus mores. “That’s OK,” I cheeped, heartbroken. “Have a nice day.”
I slumped back on my throne. Most of my experience with public transit has been a rowdier affair. I could tell now that this bus had more of a discerning, mature vibe, a respite from freaks like me looking to fraternize and ask people such harrowing questions as “How are you?” I should have brought wine.
We took off, and I was quickly back in a good mood. We traveled along 200 South and picked up a couple of people on the way. The seats on this particular bus were exceedingly nice, nicer than you imagine a bus being. Padded, with seatbelts, aisle and window arm rests, A/C to blow cool air, and individual lights like an airplane seat. Posh! It was easy to get comfortable.
By 9:22 a.m. we hit 300 East. A few more passengers. I was feeling insanely shy after the mute snowboarder had put me in my place. I’d imagined getting some great quotes about the merits of public transit from my fellow riders, but now that I was here, I couldn’t bring myself to breach the bus’s relative quiet. I hadn’t expected it to feel so peaceful. I looked around and decided to just shut up and enjoy the ride.
There’s a mirror at the front of buses that’s angled so you can see your driver’s face and they can see you. It’s like picture-in-picture. For a few minutes I couldn’t look away from our guy. He looked like his name would be Tyson. He reminded me of someone I’d known from three jobs ago, same beard and resting bemusement. He kept it professional and on time, didn’t even seem to mind my obvious staring. O Captain! My captain!
The route took us up to the University of Utah and snaked around the hospital, onto Foothill and south down 2100 East until we finally hit Parley’s at 9:46. There are 10 people on the bus at this point, including me, and by 9:48 we were on Interstate 80.
This was the moment I’d been waiting for. I don’t know about you, but I find this drive harrowing, even after a hundred times. Do you know why they call it I-80? Because I have to drive 80 miles an hour or I’m part of the problem, apparently. The two left lanes are for testing the known laws of physics, and the right lane is for semitrucks that know better. Have you ever enjoyed driving on I-80? I have, once or twice. The other 998 times were white-knuckled hell. I admit there’s nothing quite like flying at 45 degrees past those rolling hills — it’s a thrill, it’s just not for me.
The appeal of the 107 is that I-80 becomes Tyson’s problem. It may be a longer commute, requiring transfers and preparation, but it’s worth it if I can avoid intrusive fantasies about careening into a golf course. As a passenger, knowing that there’s nothing I can do is soothing. If this is how I go, at least I’ll be with my friends in public transit.
For the first time in probably a year I enjoyed myself traveling on I-80. Especially in spring, when the mountains are lush, there’s a lot to appreciate when you aren’t having to keep an eye on who’s riding your tail.
At 10:04, we stopped at Jeremy Ranch Park and Ride, and by 10:11, we’d arrived at Kimball Junction. I still needed to get to Bonanza, so I hopped on the 10X, an express line between Kimball and the Old Town Transit Center that runs every 20 minutes. That took us down S.R. 224. I got off just past Kearns Boulevard at Fresh Market.
And here was the thing I’d hoped to avoid. Walking through the Fresh Market parking lot toward Bonanza, something in me died a little. This unnaturally long trek across empty stalls on asphalt brought me down to Earth. This is just how Utah is — how the West is: designed in increments of car lengths. When you’re driving, it feels perfectly normal, everything’s portioned to your hulking, metal exoskeleton. When you’re walking across it, you suddenly feel like you don’t belong, like you’ve made a mistake.
The feeling persisted as I passed First Community Bank, Boneyard Saloon and Auntie Em’s Baked Goods. I had been hopeful I could avoid this feeling on my little journey, but what can you do? It’s the deal we make, our parking lot in life. We live in sprawling, gorgeous valleys, God’s country, and we pave over a lot of it in order to access all of it. Buses use roads too, of course, but, I don’t know, I’ve never loved the ubiquity of cars, here or anywhere. A bus feels like a good compromise with the infrastructure it necessitates.
Here’s where I say it: We should all be taking the bus more. (Maybe you already do. I don’t know you.) I get it — it seems like you’re giving up a lot to be on someone else’s timetable. What could possibly be better than being able to go exactly where you want, when you want, with everything you need in tow? For some there’s no competing with convenience. Taking the bus is not that. It’s letting go of the need for an answer to the question, of needing to control every detail. Of bringing everything with you. It’s letting yourself be swept up in the flow.
And I know, now I’m just being an asshole, but it’s not that driving a car has fewer hurdles, it’s that you are used to those hurdles and that our pro-car culture makes those hurdles seem natural. You’re jumping through a lot of hoops with a car. You’re getting a license, you’re buying gas, you’re paying for insurance, you’re driving the damn thing and maybe even driving it poorly, or maybe you’re driving it well and you’re sharing the road with someone driving poorly. You’re yielding. You’re checking your blind spot. You’re internalizing rules of the road that we supposedly all adhere to but that if asked can’t always agree on. You’re doing maintenance, you’re putting wear and tear on an asset you either own or owe money on. We are choosing this.
I got to the office at 10:50 a.m. — 20 minutes later than the latest I prefer to show up, an hour and a half after departing Salt Lake Central and two hours after I stepped outside my door. Is that practical? Kind of. I’ll leave earlier next time, take the 7:41 out, get up earlier and, yeah, budge on my routine. We are a car society. I get that. I’m part of it, too. (Ironically, I drove to work the next day to cover a High Valley Transit open house.)
I wish it were different, and with things like bus rapid transit, Park City at least will be closer to my personal utopia. For now, taking the bus is becoming one of my favorite parts of the day. Maybe it could be yours, too.