a hulking mess
Yesterday (Wednesday, September 30, 2009) I visited my long-ago longtime employer, Regional Transit Service in Rochester, NY, for the first time in two weeks.
Two weeks ago was my first visit in perhaps 10 years.
Two weeks ago I never made it out of the Administration Building, so it wasn’t renewing old times.
Yesterday, after parking our car in the nearly empty guest-lot, the receptionist directed us to the “Training Trailer.”
“I never heard of no ‘Training Trailer,’” I shouted.
“Back at the far end of the yard,” she said.
“Yard” was a term I hadn’t used in years.
In front of “the Barns” (large sheds for bus storage) is a large open paved area known as “the Yard.”
A pull-in lane comes down the west side of it, and everything in “the yard” is aimed out.
The whole area is opposite common road usage, in that buses operate to the left.
Left and right are separated by a narrow concrete island about four feet wide.
The reason we (my wife and I) visited was to get new retiree bus passes, my wife yesterday, and me two weeks ago.
As a retiree from Regional Transit, I, and my wife, are both entitled to ride the buses free.
The new photo-pass is apparently also a visitor’s pass.
I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service 16&1/2 years, May 20, 1977 through October 25, 1993.
It was fun for a long time, although by the time of my stroke, I was tiring of it.
I had driven and written up every experimental bus, including a tiny Japanese bus that almost caught fire in the yard.
It was spitting unburnt diesel fuel out its tailpipe after stalling.
But by 14 years it had become a grind.
We had also moved out to West Bloomfield, and were no longer only five minutes from work.
This meant I could no longer work split shifts; e.g. 6:30-8:30 a.m.; 1:15-7:15.
That’s almost a five hour break between “halves” — those hours the bus-company’s way of covering the rush-hours.
That’s enough time to take a nap between “halves,” or walk the dog at the park.
But I could only do that living five minutes from work.
West Bloomfield meant 5:30 or earlier to 1:30 p.m. on regular city routes.
Expressway bombing was hard to find, and I had a rule whereby driving bus was no fun unless you could open ‘er up at least once.
My stroke ended my bus-driving career suddenly; I was disability retired.
With retirement we both got bus-passes, although I don’t remember it.
My memory of that time is rather fibrous.
“You can always drive, if you must,” we were told.
“No, I think we can hike it,” I said. “Still can.”
So out the back door of the Administration Building we walked, out along the narrow concrete island that separates Administration parking from the entry and exit lanes for buses.
The island looked terrible. Concrete slabs and curbing frost-heaved this way and that; same concrete, but deteriorated since I retired.
Toward the Yard, and past the new bus-placer shanty, erected since I retired.
Into the Yard we walked. The old safety considerations kicked in. It’s okay to walk in the inbound lane, as long as you stay hard by the separating island.
Out in the lane is an invitation to get hit.
Buses were parked over on the outbound side, looking just like they always looked; jumbled all over, up-and-down on their suspensions, headlights often aimed at the sky.
Buses are suspended on air-filled rubber bellows.
As the load increases, the bellows pump up harder.
The bellows have varying tiny air-leaks, so if there’s no air-pump inflating them (the bus is shut off), the bellows leak down at varying rates.
So that, for example, a shut-off bus may leak off one bellows faster than the others, so that corner is almost down on-the-ground.
The other bellows may be still holding air, so that those corners may still be at normal ride height.
The end result is the shut-off buses sitting every which way, often with headlights aimed at the sky.
Buses only looked normal running; shut off they’d be all askew.
Everything in the Yard was shut off, so buses were all askew.
It’s a view I saw many times. The bus may be tilted every-which-way when I started it, and only would stand up straight after it pumped up its air.
Fond memories!
Here we are treading “the Yard,” which I hadn’t thought about in years, and the buses were looking just like they looked before I retired, a hulking mess.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993.
• We live in the small rural town of “West Bloomfield” in Western N.Y. (When I first worked at Transit, we lived in Rochester.)
Two weeks ago was my first visit in perhaps 10 years.
Two weeks ago I never made it out of the Administration Building, so it wasn’t renewing old times.
Yesterday, after parking our car in the nearly empty guest-lot, the receptionist directed us to the “Training Trailer.”
“I never heard of no ‘Training Trailer,’” I shouted.
“Back at the far end of the yard,” she said.
“Yard” was a term I hadn’t used in years.
In front of “the Barns” (large sheds for bus storage) is a large open paved area known as “the Yard.”
A pull-in lane comes down the west side of it, and everything in “the yard” is aimed out.
The whole area is opposite common road usage, in that buses operate to the left.
Left and right are separated by a narrow concrete island about four feet wide.
The reason we (my wife and I) visited was to get new retiree bus passes, my wife yesterday, and me two weeks ago.
As a retiree from Regional Transit, I, and my wife, are both entitled to ride the buses free.
The new photo-pass is apparently also a visitor’s pass.
I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service 16&1/2 years, May 20, 1977 through October 25, 1993.
It was fun for a long time, although by the time of my stroke, I was tiring of it.
I had driven and written up every experimental bus, including a tiny Japanese bus that almost caught fire in the yard.
It was spitting unburnt diesel fuel out its tailpipe after stalling.
But by 14 years it had become a grind.
We had also moved out to West Bloomfield, and were no longer only five minutes from work.
This meant I could no longer work split shifts; e.g. 6:30-8:30 a.m.; 1:15-7:15.
That’s almost a five hour break between “halves” — those hours the bus-company’s way of covering the rush-hours.
That’s enough time to take a nap between “halves,” or walk the dog at the park.
But I could only do that living five minutes from work.
West Bloomfield meant 5:30 or earlier to 1:30 p.m. on regular city routes.
Expressway bombing was hard to find, and I had a rule whereby driving bus was no fun unless you could open ‘er up at least once.
My stroke ended my bus-driving career suddenly; I was disability retired.
With retirement we both got bus-passes, although I don’t remember it.
My memory of that time is rather fibrous.
“You can always drive, if you must,” we were told.
“No, I think we can hike it,” I said. “Still can.”
So out the back door of the Administration Building we walked, out along the narrow concrete island that separates Administration parking from the entry and exit lanes for buses.
The island looked terrible. Concrete slabs and curbing frost-heaved this way and that; same concrete, but deteriorated since I retired.
Toward the Yard, and past the new bus-placer shanty, erected since I retired.
Into the Yard we walked. The old safety considerations kicked in. It’s okay to walk in the inbound lane, as long as you stay hard by the separating island.
Out in the lane is an invitation to get hit.
Buses were parked over on the outbound side, looking just like they always looked; jumbled all over, up-and-down on their suspensions, headlights often aimed at the sky.
Buses are suspended on air-filled rubber bellows.
As the load increases, the bellows pump up harder.
The bellows have varying tiny air-leaks, so if there’s no air-pump inflating them (the bus is shut off), the bellows leak down at varying rates.
So that, for example, a shut-off bus may leak off one bellows faster than the others, so that corner is almost down on-the-ground.
The other bellows may be still holding air, so that those corners may still be at normal ride height.
The end result is the shut-off buses sitting every which way, often with headlights aimed at the sky.
Buses only looked normal running; shut off they’d be all askew.
Everything in the Yard was shut off, so buses were all askew.
It’s a view I saw many times. The bus may be tilted every-which-way when I started it, and only would stand up straight after it pumped up its air.
Fond memories!
Here we are treading “the Yard,” which I hadn’t thought about in years, and the buses were looking just like they looked before I retired, a hulking mess.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993.
• We live in the small rural town of “West Bloomfield” in Western N.Y. (When I first worked at Transit, we lived in Rochester.)
Labels: Transit
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