Transit dream

Fishbowl.

This morning’s (Wednesday, October 13, 2010) Transit dream was about the one thing I loathed more than anything else driving bus, a complete and utter cripple.
That is, a completely inoperable bus, stopped dead in its tracks.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
Anything could render a bus inoperable, like complete lack of brakes.
The brakes operated by air-pressure; the air-compressor had to work, and the entire system not lose air.
Usually there were small air leaks here and there, but the compressor overcame them.
That is, you might hold 120 pounds of air-pressure despite a small air leak.
The buses rode on pressurized rubber air-bags — they were called “bellows,” and served as springs.
If your load got heavier on one side, the bellows would increase pressure to offset.
But of course, a bellows might have a tiny air leak, like where the rubber bonded to its steel mounting-plate.
Evidence of this was the bellows deflating overnight when the bus was off.
The bus would be on-the-ground in the morning, bottomed out until its bellows pumped up.
Sometimes a bellows might blow while driving, in which case your bus sagged to its knees at that corner.
Another problem was your transmission-fluid leaking out of your transmission.
So you pressed the accelerator and no movement. All it did was rev your engine.
Sometimes this would be sudden, other times slow; that is, your bus would operate until there wasn’t enough tranny-fluid.
If it was sudden, you usually gushed tranny-fluid all over the pavement, in which case an on-road mechanic showed up with Quik-Dry.
I had that happen once, but in a parking-lot.
My bus gushed tranny-fluid all over when a fitting popped loose.
The mechanic was able to repair the fitting, and got me going a half-hour late.
I wasn’t filled in; “driver’s fault,” as always.
Other problems were “hot engine” or “lo oil.”
Some of our GM buses had protective circuitry that shut off the bus if you got either indication.
But that was a hairball — the indicator might be defective.
Other buses could continue operation despite a “hot-engine” or “lo oil” indication.
I preferred these, since what happened in either case was the on-road mechanic would show to add oil or water.
With the non-protected buses I wasn’t crippled; I could keep operating.
I wasn’t at the mercy of some wonky sensor.
What motivated me more than anything was that I had been a bus-passenger in the late ‘60s, and if there was anything I hated as a passenger it was a crippled bus.
Often I had to change buses along a route. That was okay, perhaps five minutes lost.
But a complete cripple made you wait at least 15 minutes until a replacement showed up.
And often there was no explanation; the driver didn’t say anything.
Not this kid.
If my bus crippled, I told my passengers why.
And I was doing anything I could to keep going.
I used to carry my own tools.
I wasn’t being waylaid by floppy windshield-wipers or a floppy mirror.
One time I was driving along in a snow-burst, and my wipers started flopping.
I sprung outside with my vice-grips and fixed ‘em.
I wasn’t about to strand my passengers.
The mechanics would have had a fit I was fixing these things myself, but I wasn’t waiting 15 minutes until they showed up — that had happened to me when I rode bus.
So my dream was driving good old 604 bus, a fishbowl (above), down a main street in Rochester.
It got dark; no street-lights.
I noticed my headlights weren’t on, so I hit the switch.
No lights (gasp).
Here I am about to turn onto Main St. in Rochester, and I can’t see a thing.
I had this happen to me once in a bus; hit the dimmer-switch to turn on my hi-beams, and nothing.
Pitch dark, 35 mph, out in the country.
I hit the dimmer-switch feverishly; at least I still had lo-beams.
I could keep operating.
But nothing-at-all with 604 bus.
I got ‘er stopped; “The driver is panicking,” a passenger said.
“No lights,” I said. “I ain’t got nuthin at all.”
Electrical problems are what I feared most; our mechanics always seemed buffaloed by electrical problems.
You might write up a bus for some minor electrical problem, and they’d try something until, for example, the errant light came on.
Things might be wired wrong, but it came on, didn’t it?
One time a bus caught fire because a giant amperage was being channeled through a small wire, it overheated, and caught fire.
I got 604 pulled over and called the radio to report I couldn’t operate.
Radioing a problem was often fearsome; your problem might get misunderstood.
“Take it on to Main St.; we’ll change you off there.”
Uh, yeah Woody; I’m supposed to drive out onto Main St. when I can’t see a thing — blind as a bat.
I then have to explain my problem to the radio; in which case I get called a stupid and difficult ne’er-do-well.

• “Tranny” equals transmission. Our buses were all automatic-transmission.
• RE: “Filled in......” —An extra bus “filled in” your departure time.
• RE: “Change-off......” —A second bus was sent to replace the one you had.
• “Woody” was a radio dispatcher at Transit during my employ.