Flat-out through the flyover

—Perhaps five-six years into my 16&1/2 year career driving transit bus I had a morning Park-and-Ride out toward Avon.
Not all the way to Avon. Just short of it. I turned around in a plaza parking-lot at the intersection of Routes 15 and 5&20, the “White Horse.”
A full-scale statue of a white horse stood at the intersection.
It was early ‘80s, before we got our “bendables,” which had more passenger capacity.
I guess I was just an additional bus. A Park-and-Ride came in from Avon slightly before me.
He like me was driving a 400 series — less passengers than a bendable.
8-71 unturbocharged diesel V8 motor, with a three-speed over-the-road auto-tranny.
I guess they were pretty quick when we got ‘em, but they were starting to get woozy. The 400s arrived before I started bus-driving.
So I was taking some of the load off that first Avon Park-and-Ride.
I wasn’t in the timetable going out — he probably was.
What I did was deadhead out to the White Horse — no passengers — then pick up coming back toward Rochester.
As soon as I left “The Barns,” I would zoom down East Main Street to get onto the expressway toward Avon.
I-590, then I-390, then out 390 all the way to the Avon exit.
I-590 and I-390 have a massive interchange just south of Rochester. 390 goes to the west side of Rochester, and 590 to the east.
390 comes up from the south, and would go directly into Rochester, except Rochester residents in that area refused.
That interchange was massive. 590 to 390-south involves a high flyover over two levels of traffic: 390-north to 390-west, and also 390-west to 590.
From 590 I needed 390-south. Atop everything was that flyover.
I’d be driving in the dark. Up the flyover ramp from 590, then see if I could drive that flyover flat out: pedal-to-the-metal!
I always was tentative about it. It was the man’s equipment.
In the back of my head was Jack Garrity, Transit manager at that time, exhorting me to drive safe.
NO WAY am I takin’ the man’s equipment off that flyover.
Nine tons of steel crashing two levels below.
Sometimes it was icy, so I had to drive to gingerly.
Most of our 400s were weak by then, so with most I could do hammer-down.
But not 436.
That thing was a rocket.
I used to tell the bus-placer 436 was the one I’d steal. “By the time you guys noticed 436 was missing I’d be in North Carolina.”
No way was I drivin’ 436 flat-out through the flyover. We’da arced right off that flyover!
With passengers I wouldna tried flat-out even with our sickly 4s.
A 400 on the expressway was fun. Hammer-down, except that flyover was debatable.

• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban or rural end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars for a bus-ride to or from work in Rochester.
• “5&20” is the main east-west road (a two-lane highway) through my area; State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20, both on the same road. 5&20 is just south of where I live. It used to be the main road across Western New York before the Thruway.
• “The Barns” are at 1372 East Main Street in Rochester, large sheds for storing buses inside. An operations-administration building was attached. We bus-drivers always said we were working out of “the Barns.”
• “Transit” is Regional Transit Service (RTS), the public transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, where I drove bus 16&1/2 years (1977-1993).

Mano-a-mano with Transit minions

—Toward the end of my 16&1/2 year career of driving transit bus with Regional Transit Service……
I had a late-afternoon Park-and-Ride out to Hamlin (NY).
I always had a 300 “Bendable,” and maybe 35-40 pleasant regulars.
I picked up at Midtown Plaza bus-terminal, and then drove west on expressway. I didn’t start discharging passengers until Spencerport, west of Rochester.
Spencerport, Brockport, Hilton, and finally Hamlin.
A country bus-ride with good clientele, as opposed to inner-city thugs and rip-off artists.
I usually had a few left at Hamlin, maybe the same six I had when I drove the morning Park-and-Ride from Hamlin earlier in my career.
They all knew me as “a good one.” Always on time, never absent, and I warned riders if I was gonna be away.
And I wanna get them people wherever they’re goin’ no matter what. I ain’t stiffin’ my passengers. I rode bus myself once.
One afternoon I had 306 bus. I was returning from Hamlin, not deadhead, but I rarely got anyone.
Cruising along a marked rural two-lane, 50-60 mph.
Suddenly a dark Plymouth Omni pulled out in front of me.
I hit the brake-pedal — NUTHIN!
I pushed harder; again NUTHIN!
I floored the brake-pedal; a full 100-pound brake-application.
306 began to slow. I missed the Omni, but it was close!
I still was on the highway, not off the road, but at least five seconds had passed since I first hit that brake-pedal!
I was so flabbergasted I decided to inform the Mechanical-Department before going home.
Mechanical-Department offices were one floor above the Overhaul-Shop.
“You gotta do something about that 306 bus,” I told ‘em. “I almost creamed a four-wheeler. It wouldn’t stop!”
“Who are you?” minion asked, glancing up from his donut. “You’re just an ‘operator’” (bus driver).
“So I cream the four-wheeler, and you fire my ass!”
“You took out an unsafe bus,” minion said, scattering crumbs.
“If I refuse a bus I found unsafe, you call me on-the-carpet for refusing the junk you assigned me!
I try to inform you 306 is unsafe, and you pull rank on me!”
Again: “Who are you?
That thing will lock up everything. We road-tested it on Mustard Street.”
“Sure,” I said; “five seconds after I hit the brake-pedal. I cover a lotta ground in five seconds!
I’m the dude that picks up the passengers that pay your salary!
If the bus causes an accident, you just fire the driver!”
306 was fixed, but I had to endure noisy management posturing.

• “Transit” equals Regional Transit Service (RTS), the public transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, where I drove bus 16&1/2 years (1977-1993).
• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban or rural end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars for a bus-ride to or from work in Rochester.
• My use of the word “ass….” —I normally avoid words like this — decorum and taste. But this is exactly what I said. Such words were part of Transit’s lexicon.

Artiks

2105, my all-time favorite ride at RTS. A Park-and-Ride from Fairport Baptist Home, through Fairport, then “ER” (East Rochester), with a civil and friendly clientele. 309 is a M-A-N artik (articulated), slow, but they rode way better than our lumber-wagons. (Long-ago photo by BobbaLew. I’ve started many blogs with this photograph.)

—Six or seven years after I started driving RTS bus, we got our first “bendables,” our 300-series M-A-N artiks.
We bus-drivers had to train to drive these things, but after that I jumped right in.
For winter I picked a run whose first “half,” 2105, used an artik.
Out to Fairport Baptist Home, probably dead-head (no passengers), then in over our 2100 line.
Since an artik could carry more passengers, 2105 did the equivalent of two separate bus-trips — one from ER, and the second from Fairport.
Our ER passengers were angry because they no longer were the earlier time.
The two separate buses started about the same time, so 2105 covered ER later, since it had to cover Fairport first.
The idea was only one driver to cover two bus-trips. Them ER passengers could just go to Hell, as long as Transit management continued to get their bloated paychecks.
I think a 300 could carry 60; but I averaged about 35.
Our mechanics hated the 300s, since they had metric fittings requiring new wrenches, etc.
Bus-drivers were also leery of the 300s. Not only were they bog-slow, they liked to get stuck on icy pavement.
Our lumber-wagons would go through 18 inches of snow, but not a 300.
The trailer also steered. You had to be careful on corners, lest the trailer sideswipe a car next to you. If it did you didn’t know about it until your contact pulled you over blocks later.
I liked driving the 300s. Excellent clientele, usually rural folk. And Park-and-Rides often had expressway: PEDAL-TO-THE-METAL, and head for the passing lane!
65 mph was top-speed for a 300, but they would do it.
There were things you kept in mind driving a 300:
—When the traffic light for the street you were crossing changed to yellow was when you hit the accelerator. Your traffic light might go back to red before you cleared the intersection. They were that slow.
—For 2105 I asked the morning trainout man, Greenlea, to give me a 300 with chains. Only three 300s had ‘em; chains that dropped under the drive-wheels.
I had a hill in an apartment complex that was never treated when it snowed. I almost didn’t make that hill once.
—You also had to be aware of pavement that could get the center-hinge pogoing. You had to cross just so, and slowly!
—The 300s were extremely heavy.
I remember once aiming my 300 straight into a 10-foot snowbank. Snow everywhere, but we plowed right through. Never even got the front wheels off the pavement.
Them 300s were my favorite ride.
But I will never forget the first time I drove one — that was 2105.
Inbound in Fairport is a 90-degree corner with its apex right to the corner.
And of course a streetlight pole was right at that apex, waiting for you to clobber it.
Getting a 40 foot lumber-wagon around that corner took gigundo swing. Clear into the opposing lane, then back up traffic around the corner.
“33-foot wheelbase,” I told some dude once. “It’s not a snake!”
300s were 60 feet long, yet “here comes that corner!
How’m I gonna get this sucker around that corner?” I swung almost onto the opposing shoulder!
Easy as pie! A 300 was “bendable.”
We just “snaked” around that corner.

• 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 environs.
• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban or rural end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars, for a bus-ride to work in Rochester.
• The M-A-N artiks were German, but assembled in NC.
• “Lumber-wagons” were our regular 40 foot city buses. They rode like lumber-wagons.
• A “half” is one-half of a daily work assignment; usually comprised of two “halves.” Some runs had three “halves.” (Go figure!)

A stupid meaningless job that paid pretty well

—“You have a college degree, and you’re driving bus?” A passenger might exclaim.
“What was your major?” They’d ask.
“Bus-driving,” I always answered.
Enter Bob Newhart’s “School for bus-drivers skit.”
When I graduated college in August 1966, I had no idea what to do with my life.
College — using my brain — had been fun, but I was tired of it. “Navel-picking,” I called it.
(August because I had to make up two courses.)
My original intent to teach high-school history fell apart with my first attempt at student teaching.
My mentor teacher was an authoritarian who declared the hyper-intelligent girl in his class needed a good spanking.
Bleeding-heart liberial that I am (GASP), I felt she just needed someone to care about her, take her seriously, challenge her. My militarist mentor quashed me.
So much for teaching. If this was how I was supposed to be, I wasn’t interested.
After college I worked at a bank as a management-trainee. Me management? Kee-RASH! I was cut loose after three years.
I also tried to freelance auto-racing photography. I sold a few photos to national magazines, but essentially lost money.
I also wrote motorsport coverage for a small weekly Rochester newspaper. But that was only summer work.
My wife and I existed on her income while I mucked about.
Seven years, and during that time we bought a small house in Rochester — essentially based on my wife’s income.
I also began interviewing for work as a writer; public relations I guess. “Failed writer,” my Facebook says.
Next to our house was a neighbor who drove bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS).
They needed bus-drivers, so I decided I’d try it.
It would be temporary while I looked for a writing job. But it paid fairly well, and had full bennies.
Looking for a writing job fell away, plus there was the challenge of learning how to safely operate large equipment.
16&1/2 years I did it, until my stroke ended it in late 1993.
I was tiring of it. To some extent it was our clientele, who could be rancorous and cantankerous.
When we moved out of Rochester to our new home in West Bloomfield, we no longer were five minutes from “the Barns.”
I no longer could work the kind of work I did before, which essentially was the rush-hours and/or schoolwork.
I had to switch to regular city runs, and reset my working hours to about 6 a.m. through 2 p.m.
(My final run was 5 a.m. until 1 p.m.; a straight-eight on a killer city line = stop at every stop; change the destination-sign on the fly!)
And regular city-runs didn’t get cut for school closings or holidays; plus I was paid less.
Bus-driving was turning into a drag.
By then I had driven every experimental — nothing was left but daily drudgery.
Socializing with my regulars was also out, since after the childhood I had I was no good at socializing.
“We got a good one,” my regulars always said. I didn’t play the superiority card. I’d ridden bus myself.
“I need somebody riding shotgun, so I don’t miss anyone,” I’d say on my first trip in from the boonies.
I also warned my riders when I went on vacation. “I know you’re out there, but my replacement won’t! Wear a light-colored jacket, and show up earlier than you do for me.”
But I was tiring of it. City bus-driving wasn’t country, what I gravitated to as I advanced up the seniority list.
So my stroke was sort of a blessing. It suddenly ended my bus-driving.
But I always say RTS paid for the house I live in. Plus I still have all those bennies.

• “Skit” is a YouTube link.
• I been told the correct CONSERVATIVE spelling of “liberal” is “liberial.”
• 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 environs. My heart-defect caused stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability, and that defect was repaired. I recovered well enough to return to work at a newspaper; I retired from that over 15 years ago.
• For you RTS junkies, my neighbor was Kathy Young. Her boyfriend was Dave Farrell, also an RTS bus-driver. (Kathy was eventually fired after an accident. RTS fired bus drivers willy-nilly, but Kathy was a loose cannon.) —And it was the 800 line.
• “The Barns” are at 1372 East Main St. in Rochester, large sheds for storing buses inside. An operations/administration building was attached. We bus-drivers always said we were working out of “the Barns.”
• I made many friends at RTS; most of whom Hillary-Dillery would call “deplorable.”

The Big Hand

—I used to say it was no fun drivin’ bus unless you could put the hammer down at least once per day.
That was my late afternoon trip to East Rochester on the 2100 line — on the expressway.
This was before our Gillig 500s, so we were still drivin’ our GM 400s, “Park-and-Ride” soft-seaters with a non turbo-charged 8-71 diesel motor drivin’ a three-speed auto-tranny.
Our 4s were ungoverned, so could boom-and-zoom.
Most 4s were sickly by then, but a few weren’t.
I remember 436. “If I were to steal anything, 436 would be it! By the time you discovered this thing missing, I’d be in North Carolina.”
I’d tell that to the bus-placer when returning to “the Barns.”
No pedal-to-the-metal with 436! 90-100 mph on the Thruway!
I had #417 this trip. It had snowed, but it wasn’t too bad.
The expressway was clear, so I could boom-and-zoom.
Until I got to the off-ramp for Fairport Road.
I turned into the off-ramp, and all of a sudden the back end was sliding.
I counter-steered, and suddenly all four corners were sliding.
The Fairport Road exit off I-490 is a cloverleaf. Shortly after the off-ramp the exit turns right maybe 50–60 degrees.
No warning signs, so it was a fairly open turn.
But 417 was shlippin’ and shliddin’. Open land was ahead — no trees — but it looked like we were in for a bouncy roller-coaster ride into the boonies.
25–35 souls on oboard, plus one terrified bus-driver.
Suddenly a Big Hand dropped from the sky urging 417 around the curve.
Straight for a short distance, but here comes another 50–60 degree curve to merge onto Fairport Road.
Again, the Big Hand!
“WHEW!” I exclaimed to no one in particular as we merged onto Fairport Road.
“I didn’t know anything was wrong,” said my regular riding shotgun.

• “The Barns” are at 1372 East Main St. in Rochester, large sheds for storing buses inside. An operations/administration building was attached. We bus-drivers always said we were working out of “the Barns.”
• With a “governor” the bus won’t do any more than about 55 mph.

Never again

806-bus is an actual Regional Transit bus in the ‘80s. Except our 800s were 102 inches wide. The 7s were only 96 inches wide. (403 train on Main Street? Makes me wonder who’s drivin’. Not this kid; NO WAY would I drive that 400 line — and get mugged?)

—Maybe two-thirds into my 16&1/2 year career driving transit-bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS)……
Yr Fthfl Srvnt had a run whose first “half” was a Park-and-Ride from Eastview Mall, into the city through Rochester’s glitzy southeastern suburbs.
I’d deadhead out to Eastview on Interstate-490, the Eastern Expressway — “deadhead” means no passengers.
Revenue was inbound from Eastview. I covered a suburban line marked as a bus-route. It had posted bus-stops.
Getting out to Eastview was non-revenue = “deadhead.”
I usually was assigned one of our newer 700-series buses. By then they were 3-6 years old; I forget.
A 700 had a non-turbocharged 8-71 V8 diesel motor. That’s 71 cubic-inches per cylinder, eight cylinders arranged in a V, four per side.
They used a three-speed over-the-road automatic tranny, Allison I think. They also weren’t speed governed.
Our 700s were supposedly dual service. They could be used as a city bus. They had thinly cushioned plastic seats, but not lounge-chairs.
They could also operate rurally, i.e. boom-and-zoom on an expressway.
My pull-out was around 6 AM. I drove down E. Main St. to get onto the Eastern Expressway.
One morning I had 728 bus.
Okay, no passengers, and we’re on an expressway; “PEDAL-TO-THE-METAL!”
“Let’s see what a 700 will do!”
Bucketing and slamming, but under control.
80 mph on-the-clock in something the size of a living room!
Everything slamming every-which-way. Incredible racket!
I backed off. NEVER AGAIN!
Probably Mario Andretti coulda got up to 90 or more, but I’m not Mario!
The racket was frightening.

• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban or rural end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars for a bus-ride to work in Rochester.
• Each segment of a bus-run was known as a “half,” since most bus-runs had two segments. A few bus-runs had three segments = three “halves.” (???????)
• “Speed-governed” is the bus won’t do any more than about 55 mph. I.e. the “governor” won’t allow over 55 mph.
• I should mention that the 800s, and 900 series buses which came later, used a turbocharged 6-92 V6 motor. (92 cubic-inches per cylinder.) They were essentially city buses, and I think they may have been “governed.”
• I consider Mario Andretti to be the greatest racing driver of all time.

Expect anything

—“Boy-oh-boy, am I glad I drove bus,” I yelled to a lady who pulled right out in front of me. “Signal on, I had the right-of-way, and you had a stop-sign.
But apparently that was enough for you to pull right out in front of me, prompting me to slam on my brakes.”
During my Transit bus-driving class, they told us to expect anything.
Just north of my house is an old intersection of the road from Honeoye Falls with Pittsford-West Bloomfield Road, plus Baker Road to the east. (A four-road cross-intersection.)
That road from Honeoye Falls comes from the west, and Pittsford-West Bloomfield is north-south. I live along that north-south road.
That road from Honeoye Falls became State Route 65 and the segment of Pittsford-West Bloomfield I live on also became 65.
So my address is State Route 65.
In other words State Route 65 turns 90° south at that intersection. The intersection was re-graded to make the 90° turn more gradual, and stop-signs were in added on Baker Road and Pittsford-West Bloomfield.
So that 90° turn is continuous, and has the right-of-way.
I always signal that turn so those at the stop-signs know I intend to use the right-of-way.
Not this lady. The fact I signaled my intent was reason for her to disregard.
She waited a bit, then drove right in front of me, completely oblivious = “boy am I glad I drove bus!”
EXPECT ANYTHING!
Bus-driving required intense concentration: 100%.
Here I come, 40 mph down a four-lane, next to a supermarket parking-lot. Nine tons of hurtling steel, 25-30 souls entrusting me to get ‘em home safely.
Granny aims her white LeSabre out the parking-lot exit. She’s got Emma riding shotgun with her.
“Oh look Dora,” Emma shouts. “A bus, a bus! Pull-out, pull-out! Floor it!”
And I gotta stop nine tons of hurtling steel on a dime without tossing my passengers out of their seats.
“Just hit the Buick,” my bosses would say. “Your passengers are more important.”
Do that and “You’re fired!” “We told you to expect anything.”
Now, 26 years later, my brother wonders why my following-distances are so much greater than required.
“I’m still driving bus,” I say. “I wanna be able to stop without tossing my passengers.”
“You coulda pulled out,” he’d say.
“NOPE! One thing I learned driving bus was to not scare the four-wheelers.
Sure, I had plenty of time to merge, but that four-wheeler might think otherwise, and involve me in an accident.”
“His fault,” my brother would shout.
“Except we all suffer,” I’d say. “My car gets crippled, accident-reports need to be filled out; weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. Better to wait 30 seconds.”
At Transit (RTS) you’d get fired even if you were off your bus, and it was involved in an accident while safely parked. (Like granny slid her LeSabre into your bus.)
At Transit a driver pulled in, then parked his bus next to the garage, but running (normal procedure: it might not start for the wash-guys). He set the brake, kicked it outta gear, then left for supper at home.
Except the gearshift didn’t actually take it out-of-gear, and the air-brakes leaked away.
His bus idled off on-its-own and took out a wall.
Management had to blame someone, so they fingered the at-home driver. Called him up, and called him in.
“How could you work for such idiots?” people ask.
“100% concentration,” I say. “Naps to counter burn-out.”
Pretty good wage-rate, plus bennies. Management declared it outrageous.
“Anyone can drive bus,” they complained.
Loose cannons got fired. (And willy-nilly.)

• 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 environs. My heart-defect caused stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that over 26 years ago. I retired on medical-disability, and that defect was repaired. I recovered well enough to return to work at a newspaper; I retired from that almost 15 years ago.

Righty-lefty, lefty-righty!

My favorite Transit ride was 2105 with an “artic;” and it’s the one “Blondie” got. (The destination sign says “1300 E. Main,” which is “the Barns.” Run complete, I have just pulled in.) (Long-ago photo by BobbaLew.)

—During my 16&1/2-year career driving transit-bus for Regional Transit Service in Rochester……
……My all-time favorite rides were our 300-series, our first “artics” (articulated). They were German design, but built in North Carolina to be “made in America.”
Our mechanics hated ‘em, since they were metric.
They were almost 60 feet long, but bent in the middle = hinged. The motor and drive-wheels were in the front part, and the trailing part had a separate engine to drive the air-conditioning.
I used to tell the bus-placer they needed to attach that large AC motor to the drive motor. (Six more cylinders.)
They were bog-slow and heavy. You had to hit the accelerator when the opposing light changed to yellow.
But they rode great, unless you drove across a pavement depression and they started pogo-ing.
All our other buses rode like lumber-wagons. Suspensions wore out, prompting replacement with el-cheapo parts, which turned ‘em into lumber-wagons.
And everything else rode on airbags; I don’t know if our 300s did.
Sometimes an airbag blew, plus our buses were supposedly self-leveling. (If the right side got heavier than the left side, the right side pumped up to level the bus.)
The idea of a “bendable” was to carry more passengers per driver. I don’t think that’s what happened.
2105 (above) covered two separate morning bus-trips from Rochester’s eastern suburbs. To do that I had to start in 10-15 minutes earlier, then be 10-15 minutes later through the second suburb.
The two separate bus-trips averaged 50-60 passengers total. 2105 averaged 30-35; hardly the capacity of a 300.
Fairport residents had to get up 10-15 minutes earlier, and my East Rochester residents ended up late for work.
Of course none of that mattered to my all-knowing managers as long as they continued receiving their bloated paychecks.
But they were probably crestfallen our 300s weren’t getting the projected passenger-counts.
Time to hit the company water-cooler for free coffee and day-old donuts supplied by our boss.
As you can tell, we lowly bus-drivers and mechanics (unionized = GASP!) were always at loggerheads with management. Despite that I always say Transit paid for my house.
Some of that was no Corvette, no speed-boat, no motorhome, and no kids to put through college.
All of which contributed to owning my house free-and-clear, plus healthcare and other bennies.
After 16 years I didn’t wanna drive bus another 14-15 years. Driving bus was fun at first, but our clientele was getting troublesome.
Thankfully, my stroke ended my bus driving, and got me into the newspaper-biz. Although that paid nowhere near as much.
But I loved our 300s. One of my best rides was to a faraway rural suburb in the morning. Deadhead out (no passengers) then express-to-downtown.
I covered quite a few stops northwest of Rochester, then got on an expressway. Hammer down, pedal-to-the-metal, head for the passing lane! 65 mph, about all a 300 would do.
(I used to say it was no fun driving bus unless you could hammer-down at least once per day.)
My passengers loved it. A fast ride into the city. I averaged 15-20 regulars.
35 or more passengers in a 300 was silly, but there was more to it than my bus.
To my passengers I was “a good one.” Never absent, and always on time no matter what the weather. And I waited if I saw a passenger running for my bus.
Nope, that’s “Blondie.” She’s four houses down the street, but I ain’t stickin’ ‘er. I rode bus myself years ago.
The other trick was backing an “artic;” same problem as faced by drivers of 18-wheelers.
Most of the time a bus goes forward, so the driver never has to back up.
Turn to back-up left, and the trailer swings right. This made a difference in the old Midtown Plaza Park-and-Ride terminal.
Pull-in then back out, making sure your trailer didn’t clout something. To get the trailer aimed right, you had to steer left at first.
For whatever reason I wanted to make sense of this. You could do it wrong and usually get away with it. A supervisor was there to stop you if need be.
Often after returning to “the Barns” I was directed to park my 300 next to a wall behind the Overhaul-Shop.
Challenge time: parallel-park an “artic.” The only way to do this was backing.
Righty-lefty, lefty-righty! I parked successfully, three feet from the curb front-to-back. (15 minutes, and maybe four tries.)
Would anyone else do this? I bet the mechanics noticed.
As I increased in seniority, I picked runs that used a 300.

• An “artic” (“r-TIK”) was a two-section (“bendable”) bus powered by one motor. The second section was a trailer connected to the first section by drawbar/bellows. An “artic” had a single driver.
• 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 environs. My heart-defect caused stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability, and that defect was repaired. I recovered well enough to return to work at a newspaper; I retired from that almost 15 years ago.
• Bus-runs are picked by seniority.
• For you lecherous readers, “Blondie” was young and pretty, but smoked. (No way in a million years could I climb in the sack with a smoker!)
• “The Barns” are at 1372 East Main St. in Rochester, large sheds for storing buses inside. An operations administration building was attached. We bus-drivers always said we were working out of “the Barns.”

Horror on the Ten-Hundred line

My favorite RTS ride, trip #2105 from Fairport and East Rochester, with a 300-series artic. (Long-ago photo by BobbaLew.)

—In 1977, when I would turn age-33, my wife and I moved out of our walkup apartment into our first house. It was on Rochester’s east side.
It was originally a farm-house, built in 1865, and never improved; except for an addition on the side. The original house was two floors; the addition only one floor. A rear shed became the kitchen.
The area around it developed into a semi-urban neighborhood, annexed by Rochester years ago. The area was originally Town of Brighton.
My wife arranged the purchase, since I was unemployed at the time, and she had a job. The purchase was based on her income.
$15,000, finagled by a gumint housing program: Federal Housing Administration (FHA), I think.
Next door lived a lady who drove bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS), a public employer, the supplier of transit-bus service in Rochester and environs. Her boyfriend, who lived with her, also drove RTS bus.
I started looking for permanent employ as soon as we moved. I worked for a bank after college, but was canned after three years for not having a viper attitude.
I was totally unprepared for life. I had a BA, but was no longer interested in school-teaching.
I was more interested in writing and photography. I covered motorsports for a small Rochester weekly newspaper, and tried freelance photography, mainly sports-car racing. (I had a darkroom.)
Finally I gave up. Seven years with little income. My photography was more a tax-dodge.
I interviewed at various advertising agencies, using my newspaper stories as a resumé. One guy was interested, but no one was hiring.
My neighbor noted RTS needed bus-drivers. “Oh well,” I said; “but only temporary.”
A stupid, meaningless job for a college-grad, but it paid fairly well.
I stayed at it 16&1/2 years, during which my neighbor got fired, although Transit fired people willy-nilly.
It was pleasant at first, mainly learning how to safely operate large vehicles.
I used to say driving bus wasn’t fun unless you could put-the-hammer-down at least once per day.
We chose runs by seniority, and I picked mainly country Park-and-Rides.
My greatest joy was pedal-to-the-metal on a four-lane expressway. 65 mph in the passing-lane, all a 300-series (above) would do.
My bus-driving ended 26 years ago with my stroke. I’d made many friends, particularly other bus-drivers.
But I was tiring of it, especially our clientele. At least I never had a gun drawn on me, but I was mugged once. It taught me how to deal with complete wackos, so I was finally able to shut down my holier-than-thou father.
So now, 26 years later, I’m left with bus-dreams. Nightmares sorta. Unfamiliarity with the bus-route, or driving into someplace you couldn’t get out of without management eager to assert its intellectual superiority.
Yesterday’s bus-dream had me driving my all-time favorite city-bus, our 500-series Flxible-Flyers.
I was inbound on the west side of our Ten-Hundred line, Dewey Avenue in Rochester.
I used to say driving bus was essentially driving the back end. A bus isn’t a snake. Only the front wheels steer. The back wheels follow, but well inside the fronts.
Steer a corner as you approach, and your rear wheels clip the corner — or knock over a light-pole perhaps.
We called it “swing” = “put additional ‘swing’ on it;” that is, begin turning well after passing the corner.
Plus yer bus is eight feet wide, even wider if 102 inches. It has to be properly placed, and driven so the back-end doesn’t clout things.
Street workers placed traffic-cones totally inadequate for a bus. “I just flatten ‘em all,” a fellow bus-driver once told me. “Maybe when they put ‘em back up they get the hint.”
Needless to say my bus-dream had various fearsome insanities. Traffic-cones sent flying, and an aluminum gutter downspout crushed.
Apparently I went off-route, and found myself facing a low-clearance underpass. Could I get my bus under 10 feet 6 inches? I tried, and thankfully it was just a dream.
I had a natural-gas bus once with CNG tanks on its roof. “Am I gonna be able to get this thing under the bridge without triggering Armageddon?” —We worried about this stuff.
For me driving bus is long ago. The best job I ever had, a daily newspaper in Canandaigua, came after my stroke. It was a much better fit, but bus-driving paid more.
I always say my (our) newly-constructed house in West Bloomfield (1989) was paid for by driving bus.
But that newspaper was fun, and bus-driving no longer was.
I still attend transit retiree functions, but feel sorta out-of-it. Too many Transit friends, but I don’t think or talk like a bus-driver. I don’t proceed every spoken phrase with the F-bomb.
How many bus-drivers can recite Shakespeare’s 116th Sonnet from memory?

• “Artic” (“arr-TIK”) means articulated = bendable. An artic could seat more than the average 40-foot bus. They were 60 feet long but could easily drive corners because they were two sections hinged together by an expandable bellows. The 300s were our first bendables. They were heavy and bog-slow, but they rode extremely well. A German design, but built in the USA.
• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban or rural end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars for a bus-ride to work in Rochester.
• “Off-route” was the naughtiest of naughties. If you got detoured off-route you had to immediately radio that to management. And if you unintentionally wandered “off-route” you were in deep trouble.
• There is a railroad overpass in nearby Canandaigua with clearance above the road of 10 feet 6 inches. It decapitated many road-trailers.
• “CNG” is compressed natural-gas.
• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.
• Click the link readers; it’s a podcast of Shakespeare’s 116th Sonnet.

A stupid, meaningless job that paid pretty well

—“Wait a minute!” I shouted to a short bearded gentleman walking away from Eastview Mall’s rest-rooms.
I was walking toward the rest-rooms, and he looked Sicilian.
He was wearing a black jacket emblazoned with “Amalgamated Transit Union Local 282.”
“That’s my old bus-union,” I cried.
He looked at me quizzically. “What bus company?” he asked.
“Regional Transit Service, RTS. I drove for ‘em 16&1/2 years.”
“Schoolbus?” he asked.
Absolutely not,” I said. “Schoolbuses aren’t the real thing. Nine tons of hurtling steel, 56 passenger seats, ‘don’t get shot’.”
“What’s your badge-number?”
“1763; with 16&1/2 years I made the first page” (of the seniority list).
“Badge-numbers are up to the 5000s. When did you drive bus?”
“May 1977 through October 1993. My stroke ended it. That was caused by an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I retired RTS on disability, but returned to work elsewhere.”
The dude was uncomfortable. Ladies never are. They love talking. The guy wanted to leave.
I gave him an out, but before I did I asked if he knew ***** *******
“Number-One on the seniority list. He should retire, but says he can’t.”
“He used to be a union official, but got voted out,” I said. “Supposedly suspect.”
Well, maybe so, but bus-driving is long ago for this kid.
“You have a college-degree, and drive bus? What was your major?”
“Bus-driving,” I always said.

• “Wait a minute!” is what I’m always accused of saying before I pontificate.
• RE: “RTS badge-number...” —My “badge-number” was my employee-number. RTS has incredible turnover = “Anyone can drive bus”/“fire ‘im!”
• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.

Blondie

A “M-A-N” 300. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

About 10 years into my career driving bus I picked what became my all-time favorite run. We bus-drivers picked runs by seniority three times per year.
The run was a “package,” working the rush-hours. To do so my first “half” pulled out around 6 a.m. to take people from eastern suburbs into Rochester. It finished about 8:30; only one trip, inbound.
My second half was 1703, three trips to Pittsford, another suburb east of Rochester.
I started about 2:45, doing schoolwork at first. I took students from an intermediate school in Rochester to downtown, where they transferred to a public bus home. They had passes.
I then pulled off somewhere to nap over the motor. My first trip to Pittsford was about 3:25. I used an alarm-watch.
Passengers loved having me. I rode bus myself when younger, so knew all-too-well how important bus-transit could be.
I was getting those passengers to work, or home, on time no matter what. I had vise-grips and screwdrivers in my lunchbox — a union no-no. I wasn’t waiting 15-20 minutes to have loose windshield-wipers tightened.
If a bus was unsafe or inoperable I’d cripple it. But not without arranging a quick change of buses.
I also developed detours to skirt traffic-jams due to snow emergency. “Why are we getting off here?” “Because I might be able to do a quicker route.”
When I went on vacation “Be at yer stop five minutes earlier. I leave five minutes late — which gets me downtown on time. My replacement may leave per schedule. And don’t be afraid to have some ‘regular’ ride shotgun, so yer driver doesn’t miss anyone out here in the boonies.”
The first half of this run was 2105, and I had an “artic,” a “bendable.” Our 300s were our first bendable buses. Its front half, powered, pulled a trailer connected by bellows. 300s were bog-slow, but I dove right in. The bendable concept was brand-new, and supposedly allowed converting two separate bus trips to only one bus.
Previously a separate bus trip covered Fairport, and another covered East Rochester. With my 300 I covered both. Passengers didn’t like that. Schedule-times were juggled. Fairport was about 10 minutes earlier, and ER 10 minutes later. I arrived downtown 10 minutes later.
La-dee-dah! We probably lost a few with that. I think a 300 could carry maybe 60 or more. I averaged about 35, often less.
One of my regulars was a pretty lady I called “Blondie.” She looked maybe 35, had long blond hair, and got on at West Ave. in ER.
“Blondie” was a regular. If she wasn’t at her stop, I glanced down West Ave. to see if she was coming. Sometimes she was late getting out of her house. If I saw Blondie running, I stopped. I wasn’t stiffin’ no regular. Rarely did that happen, but she appreciated I looked for her. When I left 2105 she gave me a local pastry — ER was very Italian.
Regrettably she smoked, and I once saw her being picked up downtown by some greasy sleaze-ball in an older full-size Cadillac.
I wonder what happened to Blondie.

• 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 environs. My stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered well enough to return to work at a newspaper; I retired from that over 12 years ago.

Prompt-sheet

Last night I unearthed a vestige of my long-ago time driving bus, the prompt-sheet illustrated above.
Driving bus was supposed to be temporary, but I stayed 16&1/2 years until my stroke suddenly ended it almost 25 years ago.
It was supposedly temporary while I fruitlessly looked for work as a writer. It was pleasant at first. Especially when we lived in Rochester five minutes from work. There also was learning to operate large vehicles.
But it became drudgery after we moved to West Bloomfield. I was now 45 minutes from work, and could no longer work the kind of work I had been doing.
Bus service follows the need. Primary was getting people to work in the morning, then home at night. Service was aimed at rush-hours. Early morning runs, then late afternoon.
There were bus-lines that ran all day, but mostly we were serving the rush-hours.
The prompt-sheet illustrates this kind of work. 2203 is bringing people in from suburban Penfield, and 2007 is taking them back home out near Brockport on the other side of the city.
After we moved I could no longer do this kind of work. 45 minutes was too far away. I had to switch to morning then mid-day. It also meant a change in clientele — I was no longer carrying suburbanites. I was carrying mid-day jerks inclined to mug or cheat me.
With our move bus-driving became no longer fun. It was largely the clientele I was tiring of, and driving only city-runs meant no more expressway blasts. I used to say it was no fun driving bus if I couldn’t boom-and-zoom at least once in an expressway passing-lane. Up-and-down a city street was drudgery.
Never mind! I made many friends among my fellow employees, and passengers loved having me as a driver. They could depend on me. I’d ridden bus myself in the ‘60s. I knew where passengers were — very important out in the boonies.
If they weren’t there I looked for ‘em. If I saw ‘em running after me, I stopped.
When I went on vacation I warned my passengers. I usually started late, arriving downtown on time, but my replacement might start on-time (earlier), so “be at yer stop about five minutes earlier.”
Also “you guys know where the regulars are,” when I started a run in the rural outback. “I need somebody riding shotgun. I don’t wanna miss anyone.”
The passengers loved that. “We got a good one, Martha.”
I was getting those passengers downtown or home on time no matter what! I’d ridden bus myself. I used ramps to get around traffic-jams, and I developed a secret route — not expressway, which was often clogged during blizzards.
I don’t remember what 2203 was, but I remember 2007. It was a Park-and-Ride taking suburbanites home out near Brockport. I had a large “articulated,” the buses that bent in the middle; our first “bendables.”


2105, one of my all-time favorite rides. (Long-ago photo by BobbaLew.)

They were bog-slow, but rode extremely well — much better than our city buses, which after suspension overhaul rode like lumber-wagons.
You had to be careful. Driving an “Artic” could be difficult. They easily got stuck, plus the trailer steered. You dared not turn a corner lest that trailer side-step into a four-wheeler.
There also was the challenge of backing: righty-lefty, lefty-righty. They also were so slow ya had to jump the traffic-light. Hit the accelerator when the other direction turned yellow. If ya don’t, the trailer may still be going through the intersection when yer light turned back red.
Bog-slow or not, I loved drivin’ ‘em. Head for the passing-lane, and put-the-hammer-down! They’d krooze at 65; top-end for them.
After we moved, “Artics” were no longer an option. Artics were Park-and-Ride; I could only do city work. (Park-and-Rides were rush-hour.)
My prompt-sheet details times I needed to know to do my run. I taped it to my video-recorder in my kitchen where I watched recorded news while eating supper.
Most important was “Report.” Show up late and yer run got assigned to an “extra driver.” If that happened there was a good chance you got sent home to lose the day.
Others might report exactly on-time, but not this kid. “Report” was five minutes before pullout (mighta been 10). We got paid for that, but it wasn’t enough to fully inspect bus safety.
With me it was wheel lug-nuts; occasionally I found ‘em loose. I didn’t want a wheel coming off; 500-800 pounds (whatever) spinning aimlessly into traffic, and me off the road.
I also needed the extra time in case something mucked up. The one time I was almost late a downpour started as I got out my motorcycle. I had to park it and get my car.
“Up” and “out” is roll outta bed until starting my car. I was allowing an hour to get dressed and eat breakfast.
With 2203 I’d get back home about 10:45 a.m. I was free until “Shower” at 2:40. That was about five hours between “halves.” (Some runs had three “halves;” make sense of that!)
During that time I took my dog to a nearby park and ran. After we moved I no longer had that: my running withered. I used to run footraces.
That long break was wonderful for my dog. My wife didn’t leave until 7 or so, yet I was back by 10:45. The dog got a chance to run at the park, but was alone again about 4 p.m. She’d monitor the squirrel population. My wife got home perhaps an hour-and-a-half later, then me maybe two hours after that.
The shower was because I ran. I also was getting paid extra to work a run with such a long break. All that was lost by moving. I was tiring of it; at 16&1/2 years I still had 14 to go. My stroke was somewhat a blessing; it ended my bus-driving.
It was a “stupid, meaningless job,” but it paid for my house. Driving bus was a challenge. First was the clientele I fell to after moving. Second were Granny and the NASCAR wannabees. You had to forever be on-guard.
“Oh Dora, look; a bus! PULL OUT, PULL OUT!” I came home frazzled.

They’re all different

My all-time favorite rides, our first “artics” (“arr-TICK”), the 300s. But only because they rode so well; otherwise they were bog-slow. (German design [M-A-N], manufactured in America.) Get on the expressway, head for the passing-lane, and PUT THE HAMMER DOWN! (Photo by BobbaLew.)

“Every bus is different,” I used to say.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) Yrs Trly drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs.
My stroke October 26th, 1993 suddenly ended that. I recovered well enough to return to work at a newspaper, the Daily-Messenger in nearby Canandaigua.
Bus-driving was a stupid, meaningless job; rife with ignorant four-wheelers, NASCAR wannabees, and our rancorous clientele. We bus-drivers had an unspoken rule: DON’T GET SHOT! Most passengers were pleasant, but there were exceptions.
Bus-driving paid well, thanks to our union; and I enjoyed mastering large vehicles. So I stayed with it, although originally it was supposed to be temporary while I sought employ as a scribe (writer = slinger of words).
During that time I drove all kinds of equipment to who-knows-where in varying weather (sometimes dreadful); GMC, Flxible, Gillig. Now anyone manufactures buses, or so it seems.
I guess the format is simple. Standards and measurements apply. Any manufacturer can meet ‘em with a frame, bus-body, seats, and motor/tranny. Much of that is available from outside suppliers.
When I started GMC and Flxible dominated the market. Much of our fleet were GMC, plus we had a large contingent of Flxibles.
GMC left the business.
I haven’t paid attention since my stroke — I don’t live in Rochester. Everything I drove was retired years ago, and various classes have come and gone.

A GMC “RTS” bus, but not Regional Transit. (This bus looks like a wide-body [102 inches]. Our first RTS’s were 96 inches [eight feet].)

Two years after I began, RTS got new buses, the new “RTS” from GMC. “RTS” stood for “Rapid Transit Series,” not Regional Transit.
I called ‘em “starships.” Styling was exceptional for a bus, perhaps the best styling General Motors ever did.
The GMC “RTS” was an attempt to make bus-transit more attractive. The RTS has more-or-less the same suspension as a car = separate independent A-arms up front instead of a side-to-side beam axle.
This was a mistake. The RTS’s rode like lumber-wagons; our older beam-axle buses rode better.
Everything was air-suspension. If one side drooped under a heavier load, that side got more air to increase the spring-rate — and level the bus.
Within a month each new RTS was different. 735 became a rocket. You had to caress the accelerator lest you toss passengers outta their seats.
Each 700 had its own tricks, and I’m sure within a year 735 became something else — like maybe a pig.
Some of our old Flxibles refused to shift into High Gear; they were two-speed auto-tranny.
Others shifted too early, laying down a thick black cloud of diesel-exhaust as they lugged up to speed.
229 didn’t like to turn left. Many of our bus-loops were left turn, but 229 refused. It went wide against the steering-stop, and had to be backed like docking a ship = call for a road-supervisor.
229 turned over-sharply right.
1993 is long ago. Occasionally I see new Regional Transit buses — at least I think so.
I bet within a month each individual bus within its number-class is different.
“Easy on the accelerator with this 735. Floor it and ya throw everyone on the floor.”

• “Artic” means articulated = bendable in the middle. The bus was 60 feet long, but hinged in the middle so it could sharply turn a corner. The bus-body was two halves connected by a bellows. The motor was slung under the lead half. The idea was to increase the number of passengers per single driver. —I drove ‘em often, but usually with no more than 20-25 passengers; they could seat many more. Usually an “artic” replaced two individual bus-trips, which some passengers hated. A single bus had to cover two source-areas.
• “Tranny” is of course transmission. Everything I drove was auto-tranny. Our city buses were Lo and Direct, two speeds. Over-the-road Park-and-Ride buses were three-speed, and I think our 700s were too. The city-buses were governed to 55 mph. Over-the-road weren’t governed. Once I got 728 up to 80 mph. Dead-head; no passengers. Never again! Bucketing the expressway in something the size of a living-room.
• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban or rural end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars for a bus-ride to work in Rochester.
• A “road-supervisor” was an official of the company that rode around in a supervisor-car, supervised bus-drivers, and settled arguments with bus-passengers. They also attended bus accidents. —Our rule was you couldn’t back a bus without a road-supervisor.

I could tell stories

“Will I be assaulted?” “Why am I so stressed?” “What am I breathing in?” “Will I have a bathroom break?”
The January/February issue of my “In Transit” magazine arrived the other day. On its cover was a bus-driver worrying about all those questions.
That wasn’t them all. The bus-driver was a lady.
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 environs.
During that time I was a member of Local 282, the Rochester division of the nationwide Amalgamated Transit Union (ATU), which represents bus employees, including mechanics.
“In Transit” is their magazine. They’re in Washington DC.
“In Transit” says bus-employ is the most difficult job in the world — that transit is routinely rated a least healthy occupation.
A graphic depicted health problems prevalent among transit employees: high blood-pressure, diabetes, lower back-pain, asthma, depression, lung disease, cardiovascular problems, carpal-tunnel, etc, etc, etc.
All were apparent in transit employees, especially bus-drivers.
—1) “Will I be assaulted?” This was our greatest concern. What I most abhorred was our clientele.
I’d pick country runs to avoid city folk. We picked by seniority; three times per year.
We drivers had an unwritten rule: “don’t get shot!”
Better to avoid contretemps. Rip-offs weren’t worth losing your life.
—2) “Why am I so stressed?”
“Oh Dora, look, a bus. PULL OUT, PULL OUT!”
Suddenly I hafta stop nine tons of hurtling steel without tossing my passengers out of their seats.
Driving bus I was on guard all the time: 100% concentration.
Eight hours of constantly parrying Granny and NASCAR wannabees.
Even now I can’t drive car with the radio on: it’s a distraction.
I’d come home from work utterly bushed.
Take a nap, to bed by 8 p.m., then up at 3 a.m.
I’d pick runs that minimized port-to-portal.
Out-of-the-house to back-home was about 12 hours. I’d get paid for eight.
—3) “What am I breathing in?”
Our buses were stored inside large sheds (“The Barns”). Mechanics came out each morning to fire ‘em up. This was in case they needed to be jumped.
Once lit, they’d rev to the moon to pump up the air — or just let ‘em idle.
Garage-doors on the Barns were kept closed to keep out the weather. The Barns filled with exhaust.
There also was the possibility exhaust might fumigate inside your bus.
I heard reports of a driver setting off smoke-alarms in his house after driving his first stint.
—4) “Will I have a bathroom break?”
A serious challenge: “Can I hold it until my next opportunity?”
Often that opportunity was out the door in some semi-private location.
Or between the closed rear clamshell doors if your bus was empty.
I factored bathroom breaks into my run-picks.
Transit management, free to use bathrooms willy-nilly, protested our need to widdle.
A retired bus-driver told me about hopping off his loaded bus to take a leak on a city street.
My stroke October 26th, 1993 ended my bus-driving. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered fairly well.
I did it for 16&1/2 years; many drivers more than 30.
It was supposed to be temporary, while I continued looking for work as a writer, mostly in ad agencies.
But it paid fairly well, and I enjoyed doing it at first — mainly the operation of large highway equipment.
But after 16 years I was tiring of it, mainly the clientele.
My stroke was somewhat a blessing. It ended my bus-driving, and got me into the Mighty Mezz; best job I ever had.
I made many good friends at RTS — many of whom I still main contact with after almost 24 years. —And that includes people in management.
People tell me what a stupid, meaningless job bus-driving was, but it paid for my house.

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over 11 years ago. I worked there almost 10 years (over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where I live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 14 miles away.)
• RE: “up at 3 a.m.” —My final run, before my stroke, pulled out at 5:05 a.m. (There were runs that pulled out earlier.) A trip in was about 45 minutes. Leave house at 3:45 after glomming breakfast.

Richard Bastedo

For 16&1/2 years (1977 through 1993) yr fthfl srvnt drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS), supplier of transit-bus service in Rochester, NY and environs.
RTS is a public company, supposedly nonprofit, funded by the taxpayer.
My stroke ended it. I recovered fairly well, but retired on disability.
The job was supposed to be temporary, but paid pretty well, so I stayed with it.
Part of my joy was getting so I could safely operate large vehicles.
Over time I made many friends, and all were class acts.
Even those who weren’t had to be somewhat class. To keep your job at Transit you had to —1) show up, —2) not hit anything, and —3) keep your hands outta the farebox.
That second rule was hard to maintain. The road is full of grannies and NASCAR wannabees. “Oh Dora, look. A bus. PULL OUT! PULL OUT!”
The first rule was up against our clientele, who could be rancorous and cantankerous. We bus-drivers had a fourth rule, secret from management: “Don’t get shot!”
I made it a point to pick rural Park-and-Rides to minimize exposure to thugs.
One of my friends was bus-driver Richard Bastedo.
I Google-imaged him hoping to get a hit; he won the national Bus-Roadeo once.
What I got were 89 bazilyun hits for Alexandra Bastedo, a British movie-star and sexpot, who apparently loved to bare most of her chest.
23 years after retiring, I still have bus-dreams.
This morning’s had me following 832-bus onto University Ave. at Winton Road toward the city.

A fishbowl; called that because its giant windshield looked like a fishbowl. (Not RTS.)

A Flxible-flyer (not RTS, and not a city-bus; it has air-conditioning).

832 was an ancient soft-seater fishbowl, one of our first Park-and-Ride buses. It was white, and “832” is not correct — ours were 1000s.
It was in excellent shape, well maintained, probably with a new motor and tranny.
I pulled out to pass, and Bastedo was driving.
Many of our buses were junk.
“Why are they sending this thing out into the boonies? Cross your fingers, people; hope we don’t cripple.”
I once rode a bus as a passenger, and it sounded like the transmission was gonna come through the floor!
I knew it was a dream, because Bastedo died not loo long ago.
My stroke was somewhat fortunate, as I was tiring of the job.
Same-old, same-old. Especially the clientele.

A General Motors RTS-model bus (not Transit).

A Regional Transit M.A.N. articulated — it bends in the middle. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

And post-stroke I joined the Messenger newspaper in Canandaigua, best job I ever had.
The fishbowls are long-gone too, as are the Flxible-flyers, the buses I started with.
Even the last buses I drove, the 7s, 8s, and 9s, the “starships,” GM’s RTS-model, are gone — as are the buses I enjoyed driving most, our first artics, the 300s.
#309 is the bus I actually drove that morning, 2105-block, a Park-and-Ride on the 2100 line in from Fairport.
The starships were the best styling GM ever did.

• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban or rural end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars, for a bus-ride to work in Rochester.
• “Tranny” is the transmission on a motor-vehicle.

Sam, Sam, the junkman

During my 16&1/2 years of driving bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS), the provider of transit bus service in Rochester (NY) and environs......
They had a rule that a bus-driver had to show up on time. This was to the second, which may seem ridiculous to the average person.
But I felt it eminently fair, since it took management out of the equation. A driver had to report on time; there was no management cutting favors.
If you reported late, you “slipped.” That was what it was called.
An extra driver was assigned your work, and you might lose the entire day, unless they needed you elsewhere.
Slip enough times and you were fired.
Over 16&1/2 years I never slipped, although I tried hard once.
I was going to ride my motorcycle, but it started pouring. I had to park my motorcycle and get out my car.
I made it, barely. I had to run.
Bus-drivers used to play the rule.
They’d watch the clock, and report maybe 2-3 seconds early.
What I did was report 15-20 minutes early, so I could check lugnuts on my bus.
Lugnuts are what hold the wheel on.
The bus-company has since instituted some gizmo to indicate loose lugnuts.
But back during my time I had to check ‘em with my fingers.
I’d find loose lugnuts often enough to keep checking. When I did, I was punished by sending me to the tire-room to have ‘em tightened.
That’s 5-10 minutes, which woulda been late-out if I’d not shown up early.
I wanted to be on-time, since I’d long-ago rode bus myself.
Of course, Transit woulda been happy to fire me if a wheel fell off and creamed a four-wheeler; and/or sent me into the trees.
I had an afternoon pull-out at 1:30 or so. Sam, Sam, the junkman was behind the window, taking reports and assigning buses.
Sam and I weren’t friendly. Sam was a jerk.
Sam eventually got fired. He’d gone out on disability; supposed back-problems.
Except management photographed him moving his sister’s sofa. That was like him, a jerk.
I showed up to report, and Sam assigned me a bus.
I went out to look for it, but it wasn’t there.
So I went back inside to see Sam again.
He assigned me another bus.
Also not there, so I went back.
Sam assigned me another bus.
Also not there; back again.
This was getting my Irish up.
After five tries, I castigated Sam.
“Games, my man? I haven’t got all day, and I’m not interested in running back-and-forth.”
True to form, Sam snarled and hit me with the third degree.
In Sam’s favor, there’s a pretty good likelihood bus-drivers were just taking whatever bus they wanted, oblivious to their assignment.
I call him “Sam, Sam, the junkman” because he usually assigned me junk — a bus that would hardly operate.
The afternoon pull-outs were often Park-and-Rides, and usually merited a Park-and-Ride bus, a soft-seater over-the-road bus with a three-speed transmission — not a city bus, which had hard fiberglas seats and a two-speed tranny.
Sam would see me coming and pick out the junkiest bus he could find, mainly because I wasn’t bellowing at him like other drivers.

• RE: “behind the window......” —The room where all the bus-drivers congregated was adjacent to an area where officials managed the drivers and assigned buses. This area was walled off by glass, and had small openings toward the drivers’ area; they were known as “the window.” A bus-driver would report for work at “the window,” after which he received a bus-assignment. “The window” also had a tape-recorder.
• “Tranny” is the transmission on a motor-vehicle.
• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban or rural end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars for a bus-ride to work in Rochester.

Winked

What follows is my all-time favorite bus-story.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) out of Rochester, NY.
The job was supposed to be temporary, but I liked it, and it paid well.
Especially learning to operate large, heavy vehicles, which have to be driven just so, lest you clip corners and take out telephone-poles.
But after 16&1/2 years I was tiring of it, especially our rancorous, cantankerous clientele. I picked country-runs to avoid city-folk, who could be abusive and sometimes murderous. My country-folk loved having me, since I was reliable and timely. I had ridden bus myself when younger, which affected my operating. I got my riders to work on time no matter what.
I developed secret detours to get around snow-jams. I also carried my own tools, and would fix the bus myself if I could. I remember fixing windshield-wipers once, and tightening innumerable outside rear-view mirrors.
I often did school-work in the morning, when the kids were too sleepy to be difficult. My kids loved having me. If I saw a kid running for my bus, I stopped and let him on. Those kids were getting to school no matter what; it might be their ticket out of the ghetto.
But my stroke ended that: October 26th, 1993.
And I’d say it wasn’t burnout; it was an undiagnosed heart-defect, a Patent Foramen Ovale (“PAT-tint for-AYE-min Oh-VAL-eee”).
Apparently right after you’re born this hole between the upper chambers of your heart, which allows you to use your mother’s oxygen in the womb, is supposed to seal closed.
Well, mine didn’t, and it passed a clot to my brain.
During my final year at Transit, I began doing a voluntary newsletter for my bus-union. At last the union’s viewpoint was getting out to politicians that funded Transit.
Much to the dismay of Transit management, although they liked what I was doing.
For once what it was like to drive bus was getting out. I’d publish bus-stories from my own experience.
I’d take blank time-sheets on my bus, and write up my stories at layover points. Often these stories got written on the backs of tiny bus-transfer slips.
And the politicians loved reading my bus-stories.
And I liked doing it. Often I was up at 3 a.m. keying in stuff on my computer.
My wife was my secret cohort. She’d take my computer-file into work on floppies to print on her employer’s laser-printer.
A friend and I then took her prints to the union office, and copied them perhaps 200 times.
That friend and I would then show up in the bus-drivers’ room at 4 a.m. to pass them out.
Usually one copy made it to the desk of Transit’s head-honcho.
He’d wave it at his $70,000 a year public-relations mavin pointing out I was just a bus-driver, yet I made the PR guy look bad.
I got a newsletter out every month, and the PR guy was supposed to publish a house-organ bimonthly. He usually failed. We might see a house-organ once a year.
Politicians would ring up the PR guy. “Howard, what’s going on down there? You told me everything was hunky-dory, yet I got this union newsletter that reports a motor fell out of a bus.”
“Don’t read that stuff!” Howard would scream. “It’s by union anarchists!”
Once at a Christmas-party Howard refused to talk to me. “Just keep it positive!” he screamed as he ran into the Mens Room.
If anything my slinging words, my blogging, became comfortable with that newsletter. Mainly, just write the story. Don’t edit; it’s good enough as it is.
I might edit a tiny bit, but otherwise just let my muse sling. With my union newsletter I didn’t have time to edit.
This bus-story ran first in my newsletter.

---

603-bus is gone now. Retired, off the property, and probably languishing forlornly in some boneyard awaiting the scrapper’s torch. Understand I had no more desire to drive 603 in her final years than anyone else, but there was always something special about 603, a secret between her and me.
It all goes back to a bitter wintry night in January ‘79, when I was driving 603 down West Main toward the Corners [Main and Clinton] on the last lap of a particularly arduous afternoon on the 800-line. The weather was bad, I was very late, and after Main & Clinton I was headed in, or so I thought.
But Radio Controller Ron Dodsworth, who departed RTS amicably many years ago, kept asking on the all-call for a soft-seater to do a “quick charter.” Ron kept at it plaintively for about 15 minutes until finally I took pity on him and called. “I got 603-bus,” I said; “which ain’t a sleeper but at least it's got padded seats.”
“No problem,” responded Ron, relieved. “I want you to go out to Nazareth College and take their men’s basketball team over to St. John Fisher.”
Now I had never been to Nazareth College in my entire life, so I worried aloud I might get lost. “You won't have any problem,” Ron assured me. “Just follow the driveway on around, and eventually you'll come face-to-face with the Campus Center.”
“R-T,” I said, as I got myself turned around, and headed for the expressway. I knew where the college was, so finding it was no problem, but once I pulled into the drive I was immediately confronted with a snow-covered fork in the road. I looked around anxiously for a few seconds, saw what looked like a Campus Center-type building to the right, and turned toward it. Then as I proceeded around the turn I began to notice the “road” was getting very narrow. When the “road” finally straightened out, the snowbanks were only eight feet apart. I also noticed the “streetlights” were now at eye-level. Obviously this wasn't a road; it was a sidewalk.
“How am I gonna get out of this mess?” I said to myself, as I picked my way gingerly between the lightposts and park-benches. Buildings closed in tight to the bus, and I began to worry about steps. No way was I going to get 603 up or down even a two-step staircase.
Finally two nuns from the nearby convent appeared in the glare of my headlights, pie-eyed at the sight of my hulking behemoth lumbering toward them on their main, cross-campus sidewalk. They clambered on board over the snow-piles, assured me there were no stairs ahead, and told me if I continued-on I would eventually merge back onto the driveway.
But I wasn't letting them off until we found that Campus Center.
“Sure looks like a road to me,” I allowed, as I pulled up to the fork in the road a second time. They agreed.
Word of this little adventure never got out, of course. And I'm sure I drove old 603 hundreds of times more before she was finally put out to pasture. But every once in a while when I drew her on assignment, while doing my pre-check, I’d look her in the face and give her a wink. Once she even winked back.

• $70,000 a year was quite a bit back then.
• “Saint John Fisher College.”
• “R-T” is the Transit equivalent of “Roger.”

The big gigundo

Here’s another bus-story.
I drove the run with 1703 three years.
I inherited it from Eugene Muhammad, who also drove it three years.
Eugene gave it up, so I picked it.
It was a nice ride; a school-trip at first, and I killed about 45 minutes before making three trips to Pittsford, a ritzy suburb east of Rochester.
I’d nap over the motor during those 45 minutes, and used an alarm-watch.
The route was along East Ave. which traveled a long street out Rochester through a high-dollar neighborhood, then continued along East Ave. out to Pittsford.
Pittsford was definitely not the projects. In fact, my first trip was carrying domestic-help who had done cleaning out in Pittsford, but lived in the city.
Plus students at two colleges we served.
My second trip was rich commuters who worked in Rochester, and lived in Pittsford. This included Wendell and Ted. Wendell was a heavy-hitter at the local Gas & Electric, and Ted worked at a bank.
My last trip was late, starting about 6:15. It included a lady who sold mens ware at a local store who worked until 6. She lived in Pittsford.
I loaded behind Midtown Plaza; not Main & Clinton, the main bus-interchange in Rochester.
(Transit has since installed an airport-like “Transit-Center” to get buses off Main st.)
Returning I picked up Fred, who worked in the kitchen of one of the colleges. Fred was very talkative, and wanted to make friends.
I’m a poor talker; I keep to myself. Fred even sent me a Christmas-card.

Not an RTS 100-type bus, but similar.

One night I had 102-bus, a Flxible 870, by then part of Grumman.
102 was very angular, yet wide and fairly fast. Wendell was in back, holding court as usual, discussing politics with all-and-sundry, including Ted.
I drove out of Rochester on East Ave., taking Wendell and Ted home.
I crossed into Brighton, but got stopped by the traffic-light at Clover St. and Penfield Rd.
Finally the light changed, and I accelerated down East Ave. At this point East Ave. is four lanes, which it was all the way to my first college.
I was in the right lane, and a Dominé (“Dom-in-NAY”) Building Supply truck full of cinder-blocks passed me in the left lane.
All-of-a-sudden BAM; it sounded like I’d hit a barrel, but it was much louder. I was doing about 30-35 mph.
It was a Chevrolet Citation whose driver apparently hadn’t seen me behind the passing Dominé truck, and turned left right in front of me.
I totaled the Citation — bent it all-out-of-shape.
Its driver was belted in, but was knocked unconscious.
We rode up on the curb, and snapped a utility-pole like a matchstick. Wires fell on my bus.
The impact caved in the right front corner of my bus, making the front-door inoperable.
Wendell, etc. were worried sick about me. I was one of their favorites.
They were fine; they came up to ask if I was okay.
I called the radio and said I needed an ambulance, for the guy in the Citation.
Engage heavy Transit accident response; the C.E.O., my supervisor, and assorted other heavies.
They all came to my accident, and contrary to what I expected they tried to keep me calm.
Normally with an accident this severe, Transit fired you no matter whose fault it was, especially if you had poor attendance or some other no-no.
I didn’t complete the rest of my run that day, about three hours. An extra-bus came out to take home my passengers, including Wendell and Ted.
Wendell and Ted were concerned about my welfare. They knew how Transit was, that they might lose their favorite driver.
I was taken back to the Barns in a supervisor-car to fill out an accident report.
And they knew I’d do a gigantic accident report. I always did — my penchant for slinging words.
My report would then go to the Accident Review Board, perceived as a kangaroo-court. The reviewers were all management, and often fired anyone who hit anything, at fault or not.
You were supposed to be a professional driver, cognizant of all that was going on. That is, able to avoid Granny when she cut you off, or charged blindly in front of you.
I was, and they knew it.
Apparently the Dominé truck-driver called Transit, and told them there was nothing I could have done. That his truck blocked my view of the Citation, and also blocked the Citation-driver’s view of me.
So the Dominé-driver saved my job. When I reported for work the next morning, I wasn’t kicked out-of-service.
I also went to Dominé to thank the driver who saved my job.
The night of the accident I drove back to the scene. The utility-pole hadn’t been replaced yet; the wires were still down. They were only telephone wires.
I found the broken plastic grill-insert of the Citation under a spruce-tree. I still have it in my basement.

• 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 environs. My stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered fairly well.
• “The Barns” are at 1372 East Main St. in Rochester, large sheds for storing buses inside. An operations administration building was attached. We bus-drivers always said we were working out of “the Barns.”
• RE: “Supervisor-car......” —A road-supervisor was an official of the company that rode around in a supervisor-car, supervised bus-drivers, and settled arguments with bus-passengers. They also attended bus accidents.

A big hand

I’m told people enjoy my bus-stories, so here goes:
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 environs. My stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered fairly well.
I was driving bus #417 down Rochester’s Eastern Expressway. It was snowy, but I could do about 40.
I was driving toward East Rochester and Fairport. 417 was a Park-and-Ride bus. Our 400s looked like fishbowl city buses, but had a V8 motor and three-speed over-the-road transmission. They weren’t speed-governed. A good one could boom-and-zoom.
I was on my second of two trips; the one that took the expressway — the first didn’t.
In fact, I’m not sure the first trip was to Fairport. Quite often they weren’t.
Which was fine with me. Multiple trips to the same end-point could be boring, plus I had to get on the expressway at least once per day. Driving bus was no fun unless you could get a roll on — 60-65 in the passing-lane. —Plus I’m sure I was doing a school-trip too.
The first trip might have been to Suburban Plaza out in Henrietta south of the city. East Rochester and Fairport were east.
Driving was dicy, but not impossible. The buses were so heavy they were fairly sure-footed.
I negotiated the infamous Can-of-Worms, then continued out the Eastern Expressway. I would get off at the Fairport Road exit.
Bopping along, I signaled for the exit.
All-of-a-sudden all four corners of the bus were sliding.
I started sawing furiously at the wheel.
Oh my golly! We’re going straight into the boonies, a bouncing roller-coaster ride over open hill-and-dale. At least it wasn’t woods.
But then a big hand dropped from the sky and guided my bus around the curve.
Now I was on a straight part, but another curve was up ahead. I needed to slow down.
Uh-ohhh...... Not slow enough; all four corners were sliding again. It may look nice on a race-track, but not in a bus carrying 40 passengers.
Again the big hand dropped from the sky and guided my bus around the curve.
“WHEW!” I said to no one in particular once we merged onto Fairport Road.
A regular who always rode shotgun wondered why I said that.
“I didn’t know anything was wrong,” she said.

• The “Eastern Expressway” is Interstate-490; it goes all the way to the Thruway, which doesn’t access Rochester.
• East Rochester and Fairport are both suburbs east of Rochester, Fairport ritzier that East Rochester. East Rochester was once New York Central railroad’s car-shops, and a piano factory, so is lower class than Fairport. Fairport was on the Erie Canal.
• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban or rural end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars, for a bus-ride to work in Rochester.
• The Can-of-Worms (so-called) was an old expressway interchange southeast of Rochester, built in the ‘60s. It was difficult to get through. The “Can” was reconfigured a while ago (Old Can and New Can), taking out little-used railroad trackage, making it much easier to negotiate. There were various tricks to “shooting the Can” with a bus. Most difficult was a lane change smack in the middle of the Old Can.

Walt Stewart

Yesterday morning’s dream was about bus-driver Walter Stewart.
As one who drove transit bus 16&1/2 years, I find myself dreaming about bus-driving often.
Usually it involves driving into someplace I can’t get out of, in which case people tell me I’m stupid. Driving into someplace I couldn’t get out of was the thing I feared most.
Retired bus-drivers among my readers will know who Walter Stewart was.
The fact I became friends with him surprised me, since Walt and I were so different.
I’m a Democrat (Gasp!) and Walter was probably REPUBLICAN.
Our values reflected that. I’m pretty much a bleeding-heart liberal (double-gasp!), and Walt was CONSERVATIVE.
But Walt was a friend of Art Dana (“DAY-nuh”), and so was I.
Walt and I used to drag-race our buses. Walt relieved a bus at Main and St. Paul in Rochester (NY) the same time I began a trip south to MarketPlace Mall and Rochester Institute of Technology.
We’d leave Main and St. Paul together onto South Ave., and end up side-by-side.
Walt was in the left lane so he could turn toward S. Clinton, me in the right lane so I could turn on Mt. Hope.
We’d pass the Library flat-out, pedal-to-the-metal.
I’d have a Park-and-Ride bus, and they were usually faster. But Walt usually had a new city-bus, and they were fairly strong too.
We’d swoop through some expressway ramps, and come to the stoplight where Walter turned.
Who got there first was usually a function of traffic. But if we ended up side-by-side I’d open my left side-window, and Walter opened his door.
We’d exchange snide remarks.
This was much better than another driver who’d get angry if I beat him.
The dream was showing Walter the run I had, a package.
Packages were pieces of work arranged into a run — a package — usually hours apart. A package often covered both rush-hours. They usually payed better because you were working over a longer day. Anything beyond 10&1/2 hours was overtime, even if you were off-duty for hours between assignments.
A package totaled about about eight hours, but if you were on-duty 10&1/2 hours after you started, it was overtime.
Walter had picked my package; he was ahead of me in seniority.
My first assignment was school-work: pick up kids along a bus-route and take them out to a technical high-school on the city’s west side.
Our bus-company got the contract to cart these students. Yellow-bus operators tried to invade, but always failed. For whatever reason Transit always succeeded. It might have been they could easily couple a school-trip with a later rush-hour trip.
My students all loved me. It was always me, not some extra-driver who didn’t know his passengers.
And as a bleeding-heart liberal, if I saw a student running from the Projects, I’d stop and let him on. I wanted them to be able to go to school; I wasn’t being a jerk.
But I was a stickler about bus-passes. It was my old rule: “ass, gas, grass or pass; nobody rides free.”
I remember driving bus through the Projects to that high-school all year. I started with a full bus-load, maybe 45-50 students.
But come June I was down to about 20.
What happened? Drop-outs, prison, in the grave?
This wasn’t the package Walt had picked, but it was carrying students to that high-school.
And it was tricky. After picking up your students, you turned off the bus-route toward that high-school.
You had to go under a railroad overpass, and getting to it was right then immediate left.
Walt was driving, and I was riding shotgun. We missed the underpass.
But there was another farther along next to the bus-route, so we took it.
Then we negotiated a traffic-circle where we were supposed to turn left.
Walt was going straight. “Left, left!” I shouted. Walter heeled the bus way over as we suddenly turned left.
We made it to the high-school despite missing that railroad bridge.
At which point we were supposed to give a passenger-count to a Transit road-supervisor. “Just make it up,” I told Walt. “I always did.”
So now I wonder if Walt is still alive.
I’d heard he died of cancer, and he smoked.
But it wasn’t lung-cancer, in which case I’d say “another smoking victim.”
It was something else, in which case I’d say “cancer victim.”
Thankfully I don’t smoke, never have and never will. My father might have killed me if he caught me smoking.
Dana didn’t either, and he’s gone too.

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (“Transit”) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs. My stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered fairly well.
• “Park-and-Rides” were trips from suburban or rural end-points, usually through Park-and-Ride parking-lots, where passengers would park their cars, for a bus-ride to work in Rochester.
• A “road-supervisor” was an official of the bus-company that rode around in a supervisor-car, supervised bus-drivers, and settled arguments with bus-passengers. They also attended bus accidents.