Dr. StrangeRide or: How I learned to stop worrying and love the bus! People who live in Columbus, Ohio are called "central ohioans" and this is a story about these people. Please don't think of it as a tribute, its really more of a roast. And all you central ohioans out there, don't take it personally, the same observations would probably hold true for all you central iowans, central pennsyvlanians, central texans and maybe even central arkansassians.

The only small nugget I picked up with the extra "thinking time" I gained by riding the bus is that Americans of 2006 don't like to share. We can occassionally transcend our desire to have our own when we; (i) can't afford to own one (as in planes, beach houses and backhoes) or (ii) someone will inexpensively rent us one so new and so well maintained that we can pretend their is no patina of OPD -other peoples dirt. This is the case with rental cars and, well..., thats the only example I can think of

For all other things, its all MINE MINE MINE. I don't want to rent a boat for the weekend, I want to own a boat. My preference would be to own a 20 acre ranchette rather than use one of the hundreds of thousands of acres of state and national parks and forests. Why get a free library card when you can get a new book for 20% of the suggested retail price? At least if I own it, I can dog ear the pages and return it on my own time.

How often do you use your biscuit joiner or your router, or your compound mitre saw? How often do you think your neighbor uses hers? When was the last time you stepped out to your own pair of backyard sawhorses and looked across the obligatory fence to see your good neighbor hauling out the same tool?
"Custom cabinetry today Bob? Me too!" or,
"Cutting some ceramic tile? What a coincidence. Me too. Got the old Home Depot wet saw out."

Given the plethora of such coincidences, it would seem that sharing would actually give us some needed community interaction and save me some space in the basement. Now I could argue that shared tools would be beat up and not well maintained. But the dark reaches of my soul know that my own tools sit haphazard in a cardboard box in the damp basement, covered in the grime of their last use. Nobody can be as careless with their toys as me. Not even a whole team of like minded individuals could best me by more than a length.

So I started riding the bus. Not voluntary. But I like it. I see people that look different than me. Uniforms to work. Backpacks with the days requirements. ID badges. work clothes. And the conversations. Talk of over time? Its been a while for me. But good to be reminded.

Sure, occasionally it is an assault on the senses. Being scoffed at for my bus ignorance by a surly bus driver... being needled for missing the punch line of a joke. This makes me part of the team. And I like it.

The smells I could do without. But who are we kidding, my own private world isn't always roses as my wife would attest. Damp seats... gross... but once you know to watch out for them you are okay. Germs. Not much to do about germs that can't be done with a bar of soap once at the office.

So where does that leave me? A 15 minute commute (12 miles on the interstate) and I would burn about 3/4 gallon of gas (at todays' prices $1.60). For a mere $1.50 I get a brisk morning walk (1/3 to 1 mile depending on when the bus passes) , a 25 minute ride during which I can read the paper, and that warm fuzzy feeling of being the only guy in my office that dares ride the bus. Delicious.  ¶ 7:40 AM