by Carlyn Yandle
I was doing my duty Tuesday, huffing it on two wheels for Bike To Work Week.
It was around 7:20 a.m. and even at one of The Seven Entrances to Hell intersections (Cambie and No. 3 Road) the streets were near empty. That's why I felt assured that this morning, at least, I would not be smunched between cars drifting from lane to lane, or made the easy target of some road-raging commuter.
So I was a little surprised to suddenly see Mr. Bus Driver at my left shoulder. Did he really need to overtake me and then hit the brakes at the bus stop directly in front of me? I stopped just in time to get a close-up view his Thanks For the Brake bumper sticker. Finding the message somewhat ironic, I leaned into view of his side mirror and gave the old Thanks For the Brake Wave right back at him. The bus replied with an enormous plume of black smoke as it accelerated.
After some gagging on this, and some muttering over a transit system that still allows exhaust pipes on the bottom rather than the top of its city buses, I carried on, again hugging the curb. Within seconds, the offending bus slowed for its next stop. It was clear that I would momentarily be eating more deathly carbon monoxide if I did not negotiate around the beast. Since there was no traffic to speak of, I attempted to pass on the left. But Mr. Bus Driver wasn't impressed. No sooner did I make it back around to the curb, than he overtook me again, and once more came to an abrupt halt directly in front of me at the next stop. We went through the routine once more until, with some relief, I got to a red light and found some sanctuary on the sidewalk corner. I shook my head at the driver in disappointment, hoping he couldn't see the rest of me shaking.
All told, instead of waiting a few seconds to let me pass him, this bus driver not only overtook me three times in about the same time it takes to read this far, but he did it with panache, unnerving me with some impatient pumping of his squeaky air brakes.
As I steered into a side street, it dawned on me that there were actually none of the friendly green Bike To Work Week signs along my Richmond route. Maybe in this neck of the woods it was Get The Hell Off the Road Week.
That was the basic sentiment I expressed to the voice on the BC Transit Customer Relations line. I also requested some response, believing that the majority of cyclists - and in my neck of the woods they've got to be students - probably aren't as likely to take impatient bus drivers to task as, say, a member of the media.
By Friday, a staffer phoned to apologize on behalf of BC Transit, assuring me he would "have a word with the operator." It was gratifying to know that my complaint didn't evaporate into the ether, but I'm not convinced this will encourage drivers to have more patience when it comes to cyclists. "A word" with a driver might also have the opposite effect. Call me a woman with a death wish, but I'm still taking it on two wheels, hugging that curb in a city sorely lacking in commuter bike routes.
