Is that it? No. That’s a garbage truck …
Is that it? Still no.
Apple Maps said “two minutes ago” five minutes ago, but I’ve been standing here for ten minutes.
Oh my god, there it is.
WHY is it in the LEFT LANE?
And! It just passed me!
Good morning! It is 6 AM!
This summer, I officially became a commuter. Living roughly 20 to 30 minutes from Boulder seemed like an easy commute at first. Then, I remembered I don’t have a car and the bus ride is an hour and a half long. But alas, in my now-committed relationship to public transit, I have crowned myself the queen of all passenger princesses.
I do have a lovely boyfriend with a lovely vehicle, but something about that bus ride down to Boulder makes me feel untouchable.
I have my very own professional chauffeur, free of cost! But of course, I repay them by saying “thank you” with the enthusiasm of someone who’s just been rescued at sea. My drivers just sometimes happen to drive twelve to fifteen other people too. My noise-cancelling headphones offer a built-in soundtrack to my mornings and evenings. I always have a view of the mountains, no matter which seat I choose.
Traffic? Ah, more time to listen to my current favorite song on repeat (currently Rose Royce’s “I’m Going Down”). We aren’t late; my chauffeur just operates on a mysterious schedule that I don’t need to understand. I’ve got time to catch up on readings, to write something that I might hate, and I even have the luxury of staring out the window and pretending like my mom is driving us around town on a Sunday morning.
Sure, RTD and I have our rough patches, but we love each other. Occasionally, my lovely chauffeurs drive directly past me, but we just needed some time apart that day. We even have boundaries set. They don’t pick me up at my house and I don’t notice when we hit three curbs in a row.
On the days where what genuinely seems like 50 middle schoolers board the bus, there’s my regular 225D driver who I’ve never seen not smiling. When I had a bad experience one morning at a bus stop, the BOLT driver pointed at me and told me I could get on while he loaded up the bicycles. Since that night I waited in the rain, the 287 driver always opens his doors a little earlier for me. That one 324 driver, who I was sure hated me, cracked some jokes with a passenger the other morning. Your smile made me smile.
And to the adorable and consistent LD1 driver, on those rare days that someone else is sitting on your throne, just know my mornings don’t shine the way they do when I see you in your stylish sunglasses (but you deserve a day off!).
Seriously though, this is a love letter (disguised as my romanticized relationship with public transit) to every RTD bus driver who has gotten me to and from work and school. I couldn’t be here without you. Thank you to every bus driver I’ve had the pleasure to call my chauffeur, and to the ones I haven’t met quite yet.