Carless In Bingo-town

Broome County boasts a fleet of buses with convoluted routes that snake through main roads and side streets to cover as much of the widely spread-out population pockets as possible. The county even operates special transit to accommodate the disabled and seniors—but you need to obtain a special ID card from the County Office to book them.

Binghamton University also operates its own OCC buses—Off-Campus College. They’re painted a pleasing blue so everyone calls them “The Blue Bus”—just like in the Doors’ song. But these days, more university students are driving. A campus maintenance worker explained:

“It costs an arm and a leg to go to an Ivy League school like Syracuse or Cornell. So the parents make a deal with their kid: Go to a state school—even just for a couple of years–and save Mom and Dad some big bucks and in return, you’ll get a shiny new BMW or Mercedes. Deal?”

More and more were saying “Yes.”

The county operates 19 bus routes aiming to provide the amenities of a larger metropolitan transit system. The front of each bus has a rack for bicycles and wide areas just inside the front door accommodate wheelchairs. There’s also a “kneeling” option that lets the driver lower the bus to make it easier to climb onto for those who might experience difficulty in that regard.

Routes begin and terminate at a brand-new downtown transportation hub that connects with national bus lines like Greyhound and Coach USA. The county is proud of a system that features environmentally-minded hybrid buses, exceptionally safe equipment, and drivers who regularly excel in safety competitions.

Out of any county resident who might decide to ride public transit, I figured I was probably better suited than most. I grew up in New York City, work from home, and live on a major bus route, the Number 28 Robinson Street with an outbound stop right across the street an inbound stop a quarter-block walk from my front door. Plus I live a mere five minutes from the downtown hub where I can transfer to any other line for free. 

I felt good the first time I set out, hoping the effect on me would be net positive: more time in the open air, scheduling ample minutes to travel and so better managing my time, being around other people, and engaging in a slight bit more exercise than I might be used to.

Until my lofty ideals bumped up against reality.

I first had to admit that, while not requiring extreme athletics, the buses are a bit of a challenge climbing into and out of. My face mask hid my reaction when I realized the driver was operating the “kneeling function” for me—lowering the bus but also bleating out a series of telltale “beeps” to broadcast my need for assistance to the world.

“I’m not that decrepit,” I thought with the same feeling I get when the kid at the liquor store no longer asks for ID or the server at a restaurant automatically applies the Senior Discount. But I had to admit this made it was easier to navigate the high steps, so maybe I was that decrepit.

The fare is $2 dollars a trip but the farebox is so complex that there’s a detailed photo on the website showing what goes where. Coins, bills, sorry–no change back and no pennies. There’s a slot for bus passes which I managed to get right on my first two trips, only to have it rejected multiple times on subsequent attempts, making the drivers impatient.

At the transportation hub there are places for the buses to pull up along a small curb. My face mask blocked my lower peripheral vision so it was a great shock that one evening I found myself tumbling off of the curb and skinning my knee as my belongings hit the ground. A young girl rushed over to help me.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

“Only my pride.”

But my biggest challenge lay before me: Sunday riding.

I was heading to an ATM and supermarket adjacent to each other just 10 minutes along my usual route—the one that goes past my door—the 28 Robinson Street. It was a deserted afternoon with snowflakes softly falling when I crossed just in time to catch the 2:50 pm bus. “28” flashed on the LED sign in front and the driver glided to a stop and opened the door. Then “kneeled” the bus for me

I smiled and nodded and slipped the bus pass correctly into the farebox. “Going up Robinson Street?” I asked even though I knew the route by heart. The driver shook his head. “Nope. This turns into the Number 8 bus on Sundays. It goes up Front Street. You really need to look more carefully at the schedules.” He let out a snarky snicker as if to say “Rube.”

I didn’t mention that I’d been carefully studying the Sunday schedules on the website for over an hour trying to decipher numerous quirks. “This bus turns into that one…the other one stays its original self halfway and then becomes this other one…”–I had a headache from looking at the schedules. I remembered another bank branch and supermarket along the route he was taking.

 “OK, I’ll get off at the Northgate Plaza,” I took a seat near the front. So there.

There was only one other person on the bus. We zipped up Front Street, along the icy Chenango River and picked up a few more passengers. I always get nervous as my stop approaches: you have to pull the plastic yellow “Stop Requested” rope at just the right moment. Too soon and you’ll end up walking too far. Too late and you’ll miss your stop.

I tensed as we approached the Northgate Plaza and my bank’s sign came into view. I pulled the cord, a bell clanged, the words “Stop Requested” lit up on the sign above us, and the driver never even slowed down as the bus zoomed past where I wanted to go. Way past.

I thought of protesting but we were such a distance from where I had intended to disembark and for all I knew, this driver probably thought he was in fact heading to “The Northgate Plaza,” as I’d requested. Or one of us had clearly misunderstood. But, since I’d had enough of dealing with Mr. Cranky-Pants, I got off where he stopped the bus. He opened the door and didn’t miss an opportunity to further admonish me.

“The return bus comes by across the street after leaving the Chenango Park-and-Ride at exactly 4:30. I’d be out there ten minutes early if I were you.”

So helpful.

When I was done shopping my reusable grocery bag wasn’t too heavy and I realized I still had over an hour until the return bus. There was nothing to do but wait.

The lobby of the store was cavernous but lacked seating. At least it was out of the chilI. I stood there for what seemed like a lifetime before crossing the street to catch the return bus. There was a bench and a plexiglass shelter at the stop.

I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss what was the last bus back into town so I sat there shivering. I hoped for a different driver and got my wish, but once again the farebox rejected my bus pass. After three tries I put it into the driver’s impatient, outstretched palm and let him do it.

I expected this bus, whatever route number it was supposed to be, to return the same way the first bus I took had started out—passing right by my front door where I’d get off. Instead, this route had combined with two others just for Sunday and we never even came close to my street. It headed to the downtown bus hub an entirely different way.

Plan B: Get a transfer and hop a second bus at the Hub to finally head for home—remembering, this time, to not fall off the little curb of the waiting area at the terminal.

I disembarked at the junction, where several buses were early and sitting empty while the drivers congregated outside, sharing stories, laughter, and smokes.

Because of the “Sunday rules,” I ignored the numbers on each bus’s front window and waited for the drivers to get back in and start their engines. Then I asked:

“Going up Chenango Street?” After two drivers said “No,” I moved onto a third and the driver said “yes.” Great. I got on. The farebox accepted my bus pass and I was finally about to head home.

Again, only one other passenger, a guy about 40 whose facemask had slipped down below his nose. He was talking out loud—to nobody—about how much the town had changed ever since he got out of prison.

The driver asked me, “ Whereabouts on Chenango Street?” Oh-oh.

“Chenango and Eldredge?”

The driver looked over at the guy, “And where are you getting off?” It was further along the route. I wondered why he felt he had to poll both of us. “Do you mind if I go up Chenango Street and drop her off before I get to your stop?” The guy said he didn’t. And here I’d been thinking that was the way were going.

The driver turned back to me: “See, usually, I turn left outta here and head up State Street to Bevier and then up Chenango.”

“Oh?” That would be nowhere near where I lived. “But since this gentleman doesn’t mind, I could make a right instead, head up Chenango and let you off at your stop.” Oh.

I thanked both him and the other passenger profusely; the driver got behind the wheel and we took off. I wondered–but only for a moment–if there were passengers waiting in the cold—and now in vain–for this bus to pick them up on State Street, as he was supposed to. But in four minutes he was at my stop and I thanked them both again before grabbing my groceries and getting off.

And then felt a searing pain in my hip as my feet touched the ground and the bus sped away. I put down the groceries and drew sharp breaths, sat on the stoop across from my front door and tried to will the pain away. I couldn’t even move.

I tried to stand up. My left hip socket was locked up and each slight movement brought more agony. It took another 15 minutes on the cold, concrete stoop before I could hobble across Chenango Street, navigate my front door, and limp down the hall into my apartment.

Once I’d settled into a hot Epsom-salt bubble bath I thought long and hard about my public transit affection. Maybe I was more out of shape than I realized. Maybe the joyful bus and subway adventures I remembered from my childhood were unsuited to my older self. Maybe New York City childhoods don’t translate all that well into Third Acts in Binghamton.

And maybe,  just maybe, I might need to reassess going carless in the dead of winter in Binghamton, New York.