Buddha is an optimist. He sees life as flowery when it isn’t, and there is something to be said about this outlook on life. To see if the benefits were worth it, I vowed to find out while riding the 80. This is my first tale of braving the world as someone I’m not: an optimist.
There were multiple times this week when I found myself waiting for the Madison Metro to salvage me. I say salvage because at the point when that monster of a bus finally arrives at my stop, my legs are ice and have lost the ability to function. While I sit criticizing how my salvation comes in the form of sand mush and smelly seats, I notice the bus driver is awfully happy for such a dreary day. And as I roll along Observatory, I enter into a place I rarely venture; an optimistic, alternate reality where riding the 80 isn’t all that bad...
In that daydream, I take my relentless hatred of winter and flip it into a tender love for all things that stiffen my nose hairs. I inhale deeply at the bus stop—Ahhh, my Five Guy’s dinner freezes mid-digestion. I find this extremely helpful. It will extend the time between the first belch and Pepto Bismol. I smile at the prospect.
Checking my phone only widens my smile. For some reason, I have “scheduled time” for the 80’s route clicked instead of “real time.” What was going to be a three-minute wait will now be extended nine minutes. This totals 12 minutes I’ll spend in the glass bungalow… or, more adequately stated, 12 whole minutes of conversation with the bundled up student sitting in the corner. What compelling ideas lie in the crevices of his mind? What will I learn from the endeavors of his own nightly bus rides homes? I sit down in anticipation.
According to Allen, he has ridden State Street 527 times in his college career. His top-ranked shop is Re Threads, and I don’t question this, I just let it be. I picture him in cowboy boots and a fashion scarf—Yep, he can pull it off like a boss. Allen also brags how he is on a first-name basis with every employee at Jamba Juice. I open my mouth in awe. What a feat.
All of a sudden the gorgeous, old-school 80 rolls up. It’s my favorite model. Someone up there must have been looking down on me, blessing me with wood paneling and multi-colored seats. I wish Allen a safe trip home and climb aboard. The bus driver and I exchange our hellos. All I wanted to do was pat that belly he was sprouting. It was going to be a great ride, on that 80 going nowhere.
STOP REQUEST. Goodbye daydream, hello Elm and Observatory. Back to reality. Back to pessimism central, where the 80 still smells like the aftermath of a Chipotle dinner. I step off with the herd of students, arms crossed and head bowed to block the needle-sharp wind. But the needles couldn’t poke that stupid smile off my face. I just couldn’t believe how enjoyable that bus ride had been with a little bit of optimism.
Share your 80 experiences with Morgan by emailing mhaefner@wisc.edu.
