The commute

"I'm not going to make it," The Wife said as she donned her parka. "Have you seen the bus yet?"

No. I had not. I told The Wife I was pretty sure it had not arrived yet.

She gathered up her purse, her other purse, checked that she had her ID card and bus pass.

"Do you have your phone," I asked. Yes, she said, as she offered a moving peck goodbye as she rushed to the door and out.

The bus heading toward American River college drove past. That was a good sign since it means the bus The Wife rides to 65th Street light rail station will be along soon.

But how soon? I stood on the front porch and watched as The Wife almost ran across the yard to the sidewalk. The Wife doesn't normally move that quickly.

It is less than 100 yards from our front porch to the bus stop, but it seemed more like a mile as I watched The Wife look over her shoulder, take several quick steps and then look over her shoulder again.

And then I heard the bus as it slowed to cross the speed table next to our house. The Wife heard the bus, too, and turned as if she were about to run the last few yards to the bus stop when the bus driver honked his horn.

The driver pulled the bus to the curb short of the stop and The Wife boarded.

As the bus left I wondered whether this was the pokey driver she has told me about. To The Wife the driver appears unconcerned with his schedule. He drives so slowly that The Wife misses her train connection. It happens often enough that she threatens to report him to Regional Transit, but not often enough that she actually waits on hold long enough to talk to a representative.

Courteous, but pokey. Reliable, but not flashy. A bus driver to measure others against.

It is bitterly cold outside. I walk into the house, and shut the door. It is comfortably warm. I complete my commute to my home office. I delay the start of my day to get my daily blog post obligation out of the way.

Now it's time to get to work.