Sometimes I wonder why the heck do I ride transit. I own a car. It’s quite a nice, efficient, economical one, too. 35 miles to the gallon. And I love driving. By driving, I mean back mountain roads like in Virginia, not this nonsense they refer to as the Perimeter. And having your own car lends itself a degree of freedom. But I’m doing this to be environmentally conscious and support our lovely MARTA and try to by humble and put myself on the same level as the ladies that I live with at the shelter. And I get to nap on the hour long bus and write this blog. But then Monday afternoons hit, and I really second guess why I deal with this.
See, last night I had a meeting at the Sierra Club office, which is rather far from my day job up here in the burbs, CCT territory. I know transit can be a gamble, but it was the RAIL committee, and really, you just can’t drive to the RAIL committee. So I hauled butt out of my office to catch the 50 to get the the CTC, and this would get me to the office at 6:46, or so the scheduling goes. Of course, the 50 was 3 minutes late, but that’s actually really good for it, no lie. I mean, that’s really on time in CCT land. So I’m riding along merrily on the 50, playing my jewel game on my phone (no one should have ever invented that, it’s a total time suck, and I’m addicted) and as we pull up to the CTC, I start to hear the groans begin.
The 10 pulled away as we pulled up.
It pulled away three minutes early with the connecting 50 pulling up to the transfer center.
Really? I mean, what the hell, CCT? And to make matters worse, the next ten was late. So was the 10b, which I ended up getting on, so I didn’t even make it to Arts Center until 6:45, to catch the 6:50 train south, to my 6:45 meeting on the east end of the line.
I drove today. I have another meeting at 6:30 tonight and I’m just not going to gamble on it, because you will just hose me. And I hate you, CCT.