March 9, 2006

By CARLA SAULTER

Last weekend, a contestant on a mindless dating show I watched with my younger brothers required all of the women vying for his attentions to complete an obstacle course. When asked to explain the reason for this test, the contestant said, “I need to know she can run for the bus.”

Though I consider myself fairly fit (I even ran — OK, jogged — a marathon once), I hate running for the bus. Whether or not I actually do it depends on a number of factors: the weather (if it’s cold, I’m more motivated), the wait time between buses, what I am wearing (tight skirts and long strides don’t mix), and the amount of stuff I am carrying. Unfortunately, there is one factor that trumps all others: the consequences of being late. If I need to be somewhere at a specific time, I have to suck it up and run for it.

Once, I chased a bus downhill for two blocks in a backless dress and four-inch heels to make it to a fundraiser before they put away the food. I am proud to say that I caught that bus — or, to be more accurate, I made it to the next stop before it did. I am far too self-conscious to continue pursuing a bus past the stop (banging on the side of a moving vehicle while screaming at the top of my lungs just isn’t me) and far too lazy to try to beat it to the next one. My fiancé, Adam, on the other hand, has run down many a bus, using red lights (and superhuman endurance) to his advantage until he finally catches up.

And then there was the guy who chased down the bus I rode home last Thursday. On that rainy afternoon, a slim, 40-something man followed the 27 up Yesler from 3rd Ave. to 6th Ave. at a dead run. Anyone who has tried to walk that stretch of Yesler knows it’s a doozy of a hill, and this guy (I’ll call him Fast Runner) was moving at almost the same speed we were. The bus driver let him on at a stop sign, and even though it is against Metro’s official rules, he should have. In Bus Chick’s world, he earned an exception.

Unfortunately, Fast Runner’s determination cost him. As he climbed aboard, he was doubled over, barely able to stand. When he finally straightened up, I managed to catch his eye and offer a rather awestruck “good effort,” but he was coughing and wheezing so badly that he managed only a smile in response. By the time we reached 17th, his breathing had settled, and his voice had returned.

“ Thanks for stopping, man,” he said to the driver. “I have asthma, and walking all the way up that hill would have killed me.” n