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An unexpected thrill
Oct. 13th, 2004 02:17 amOne thing I've noticed about the new AC Transit buses is that the back windows, the ones you're supposed to use as emergency exits, seem to get opened a hell of a lot--considerably more often than the windows on the old buses. I imagine something about the lever mechanism on the new bus windows makes it easier for people to open them while idly playing with them, but I haven't had the chance to look closely at both the new and old ones to figure out the difference, and I suspect I really couldn't tell anyway without actually opening them, which wouldn't be terribly responsible of me as I've never been able to close them. So I've sat through a lot of bus rides with this big honking window flapping open and shut right next to my elbow (evidently they're hinged at the top.) Not always annoying enough to make me switch seats (I'm picky about so many seat-location factors, after all, that I usually can't accommodate all my kinks at once), but still somewhat disconcerting--'specially since it's tougher to perch your elbow on the sill, as is my wont, when half the sill is swinging back and forth and banging ominously against the other half.
But this evening, I discovered a very surprising side benefit of this window-flapping. I was seated next to one of these windows on the way home, well after dark, and spent most of the ride directing my unfocused gaze at the bottom edge of the window--though the darkness meant there wasn't much to see through the gap, there was still better visibility there than through the window since the window was reflecting the interior lights.
I was completely unprepared for the effect this would have as we drove through the 12th street tunnel.
Driving through tunnels often feels a bit odd, but usually the oddness is at least somewhat proportional to the length and this one, being fairly short, never weirded me out noticeably before. Granted, I'd hardly ever before ridden through it with as little visibility as this--but I think what really did it was the flapping motion. The slight tilt and curve of the tunnel and the change in lighting as we entered it, fairly ordinary things normally, became much less so when my field of vision had nothing clearly visible in it except one erratically moving object that was suspended over empty space. For several long seconds, I was in the grip of some serious vertigo. I actually felt as though the bus had tilted enough that I might just fall out that open window--an impression aided still further by the breeze on my face, which made me feel exposed in a way one normally doesn't associate with being safely inside a bus.
This is where I should hasten to note that this was not in fact the traumatic experience it might sound like. It probably would've been if I'd been feeling ill already, but as it was, what it felt like was the closest thing to a roller coaster I'd experienced in years, or ever expected to for years to come. In other words...
WHEEEEEEEE!
Or perhaps more like WHEEEEEEEE since it was over so quickly, but still, yayness was involved somehow. Note to self: from now on, find open window to sit near whenever riding home after dark. (If only I weren't such a sickeningly good citizen, I'd start opening them myself. In fact I doubt even that'd stop me if I could only figure out how to close 'em.)
But this evening, I discovered a very surprising side benefit of this window-flapping. I was seated next to one of these windows on the way home, well after dark, and spent most of the ride directing my unfocused gaze at the bottom edge of the window--though the darkness meant there wasn't much to see through the gap, there was still better visibility there than through the window since the window was reflecting the interior lights.
I was completely unprepared for the effect this would have as we drove through the 12th street tunnel.
Driving through tunnels often feels a bit odd, but usually the oddness is at least somewhat proportional to the length and this one, being fairly short, never weirded me out noticeably before. Granted, I'd hardly ever before ridden through it with as little visibility as this--but I think what really did it was the flapping motion. The slight tilt and curve of the tunnel and the change in lighting as we entered it, fairly ordinary things normally, became much less so when my field of vision had nothing clearly visible in it except one erratically moving object that was suspended over empty space. For several long seconds, I was in the grip of some serious vertigo. I actually felt as though the bus had tilted enough that I might just fall out that open window--an impression aided still further by the breeze on my face, which made me feel exposed in a way one normally doesn't associate with being safely inside a bus.
This is where I should hasten to note that this was not in fact the traumatic experience it might sound like. It probably would've been if I'd been feeling ill already, but as it was, what it felt like was the closest thing to a roller coaster I'd experienced in years, or ever expected to for years to come. In other words...
WHEEEEEEEE!
Or perhaps more like WHEEEEEEEE since it was over so quickly, but still, yayness was involved somehow. Note to self: from now on, find open window to sit near whenever riding home after dark. (If only I weren't such a sickeningly good citizen, I'd start opening them myself. In fact I doubt even that'd stop me if I could only figure out how to close 'em.)
