Here at the University of Wisconsin, there are countless forms of transportation us Badgers opt to indulge in. There’s the bike, the scooter, the classic walk — and of course, the beloved 80. But what exactly does riding the 80 entail, you may ask? Well, let’s place you there. Relax, close your eyes and picture this.
The whole bus smells vaguely of sweat, a salty sort of sweetness lingering in the air. You awkwardly step onto the bus, just as the driver chooses to close the door. Your backpack gets stuck as it closes, forcing you to ungracefully pry yourself out from its trap.
Once you’re in you take a sigh of relief — you immediately spot the last open seat in the whole place, swiftly walking toward it before someone else steals it from you. As you approach the seat, you realize why the rest of the crowd has avoided it. It’s covered in a crumbly brown substance, and reeks of “do not sit here.” You settle for standing, gripping the metal pole for your life. The man beside you is wearing Native Deodorant, of course. Poor choice.
Ten minutes later, and you’re still waiting outside Memorial Union. The driver has promptly decided that two minutes before your 9:55 is the perfect time for a cigarette break. You start to think about how the universe is punishing you for your laziness — the price of not wanting to walk up Bascom.
Finally the driver comes back, lighter and a Coke in hand, and is ready to take his passengers up the hill. Apparently, his occupation as a bus driver is a mere side hustle in relation to his main job as a NASCAR racer. He lays on the gas, and you’re weaving up to Van Hise dodging bikers and pedestrians on the way.
About halfway up, the driver yells “MOVE ALL THE WAY TO THE BACK,” and everyone looks around — confident that they’re not the problem.
As the bus approaches your building, you anxiously wait for someone to pull the yellow cord requesting a stop — considering you’d have to reach over the five people next to you to grab it. As you’re above to brave the stretch and pull it, you hear the robotic voice announcing “stop requested” and take a joyous sigh of relief.
The bus comes to an abrupt halt, and you squeeze your way out of the crowd toward the door.
Ten people get on before you can get out. Finally it’s your turn, but the door is closing. “DOOR! DOOR!”, someone yells. You’re grateful for their bravery. You speak a quiet “thank you,” as you exit — fully aware there’s no way the driver heard you. But alas, you’ve reached your lecture hall. You check the time — 10:14. The 80: 1, you: 0.
