I was headed to Madison to stay with Grace, a friend from my days in Cardiff. The forecast for the next few days called for 15mph headwinds. Already feeling a bit off (allergies? anxiety? enlarged spleen? hypochondria?), I decided EFF THAT and booked a seat on the Greyhound to Madison. How easy to be back in a land of busses and trains!

Well, it was a nice thought. As it turns out, Greyhound is not really set up to accommodate bikes. The official rules say that all bikes must be boxed up and will count as oversize baggage. I heard, but did not heed. How busy could this route be? My one concession to uncertainty was a refundable bus ticket. If they really wouldn’t let me on, I’d just call up my new friend Jean who’d graciously offered to shuttle me to Madison if I got stuck. I was hoping I wouldn’t need her help.

As it turns out, the Sunday bus from Tomah to Madision is pretty popular, part of the route from Minneapolis to Chicago. Upon seeing my bike, the driver scowled. “You know that’s supposed to be in a box, right?” “I know,” I responded, “But I’m riding cross country, I wasn’t going to box it up for an hour-and-a-half ride.” *internal cringe* Very ingratiating response Sara, really a winning attitude to start with. I backtracked: “If it doesn’t fit I understand, but can I please try?”

He didn’t respond, but helped me shift a few bags and lay the bike in on top of them. I could feel his eyes rolling as I packed my panniers into the next bin. “I don’t know what we’re gonna do, I got sixty people getting on in Wisconsin Dells.” “If I have to get off there I’ll figure it out.”

I finally boarded, only partly relieved. We crawled through traffic, arriving at the next stop over an hour late. There was indeed a mob of people waiting (an orderly, Midwestern mob); no way was the bike going to fit with all their luggage.

I waited self-consciously on the bus as people boarded, feeling my stomach grow tighter with every person who walked on. Twenty minutes went by. I knew the driver must be trying to finagle all the baggage in. I guiltily trooped up to the front, standing uncertainly at the top of the stairs. “I was just coming to find you. There’s no way that bike’s getting in there.” He paused, just long enough to make me sweat. “The only thing I can think of is to see if someone up front will trade seats with you and you can hold it in the aisle.” Really? I was not expecting a proposed solution.

I stood at the front of the bus with what I hoped was a charming smile and asked, “Would anyone in the first few rows be willing to switch seats with me so I can get my bike on the bus?” Blank stares. Then muttering in German (Russian? Polish?). Shoot. They probably didn’t understand me. Finally, a woman in the second row said she would move. Thank goodness.

The driver and I maneuvered the bike up the stairs (still no smiles from him, but he was accommodating me so I couldn’t be picky). I tried valiantly to hold the bike up in the middle of the aisle, but as soon as we started moving it leaned over onto the German/Russian/Polish dude. He said nothing, and I pretended it hadn’t happened. It was a long forty minutes to Madison. But at least I was going there!

We finally arrived, and the driver and I man/woman-handled the bike back off the bus. Bags gathered, thanks given, and composure gathered, I opened my phone to look for an Uber…only to find I had no service. Seriously? As soon as I arrive in a metropolitan area my service drops? I had originally planned to ride to Grace’s place, as it looked like a nice route along bike paths for most of the way. But now, standing in the dark in an unfamiliar city and on the wrong side of a divided highway, the prospect seemed daunting. But I had no choice.

Or so I thought. I found a savior in a nearby Arby’s: wifi. I got just enough signal to summon my knight in shining armor (aka Savannah in her SUV) before it gave up. But she heard the call anyway, and picked me up, and didn’t get annoyed at me bundling my bike and bags into her nice clean vehicle, and put up with my nervous small talk as she drive me north into the city. And I arrived, and there was a cat to greet me and it was all ok.

So you can take a bike on a Greyhound. But you shouldn’t.