Sanctimonious? Maybe. Suffocated? Definitely.

Yesterday, Adam and I raced for the cure in honor of my mom and everyone else we know who has dealt with a terminal illness. Afterwards, we raced for the 27. We were breathing heavily by the time we got on–a big mistake on this particular 27. You see, another of the (tiny handful of) drawbacks of a bus-dependent lifestyle is the occasional encounter with an unpleasant odor. (I’ll spare you the examples.) Sometimes, the odor can be escaped with a discreet move to another seat. At other times, it permeates the entire vehicle, creating what bus riders across our fair city not-so-affectionately refer to as a “funky bus.” When teen-aged girls, who are at once new to this phenomenon, hypersensitive to smells, and inclined to seek attention, encounter a funky bus, they tend to complain, loudly and for the duration of the ride. Experienced bus chicks learn to sit near an open window, bury their faces in their sleeves, and mentally travel to a happier place.

The foul (and thankfully, short) ride was a minor inconvenience in an otherwise great day, which included: the race (Did I mention that Sound Transit was one of the sponsors?), the Juneteenth parade (Flexcar participated!), a foot-ferry ride, and two graduation celebrations–one of which involved a very big cake, and the other of which involved drinks at the W. The last 27 left downtown at 12:25, right about the time the W celebration was winding down. Thankfully, that ride was funk free.

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