When the TransBay Tube Closes, Everybody Gets Squeezed

First we heard the helicopters, right before dawn. We guessed it might be the Occupy protests over in  downtown Oakland again. When the missus went outside she came back in and reported she could see helicopters in the early morning light over the port of Oakland.  Then we heard the news about the fire.

A fire near the West Oakland BART station had shut down the TransBay Tube. In an instant I knew what that meant—gridlock. Throughout the east bay, trains originate in Fremont, Dublin/Pleasanton, Concord, Bay Point and Richmond, stopping in dozen of east bay ‘burbs to load tens of thousands of people on board as they all hurtle toward the same seven-mile tube lying on the floor of the bay. The Bay Bridge was already bottlenecked to a crawl as BART riders scramble for any other way to get to the City.

My wife asked, “Is there anything you have to do at work today?”

There wasn’t really. But I didn’t want to burn a day off, either. Besides, it was a Happy Hound day for the dogs, who hadn’t been to doggie day care for a week. And it would be silly to stay home while sending them off. “Just drop me off at the casual carpool/bus stop,” I said.

There was a queue of eight for the carpool, and I waited long enough to see four get rides before a transbay bus approached just after 7 a.m.  I hustled around the corner to catch it, and got an aisle seat in the front. The bus was mostly full by the time we left the island, and as we got to Oakland the driver stayed in the left lane, rather than making the cloverleafing right turns around the block to get to the freeway. “Driver!” a woman called, “You’re supposed to go to the right!”

“I have to go to downtown Oakland to pick people up,” he said.

As we turned down Broadway there were more murmurs of protest from passengers, while word trickled back about our errand of mercy. Then we saw the sidewalks around the 11th street subway entrance. It was packed with people.

Several hundred stymied commuters already delayed and desperate for a ride crowded the sidewalk, spilling over into the street.  When we stopped in the right lane (because we couldn’t get to the parking lane), an AC Transit expeditor got on and said, “It looks like standing room only.” Telling the driver to do what he could, he tried to depart, but people pushing for the door impeded his progress. “You have to let me out before you can get on,” he pled.

They popped through the door like peas, mostly good-natured and relieved, trundling to the back of the coach, but some complained and one laughed about how good it hurt to make it on board. Desperate people tried to crowd on, the driver told them they couldn’t block the door.

“I have to get on,” a young man cried. “It’s only my third day on the job, I can’t get fired!” The driver let him stay, but after we got started the sardine effect had him oozing into the driver’s space and I said quiet but loud enough to project, “Hey, you’ve got to get back and give the driver room, man.”

He did, but you could see it wasn’t easy. The driver had to get up and make the last few frantic people get off the steps so he could close the door.  I knew what kind of crazed, wretched, dog-eat-dog gridlock we were driving into, and I didn’t want the friendly young man at the wheel to be wearing anyone like a scarf. I was ready to bark, “I don’t care if you have to hug someone all the way into San Francisco, give the driver room!” but those who were squeezed together in front maintained their intimate commute. As it was, I had a guy’s knee in my thigh and an arm elbowed over me like  a baseball cap’s visor, but my seatmate and I just muttered our gratitude to be sitting.

You know how buses get described as lumbering? That bus lumbered. You could feel and hear the difference in acceleration and braking. We continued down Broadway, and I wondered where he would turn. Then I saw the crowd at the 19th street BART station. Unlike the 12th street station, the uprooted commuters had queued. Long enough to stretch around the corner.

As we approached, you could see the hopeful looks on their faces, turned to watch our arrival.  Simultaneously, people on the bus saw the crowd and expressed shock and astonishment, speculating on where anyone more might go. Our laps? The overhead bins? We could see their queued faces fall as they saw in the tinted windows of the coach and realized we were already sardined beyond comfortable breathing. Apparently, our driver had been told to make both stops, and he was following orders. Another expeditor stepped forward to greet our slow approach, then surprise registered, she laughed, and waved us on. The driver lifted both hands what-you-gonna-do? and slowly gained speed down Grand Ave.

Enroute, I did notice another packed AC Transit Transbay coach pass us going the other way—where was he going? Was it every driver for him- or herself? Blocks before the freeway onramp we hit the traffic jam. As we snailed forward, I looked in all the cars where I could discern bodies; bumper-to-bumper all around us were single-occupant vehicles.

I wanted to holler, “Stop! Okay, everybody get out and go jump in those cars. And you! Drivers! You don’t progress another inch until you give some of these scrunched commuters a ride!”

I could hear the bus driver’s radio. A call was put out to drivers who wanted to work overtime, giving instructions on what to do as their shift ended. There were also instructions on providing head counts, and to let people with BART tickets on for free.

After the stop and go of the on ramp, I could see drivers ahead of us give up in desperation and cross over into the bus-only lanes and the cross-hatched emergency lane, speeding to the right around and past the stopped traffic. Our driver finally eased over himself, driving along the retaining wall to get to the bus lane. At one point an SUV suddenly swerved in front of us, braking several feet before us and narrowly averting collision.

I thought about what impact that would have on the morning commute, and how heavy our coach was with all the people crammed on board—it would have plowed that SUV forward like crumpled newspaper.

Finally through the toll plaza, and on to the bridge. There was a palpable relief now—the worst was over! In the City, the driver slowed to a crawl for the off-ramp turns, extra careful. Even so, as we swung off onto city streets the over-burdened suspension system bottomed out.

A lot of us gave the driver an extra thanks as we hustled off to make up lost time on our way into work. And I thought to myself of all the commuters behind me, and what the morning commute had in store for them.