There is a point in any job when you feel it all 'come together' and you realize that you are no longer a novice. For me this happened on a seemingly mundane trip to Seattle.
The Extra Bus
The trip to Seattle left San Francisco at about 7 PM on Thursday evening. One Thursday afternoon, we had more than a full bus wanting to head north, so around 5 PM the owner decided to add a second bus. As the extra driver, I scrambled the extra bus to get it ready and pulled up to our stop at the TransBay Terminal right behind the regular coach.
I was driving a bus called Hijo. Built in 1952, it was the oldest and the smallest bus in the Tortoise fleet. Where the other busses had dinette tables that converted to bunk beds, Hijo just had one big raised platform covered in foam cushions. Where the other busses had matching sheets throughout, Hijo had a patchwork of old leftovers. Where the other busses had custom-built sleeping bunks, Hijo had rusting World War II Navy surplus bunks. Hijo was the homeliest bus in the fleet.
Sitting just ahead of me at our stop was a bus named Sweet Pea, which had only recently been built. She was the largest, fastest, smoothest, newest, and most comfortable bus the Tortoise had. No one in the crowd waiting for us knew all that history though, they just saw two busses; one nice and one ugly.
We had just over a bus load and a half of passengers, and we had a bus and a half to take them in, so all we needed to do now was to get most of the folks onto Sweet Pea, the rest of the folks onto Hijo, and we'd be off.
How NOT to Inspire People
I was just getting out of Hijo to talk to the crowd when Phil, the driver of the other bus, called for everyone's attention. He was clearly annoyed at how this trip was going, and he wasn't doing anything to hide it.
"OK people, this is the bus to Seattle and as you can see we're overbooked. We're going to need some of you to get onto that old bus over there so that there's enough room...", and with a gesture in my direction to let people know where 'that old bus over there' was, he went back into Sweet Pea to start taking money.
All 60 people standing on the sidewalk took one look at me and my old bus and immediately started jostling around the door to Sweet Pea so that they wouldn't be stuck with me and Hijo.
WTF?!
I stood on the curb next to Hijo, speechless. For bus trips, the introduction sets the tone for the whole trip, and this trip was looking pretty bad.
Then I got a little pissed off. I drove the Tortoise because I liked it. I wanted passengers to have a good time because they are generally great people who deserve it, and it's what keeps our company in business. Then I realized that I had to do something, because Phil had made it clear to everyone that this trip would not be fun, and I did not want to spend the next 24 hours on a trip that was a drag.
I thought about what I could do to fix this, but wasn't sure what. I figured getting excited was a good start, so I just started talking:
"Hey Campers!!!" I called out in my happiest tone.
A couple of the people trying to elbow their way into the line for Sweet Pea turn to look at me. I've gotten a little attention, so I keep going.
"The other driver is right", I say giving Hijo a pat on the shoulder. "This bus is old, small and slow..." and I walk up to Sweet Pea and give her a pat on the tail light. "...while this bus is the newest one that we have. She's fast, comfortable, and good lookin' too!"
I'm stating something really obvious, but as the driver of the ugly bus they are curious what I'm getting at. I walk back to Hijo and stand next to her.
"But let me tell you about this little bus. His name is Hijo and I have driven him all over the Southwest, and he's a trooper. He's not much to look at, but he's a sweet ride and he loves to have a good time!"
I'm getting some laughs now by talking about the bus as a person, and I get the sense that some of the people are getting in tune with what I'm saying. They don't want a bad trip either and are willing to play along — if there is the promise of something better in the bargain. Feeling like I'm getting through, I unconsciously lean forward to start the close.
"If you come on this bus, you'll go a little slower and you won't be quite as comfortable, but I'll tell you a secret..." and I lean so far forward that I'm about to fall over.
I see a number of people instinctively lean forward as well, and after pausing a moment for effect, I say in a loud, conspiratorial whisper, "This is the FUN BUS!"
My words hang in the air for a second. I see a number of folks look at each other, trying to decide what to do. Then a guy reaches down, grabs his bag, and starts to run over. Before he takes two steps, about a third of the people decide not to get left behind, and they come running over too. I notice that they each have a little glint in their eye like they are sharing a secret with me.
The rest of the people look relieved that the suckers left and there'd be room for them on Sweet Pea. We load up and head out soon after, with the right number of folks on each bus.
Making the Experience Happen
I got done what needed to get done and managed to do it in a fun way, but that's not the main thing I remember about this trip. That happened the next day.
Both busses rolled through the night, Sweet Pea leaving me and Hijo in the dust right out of Berkeley. We caught up to them at the breakfast stop in Southern Oregon. After breakfast, my group pulled out first on our way up to Eugene.
Hijo was in second gear, lugging his tired butt up one of the Southern Oregon I-5 mountain grades when Phil passed me in Sweet Pea. He was hunched over the wheel with that scowl still on his face, but his look turned to surprise as he slowly pulled alongside. I saw his passengers looking over at us too. They were stretched out on the new cushions looking comfortable and bored, waiting for the trip to be over. As they passed us, I saw them elbowing each other and pointing at our bus. In the rear view mirror inside my bus I could see all my passengers as well, but my passengers were all dancing.
I had put on The Talking Heads the night before and a few folks asked if dancing was allowed. I said that it certainly was. After an hour, the group couldn't decide whether to keep the music loud or settle down to bed, so I suggested a vote and the sleepers won. The winners said, "How about we put the tape on in the morning and finish then?".
Once we got back onto I-5, the music went up, the dancing resumed, and by the time Phil and Sweet Pea drove past, the entire group was shaking and flailing to the music.
Talking people into getting onto a shabby old bus was a nice bit of salesmanship, but creating an environment where 25 complete strangers would want to dance at 10 o'clock in the morning inside a bus — that was impressive. I had promised them that my bus was The Fun Bus and I had delivered. Rolling up the freeway, I realized that I had indeed learned a thing or two about leading groups while driving the Green Tortoise.