The old Tripper bus. To the average person it would be referred to as the Valley Transit, but to me it is a world of memories. As a 5-year old, I watched my older sister ride away on the Tripper and anxiously awaited the day when I too would have that freedom. The time finally came for me in the fall of 1992 when, as a petite first-grader, I walked excitedly with my mom to the corner, lingered until the bus arrived, and finally took my first, long-overdue step onto the old Tripper.

    The inner cabin was larger than I expected, filled with enough seats for about 60 people. Now, I was faced with my first independent decision—where to sit. I sat in a double by myself, saving the seat on my right for Nick, my best friend who caught the Tripper at the next stop. I examined the interior of the bus I had waited so long to ride. The worn-out blue vinyl seats skirted the inner walls along the front half of the bus and lined up in pairs down the back half. On most days, I liked to sit on the seats that were already ripped a little so I could tear out some cushioning as I sat on the ride home. I always seemed to forget to go to the bathroom before leaving school, so plunging my hand into the cushy, yellow-and-green-speckled seat guts helped divert my mind.

    The Tripper was definitely one of the older buses, with torn seats and a sooty floor, and also driven by the older bus drivers. Barbie was the first of these chauffeurs. She probably has a real name, but her kind personality and big, white smile led us kids to call her Barbie. She only lasted as the bus driver for a year though; the following fall I hopped onto the bus only to be coldly greeted by an elderly gentleman. He was strict; each day he told us to “sit down or you’re gonna walk home!!” However, his crabby behavior would not damper the fun that occurred each day on the Tripper.

   Most days Nick and I would pretend to bowl down the long, lane-like aisles of the aged Tripper. Despite the cold reprimands of the old driver, we stood and bowled like skilled professionals while the bus maneuvered its routine route. Before starting the game, though, it was essential for Nick and me to pick the colors of our bowling balls. I liked mine to be bubble-gum pink or sparkly like a disco ball. He always picked a bowling ball with swirls like oil in a puddle of water. After that big decision, we began the game.

    To start it off, I stood poised half way down the Tripper with bowling ball in hand. Nick waited for me to roll my ball down the aisle. As soon as I did, he would throw his hand up in the air like lightning to inform me how many pins I knocked down. Sometimes I’d knock 4 down, or 6, or even get a strike. Then we’d switch, and I would decide how many pins Nick knocked down. We learned to trust each other, and neither of us, no matter what the score, felt cheated by the other person. This innocent, imaginary game became a source of entertainment for the twenty minutes it took to arrive at the usual corner by my house.

   Upon hearing the familiar high-pitched squeal of the rusty brakes on the Tripper, I knew we had arrived at my stop. The game came to an abrupt close, and I waved good-bye to Nick knowing we would continue our never-ending sport tomorrow. As I stood at my corner reflecting on the wonderful bus ride, the strong exhaust fumes reached my sensitive nose with a twinge of pain, and I turned to walk home.

    The parentless bus rides gave me a sense of freedom and my first step of independence. Also, I developed a bond with Nick that still remains, even with the fading of childhood innocence. Now, each time I see a Valley Transit bus, I am fondly reminded of my childish imagination and emotions. The old Tripper doesn’t run that route anymore, but the memories are carved in my mind forever.