July 21, 1996
The burning bus
By LARRY TUCKER -- Calgary Sun
ATHENS, Ga. -- I thought they stopped burning buses in the deep south about 25 years ago.
Apparently not.
At least not judging by the smoke billowing out behind the dilapidated old wheezer that died on the freeway halfway here from Atlanta yesterday morning.
How are the Olympic Games, you ask?
Well, if you're an athlete, they're wonderful. That seems to be their general opinion and, in the end, it's probably all that counts. They love the village, the facilities, the food ... name it, their complaints are few and far between.
But the media? There's another story.
Oh, I know. You hear us cry and moan all the time. You probably think we're never satisfied and you just might be 102% correct.
IMPORT DRIVERS
This time, however, the gripes are legitimate and most of them centre around the transportation setup, which, near as I can tell, was organized by two orangutans and a hippo from the Atlanta Zoo.
So far, I've been in two accidents and one bus-burning. Honest! Right now I'm not sure if these are the Olympics or the world's biggest demolition derby.
The accidents? Both were caused by bus drivers who cut corners too sharply and left creases on cars faster than you could say `whiplash.' It's hard to blame the drivers, though. Atlanta had nowhere near a large enough fleet to handle this crowd. So they've brought buses in from wherever they could get them.
Drivers have been imported, too, and far too many of the volunteers admit they'd never been behind the wheel of a large vehicle until as little as a week ago. But if they leave a little to be desired, you should see some of the ancient jalopies they've been given to chauffeur. Which brings us to the tale of the burning bus.
It started yesterday morning, when Canadian Press reporter Neil Stevens and I tried to catch the 11 a.m. bus from Atlanta to Athens to watch the Canadian women's volleyball game. Unfortunately, it had departed at 9:30. But, after a two-hour wait, we were able to catch the noon bus, which departed right on time at 1:10 p.m.
"We should be there in 30 minutes," said the driver, who at this stage still had absolutely no idea the route would take him 104 km outside the city.
Thirty minutes! Fat chance. We hadn't gone two blocks before the guy had to turn back and ask for directions.
Right then we should have gotten off and called a cab. But no, Neil and I went along for the ride.
And what a ride! The roof leaked, the driver's side windshield wiper didn't work at all and the other one was next to useless, there were holes in the seats and poor Neil almost croaked when a cockroach big enough to carry a knife came waddling out from beneath his seat.
"Bleep," Neil said. "And here I am, trying to quit smoking."
There was so much play in the steering it was like a ride on the midway. Only much, much slower. This ol' baby had a top speed of 70 km\h (try that on a freeway and see how many friends you make). And that was downhill!
SMOKIN' ALONG
Almost 2 1/2 hours later, still 35 or 40 km from our destination, we were creaking along when a strange odor came our way from the back of the bus. It smelled like smoke.
Next thing you know, two folks in a four-by-four pulled alongside, waving frantically. They pulled us over to tell the driver clouds were billowing from the rear left wheelwell of the old crate. That was it, we were marooned on the side of the road.
But this isn't a sad story. This is a happy tale. For these two delightful people -- Walter Knapp and his wife Joan -- were kind enough to offer us a ride, going a good hour out of their way to drive Neil and I to the volleyball game.
Good old southern hospitality?
Well, almost. Turned out Walter's from Seattle and Joan's an Australian.
