Boise News

Go west, young bike. Go west.

Greyhound Struggles Shipping Bike to Boise

By Joseph Friedrichs, 3-26-10

It was, and remains a modest task. Send my bike from Bend to Boise on a Greyhound bus. Unfortunately, for those parties concerned (mostly me) the bike has not arrived.

Ah yes, a simple project that has now evolved into something Freud himself may not be able to rationalize, let alone explain.

Here is a quick synopsis of this strange story: When I left Bend for Boise three months ago it was 8-degrees below zero. My bike was stored in a friend’s garage, and I had no thoughts of riding a cycle in such weather. So I left it behind. Now that spring has arrived, I have, as of late, been desiring to ride my bicycle. Therefore, I made a request of my friend to have the bicycle shipped via a Greyhound bus. His duties included visiting a local Bend bike shop for a box large enough to contain my ride, place said ride in the box, and drop it off at the bus station so it could be driven to Boise. Simple enough, right?

This is when it begins to be a touch more complex, although not really, other than for, apparently, the fine folks employed by Greyhound. The bicycle was scheduled to arrive in Boise at 10:50 p.m. Wednesday. Having other plans at such an hour, I called the Boise station and asked if it would be okay to pick up the bike Thursday morning. They agreed, going so far as to say “no problem.”

When I arrived to the station at noon Thursday, a woman told there was no large box containing a bike that had been delivered. Nor did she have any clue as to where the bike was. Phone calls were made to the Bend bus station. The line was busy, the Boise Greyhound employees informed me. I stood in the lobby confused. A young, troubled-looking teen meandered about. He was eating some kind of crunchy snack. Perhaps Gardetto’s, possibly Cheetos? A bag of each, maybe? The possibilities seemed endless. Moments later the kid walked to the vending area and bought a Coke. I was not enjoying myself.

Eventually, a man approached from behind the counter and informed me he had made contact with the Bend station.

“The bike is still in Bend,” he said.

“Why?” I responded.

“There was not enough room on the bus,” he said.

With a look of disgust on my face, I told him that was “great news” and was there any timeframe for when my bike would arrive?

“Should be here tommara’ mornin’,” he said.

Once again, “great news” spewed from my vocal chords.

I took a final glance at the happenings inside the Boise Greyhound station. I noticed in the collection of a dozen or so arcade games was Street Fighter II. Some game, that Street Fighter II. And then I went home.

I awoke Friday morning excited and fully anticipating my bike’s arrival to Boise. Such a magical first ride we will share, I thought of my bike being in Idaho. I will show you around, cherished bike. Let me be your tour guide. Heck, I might even treat you to a little WD-40.

“Yeah,” I said aloud, while still resting quietly in bed.

I sprung from the sheets, fed the cat and moved to the shower. The warm water trickled down my body while I continued to romanticize about the bike.
After grooming and dressing myself with the necessary daily garments of clothing, I called the Boise bus station. Once again, I must note the bike was scheduled to arrive at 10:50 a.m., a day late, but at this point my mind considered it no big deal. What’s one day, you know? Life goes on.

“Hello, Boise Greyhound” the woman at the bus station said.

“Hi, this is Joe,” I said. “I stopped in yesterday and was looking for my bike. I just wanted to make sure it was there.”

“I don’t have no bike,” she said stubbornly.

“What? They told me in Bend it was on the bus. They actually confirmed to me it was placed on the bus. Did the bus arrive?”

“Yeah. And we have no bike boxes down here. I guess I can look again, if you want…”

“Could you, please?”

(Three or four minutes of a beeping sound)

“Yeah, we have no bikes. Sorry.”

My blood seized from circulation. I shut my eyes. Feeling frustrated, confused, distraught, betrayed and abandoned, I decided to make some toast. A slight slashing of butter on the toast was great. Oh, it was great toast.

The most reasonable next step in the procedures was to contact the Bend bus station and find the whereabouts of my bike. When I called, the line was busy. I called five more time in the ensuing 15 minutes. Busy signal each time.

Finally I was able to reach the main office. Again, to make this story as short as possible, the woman at the Bend main office was able to track where my bike was at the present moment. It was in Salem, she explained.

Salem is located about 140 miles west of Bend. It involves crossing a mountain pass over the Cascades. Boise is essentially due east of Bend.

“Why is my bike in Salem?” I asked the woman at the Bend bus station.

“It was the only way we could find room to get it there. It should be on a bus to Portland within the next day or two, hopefully,” she said.

“Great news,” I said, calmly.

There are times in life when people bond together and perform great deeds for great reasons. For example, the other day I waved to a complete stranger. Or, take for example, the time Mr. Frank, who lives down the street, shooed that pesky cat away from the driveway of the widow Mrs. Peterson.

What the Greyhound Bus Department is doing with my bike is not a great deed. It is very irritating and seems to make no sense at all. My time is being wasted driving to and fro from the station, calling various bus stations throughout the West for seemingly no reason at all.

The task was to put the bike in a box and place it on a bus. A friend of mine did his part. My job was to pick up the bike at the Boise station, pay them for the delivery and go home.

Where the fuck is my bike?

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