So there I was, screaming at this old lady I didn't know.

You have to picture the scene. It's late afternoon and I'm driving to the gym, a medical fitness center affiliated with a local hospital. I'm about to turn into the members-only parking lot, but the driveway is blocked by a big car that's stopped halfway to the gate. I can see the little old lady behind the wheel rummaging through something, no doubt looking for the pass that goes into the scanner to open the gate.

Fifteen seconds go by. Thirty. A minute. I honk. The old lady waves her arm at me angrily. I honk again, gesturing. She waves again. I start yelling. I'm screaming at the top of my lungs.

Now, I don't generally make a practice of yelling at old people. But what I was trying to communicate to her was the fact that the gate was standing open the whole time.

She no doubt thought I was just an asshole. She kept at her search, eventually found the pass, pulled forward, inserted it in the scanner, and drove into the lot through the gate that had at no point been keeping her out.

I couldn't really be upset with her. I should have been at the gym at least two hours earlier. I'm my own worst enemy too.

Laura and I have started seeing a personal trainer—and boy are my arms tired! (Bah-dum!)

Of the many factors prodding us toward car ownership, this is the one that finally pushed us over the edge. It's an hour each way on the bus, with at least one transfer, to travel the mere 3.4 miles to Payne Management.

Our bus yesterday, once it deigned to arrive, we dubbed The Prop Bus. I didn't seem possible that it was a real bus. I was sitting in a seat adjacent to the railing around the rear door, and when I leaned against it the railing gave way. The streets announcements were more than half a mile out of sync with our real location. And at every stop, the bus driver got out of her seat to wrestle the fare box, which was not securely bolted to the floor, back into its proper spot. I'm surprised this bus didn't let us off on the shores of the River Styx.

Our buses back home were better, but it's no fun spending fifteen or twenty minutes awaiting your transfer unprotected from the subzero wind and bathed in the aromas from a nearby Popeye's Chicken. I said to Laura, "That smells like the Promised Land, the Celestial Kingdom, Paradise, Nirvana, and 72 virgins all rolled up together and deep-fried."

By the way, Laura took the accompanying photo Saturday on a gleaming new bus on North Avenue. I can understand why the older buses are in such raw shape if Chicago has problems with random drilling on public transit.

Or maybe they want to keep passengers from trying to repair city buses.