It is widely recognized, perhaps almost trite, that Los Angeles is fundamentally a city centered around cars. Our jam-packed freeways are bustling with vehicles during the morning and evening rush hours (and sometimes during unexpected moments in between, usually when you’re already running behind schedule); the Metro system often gets a bad rap for its disrepair; and the frequently romanticized vision of cruising in a convertible down the Pacific Coast Highway at sunset fails to consider the reality of the noisy orange buses navigating the city streets.
Nevertheless, since the unfortunate accident that totaled my car last month, my experience of commuting via bus has introduced me to a different perspective of LA. I was already somewhat acquainted with the bus routes from my initial relocation to Southern California after college in 2015: I was just another typical New Yorker, woefully unskilled in driving. Thus, I decided to invest in a bike and started using the 217 bus to travel from my West Adams apartment to my job as a TV assistant in Fairfax.
While it was definitely convenient that the LA bus (unlike those in New York) offered bike storage, and I enjoyed gazing out the window at the opulent homes in Los Feliz, the eternally decorated restaurants in Little Ethiopia, and the squabbling couples at every public café in Silver Lake, relying primarily on public transit limited my spontaneity—making unplanned trips to the beach, getting a manicure, or enjoying the carefree life I’d envisioned in LA became tough.
What troubled me most during that period, however, was the sheer exhaustion I felt. I was grappling with an undiagnosed eating disorder that dominated my life, spending way more time and energy focused on counting calories and planning my next small meal than on my commutes. Each evening bike ride home, stretching eight miles, pushed my body to its limits.
