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When I moved to the Bay Area in 1980, my new job was in Oakland and my girlfriend’s was in San Francisco, so one of us would have to commute and deal with the notorious Bay Bridge traffic. I lost out and we found a place to live in San Francisco.  Admittedly, it was a “reverse commute” from there to Oakland, but still, strategies were needed.  Crossing the bottleneck of a bridge required maneuvering through a tangle of feeder lanes, timing the rush hour, and most of all having good traffic karma.

Crossing the bottleneck of a bridge required maneuvering through a tangle of feeder lanes, timing the rush hour, and most of all having good traffic karma.

A book of commuter tickets made the tolls a little cheaper, and my long workday meant timing worked well for the congestion.  Nonetheless, it was a relief when we broke up and I could live on the same side of the Bay and close to work.

Soon a new problem emerged when I started precepting at the Family Health Center residency program at San Francisco General once a week.  That meant braving the morning bridge commute into the city. Tolls were only collected in that direction, and the backups at the toll plaza horrendous, as the traffic helicopter reports duly testified.

That is when I discovered the casual carpool, an unsanctioned but brilliant workaround.  Each weekday morning, a line of people would form near certain bus stops and cars would pull over to pick up enough commuters to make three in each car. That was just enough to use the bridge carpool lane, which was toll-free and moved quickly past the long queues behind the toll booths. Zip, zip, people into cars and off to a fast commute. Cheaper and faster for all.  I had to try it.

At first a bit wary of picking up random strangers, I soon discovered the unwritten rules.  Riders would get in and say good morning, but the rest was up to the driver.  Choice of radio station or starting a conversation was the driver’s prerogative. Somewhere along the way, someone would ask about destination.  The default drop-off spot was near the Transbay bus station just over the bridge, but sometimes could change if someone were going my way.  As they got out of the car, a “Thanks,”and “Have a good day,” was the norm.  There was never a problem.

In theory, cars were not the only transportation choice, but sometimes the only practical one, despite traffic headaches.  BART didn’t provide service to the local airports for many years, and in the 1980’s it wasn’t an option.  When Sally and I found the time and budget to take a trip to Europe for a couple of weeks, we booked a flight leaving from San Francisco around 8 a.m. on a weekday—which meant crossing the bridge first.  Strategy needed.

We got a generous friend to give us a ride to the airport early enough to avoid the worst of the rush hour. Sailed through the toll plaza and through the city.  We happily waved our friend goodbye as we were deposited at the terminal by 6:00 am.   Congratulating ourselves on good planning, we joined the airline check-in queue and pulled out our passports in preparation.  Except—where were the passports?

That dreadful pit-of-the-stomach sensation hit us as we remembered that, in a fit of conscientiousness, we had made copies of the passports at the last minute—and left the passports themselves on the copy machine.  At home. In Oakland.  Across the bridge. We had no way to go back to retrieve them in time, and the morning traffic tsunami was building by the second.

The only hope was to call our neighbor across the street and plead with him to use the key to get into the house, retrieve the passports from the machine and drive them over the Bay Bridge in the middle of rush hour and on to the airport—NOW!  We explained our predicament to the circulating airline attendant, who rolled her eyes and, in a voice full of infinite doubt, said she would do her best, but if we weren’t in line with passports in hand by 7 a.m., we were out of luck.

Our neighbor Bob gamely said he would do his best, but it seemed hopeless.  We visualized the multitude of traffic lanes weaving their way to the toll plaza and the agonizingly slow progress to get through that, followed by the congested merge on the other side and then the crawl over the span.  Not to mention the rest of the distance still to the airport.  Sally stood at the curb scanning for Bob’s car as the airline archly reminded us that we were rapidly running out of time.

At 6:59 Bob careened into the curb, passing the passports through the window as Sally stuck a $20 bill into his hand, tossing a rapid but heartfelt “THANK YOU” his way, then breathlessly but triumphantly handing the passports to the airline lady.  It must have been an insanely wild ride for him, but with outstanding traffic karma.  Bob also earned his spot in the good neighbor hall of fame.