After crossing to the westbound sde of the Pan-American highway, I advanced on foot to urinate in private at the roads side. Only with an empty bladder could I smoke half a joint and before boarding a bus toward Xela. Once done, I strolled back to the little plaza where the other Xela-bound folks waited. I wondered both how high I would be and how much I would be aired out before a passing bus stopped to pick up the group.
I boarded last with my backpack still atteched to me. Stepping into the full bus, a quick count let me estimate about 6.3 people per row. Beyond six adults, one cant really be expected or ordered to sit down, so I stood, with my backpack still attached to mem wishing I had unloaded it with the ayudante to be strapped on top. I stood there, a lone gringo in the aisle among a chicken bus loaded tot he gills with Guatemaltecos. The backpack situaton couldve been easily solved , but Ill admit that a high brain fart precluded me from being the one to solve it. All I needed to do was shift a couple bags in the overhead racks and insert mine sidewys with the top sticking out a bit. Solved.
Next came the process that seems as impossible as it is uncomfortable. This is the one where the ayudante has to pass by me tot he front of the bus. There are already six men sitting in the row and me standing in the aisle. I cant think of any other situation where such a hetero man on man ass-crotch rub occurs, but I take solace knowing he is so used to it that he wont think twice and I know itll be over quickly. A quick firm rub-squeeze, and he is past.
Someone exits the bus and Im upgraded to the third seat with two fully grown men between the window and myself. On a good curve, Ive got three quarters of one cheek on the seat. An unadvantageous curve leaves my ass suspended above the aisle. This becomes a test of core strength and indirect forces work certain leg muscles in ways they are not used to. This test is set to last until my personal seating arrangement can be improved, an unknown.
The bus is going faster and taking the curves harder than any other Ive experienced on this stretch. Its a little more interactive for the rider and a little harder on the gas tank, but we are barreling toward Xela just that much faster. I examine the driver and can assert a hypothesis of which Im very confident that his above average heft allows him to feel less relative centripetal force around these bends. He has more Normal Force than the rest of us; he is less likely to slide out of his seat. I imagine he has spent at least one year, if not several more, creating a form-fitting ass and back groove, an advantage us riders do not have.
Now that Im satisfied with my Physics 101 assessment of the bus, the driver and the passengers with free-body diagrams drawn clearly in my head (Ive also noted the twin styling of the driver and his ayudante including a white tee and short, curly gelled hair), the gassing begins. With far less cientific proof and out on a limb, I blame the man immediately to my right. Ive spent just shy of 30 years studying, and enjoying, the smell of my own farts but I have never derived pleasure from the stench of another. Drawing again from all that research stored away neatly in a very important area of my brain, I diagnose the cause of this particularly dense and awful odor to be a beef dish of an integrity some notches below top, probably ingested by my neighbor at last evenings supper. The farts are coming about every four minutes and each time one does, I can hold my breath only until I am forced to draw in one horrible breath before the chaotic, Brownian (no pun intended) motion of air disspates the offending molecules and returns the local atmosphere to tolerable. I hate the farts, but I do not hate the man. I would let loose, too, even at 6.3 people per row.
At this point, my thoughts turn within for a look at my own mood. Let me count the ways this situation could cause one discomfort or even induce a phobic reaction:
Despite the list, Im in a great mood. The marijuana tunes my senses into everything (helping with the meat of this paper) and causes me to laugh it all off. Im traveling again. Ive built a comfortable and simple home in an amazing place, one to which Ill be overjoyed to return, and left it in the hands of trusted friend. Ill move through some new places for a couple weeks and arrive at my sisters wedding, and event that brings about the largest gathering of family and friends that we have ever known, to take place in Northern California at a perfect time of year. In life, I am in a great position, and in no way is it passing by unappreciated, but just the opposite. Im blessed and and I am thankful, all the time.
I just finished my second cup of coffee as the sun begins to set behind the 18-foot tubes crashing in from the Pacific at Puerto Escondido, Oaxaca, Mexico. Ill see everyone soon.
I boarded last with my backpack still atteched to me. Stepping into the full bus, a quick count let me estimate about 6.3 people per row. Beyond six adults, one cant really be expected or ordered to sit down, so I stood, with my backpack still attached to mem wishing I had unloaded it with the ayudante to be strapped on top. I stood there, a lone gringo in the aisle among a chicken bus loaded tot he gills with Guatemaltecos. The backpack situaton couldve been easily solved , but Ill admit that a high brain fart precluded me from being the one to solve it. All I needed to do was shift a couple bags in the overhead racks and insert mine sidewys with the top sticking out a bit. Solved.
Next came the process that seems as impossible as it is uncomfortable. This is the one where the ayudante has to pass by me tot he front of the bus. There are already six men sitting in the row and me standing in the aisle. I cant think of any other situation where such a hetero man on man ass-crotch rub occurs, but I take solace knowing he is so used to it that he wont think twice and I know itll be over quickly. A quick firm rub-squeeze, and he is past.
Someone exits the bus and Im upgraded to the third seat with two fully grown men between the window and myself. On a good curve, Ive got three quarters of one cheek on the seat. An unadvantageous curve leaves my ass suspended above the aisle. This becomes a test of core strength and indirect forces work certain leg muscles in ways they are not used to. This test is set to last until my personal seating arrangement can be improved, an unknown.
The bus is going faster and taking the curves harder than any other Ive experienced on this stretch. Its a little more interactive for the rider and a little harder on the gas tank, but we are barreling toward Xela just that much faster. I examine the driver and can assert a hypothesis of which Im very confident that his above average heft allows him to feel less relative centripetal force around these bends. He has more Normal Force than the rest of us; he is less likely to slide out of his seat. I imagine he has spent at least one year, if not several more, creating a form-fitting ass and back groove, an advantage us riders do not have.
Now that Im satisfied with my Physics 101 assessment of the bus, the driver and the passengers with free-body diagrams drawn clearly in my head (Ive also noted the twin styling of the driver and his ayudante including a white tee and short, curly gelled hair), the gassing begins. With far less cientific proof and out on a limb, I blame the man immediately to my right. Ive spent just shy of 30 years studying, and enjoying, the smell of my own farts but I have never derived pleasure from the stench of another. Drawing again from all that research stored away neatly in a very important area of my brain, I diagnose the cause of this particularly dense and awful odor to be a beef dish of an integrity some notches below top, probably ingested by my neighbor at last evenings supper. The farts are coming about every four minutes and each time one does, I can hold my breath only until I am forced to draw in one horrible breath before the chaotic, Brownian (no pun intended) motion of air disspates the offending molecules and returns the local atmosphere to tolerable. I hate the farts, but I do not hate the man. I would let loose, too, even at 6.3 people per row.
At this point, my thoughts turn within for a look at my own mood. Let me count the ways this situation could cause one discomfort or even induce a phobic reaction:
- being a lone stranger in a foreign land
- overcrowding
- highly aggressive driving
- noxious air quality
- physical discomfort
- loud music
Despite the list, Im in a great mood. The marijuana tunes my senses into everything (helping with the meat of this paper) and causes me to laugh it all off. Im traveling again. Ive built a comfortable and simple home in an amazing place, one to which Ill be overjoyed to return, and left it in the hands of trusted friend. Ill move through some new places for a couple weeks and arrive at my sisters wedding, and event that brings about the largest gathering of family and friends that we have ever known, to take place in Northern California at a perfect time of year. In life, I am in a great position, and in no way is it passing by unappreciated, but just the opposite. Im blessed and and I am thankful, all the time.
I just finished my second cup of coffee as the sun begins to set behind the 18-foot tubes crashing in from the Pacific at Puerto Escondido, Oaxaca, Mexico. Ill see everyone soon.
Max, although it wold be easy to assume that there was more at work than ass grooves, the hypothesis that due to body mass the driver experienced less relative centripetal force is per reactive frictional force is rather absurd. I have replaced your "normal force" with "frictional force" under the assumption that you weren't supposing two orthogonal (on average, with respect to an oscillating, but not offset average road camber) forces would oppose each other.
ReplyDeleteCentripetal force is equal to body mass times bus velocity squared divided by the radius of the road curvature. In the lucky scenario of zero ass sliding, i.e. equilibrium, the counteracting frictional force is equal to the body mass times the gravitational acceleration times the coefficient of friction. Obviously body mass has the same potency in both forces. Behold the power of the ass groove. More likely the devious fellow has glued sandpaper to his seat alone to increase his coefficient of friction. I suggest you do the same to a pair of dedicated chicken bus trousers.
It's good to see you're still out there. This is the first time I've seen your blog. I'm back in Ohio briefly before meandering across the USA on an epic rock climbing adventure this summer. How long are you in the USA?