When a Routine Bus Ride Turns into a Test of Mercy, Mechanics, and Miracles

What started as a standard shift quickly spiralled into a multi-agency operation, a mechanical standoff, and an unexpected moral dilemma. From a medical emergency to a bus that refused to reverse, and a final, fateful encounter with a wounded deer, the road had one last test before letting me go home. Some nights, driving a bus is about more than just the journey.

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When a Routine Shift Becomes Anything But

It started as a routine shift, one of those days where you hope the most dramatic thing you'll encounter is a passenger asking if you go somewhere you very obviously don’t. But fate had other plans. The outgoing driver mentioned a passenger who needed medical assistance but assured me everything was in hand. I nodded along, blissfully unaware that my shift was about to turn into a multi-agency operation featuring medical drama, mechanical failures, and an unexpected plot twist.

Shortly after setting off, I noticed a concerned expression from a boarding passenger, an expression that usually means one of two things: either they’ve realised they’re on the wrong bus, or something concerning is unfolding behind me. Turns out, it was the latter. A quick glance confirmed that my unwell passenger had… let’s say, made a significant contribution to the bus flooring. This was no ordinary spill, this was a cascading situation, both literally and figuratively. Time to call in Traffic Control.

The cavalry arrived in the form of officials who, at first glance, I assumed were the much-needed medical assistance. They weren’t. Instead, they were part of a routine patrol, with police in tow. This was rapidly becoming a full-production event. After a brief discussion and some background checks, officers recognised the passenger from previous encounters and were able to assist in determining the best course of action. It was decided that the most appropriate next step was a direct VIP transfer to A&E. And what better ambulance than a now empty city bus?

With the safety crew now at the helm, off we went to the hospital, where medical staff efficiently took over and whisked my passenger inside. As part of standard procedure, officers documented the event before we continued with the hospital handover. A brief moment of calm washed over me, I had navigated the chaos, my part was done! Or so I thought.

Enter: The Bus That Refused to Reverse

The hospital exit required a simple manoeuvre, except the bus decided it had had enough for one night and flatly refused to engage reverse gear. Various techniques were attempted. Buttons were pressed. Wires were inspected. Words of encouragement were whispered. Nothing. A call was made to summon an engineer, who arrived with the air of someone who had seen it all before. After multiple troubleshooting attempts, the engineer concluded that more tools were needed, tools that were, inconveniently, at the depot.

And so, I was left with a choice.

It was a cold night, and the bus, parked motionless in the hospital grounds, was fast becoming an icebox. I had two options:

1. Sit in the bitter cold, leaving the windows open for much-needed fresh air.
2. Start the engine for warmth, but in doing so, voluntarily marinate in the lingering scent of soiled upholstery and ammonia.

It was a choice between physical discomfort and an assault on the senses. I hesitated, then bravely opted for warmth. Within seconds, I regretted everything. The heater kicked in, enthusiastically redistributing the ghost of my former passenger throughout the cabin. Eyes watering, I gave up, switched off the engine, and pulled my jacket tighter.

By the time the engineer departed on his tool-fetching mission, my shift had become an endurance test. Traffic Control arranged a relief driver, and with the handover complete, I stepped off the bus, escaping into the fresh air like a prisoner released. The night, surely, was done with me now.

The Journey Home: A Final Toll to be Paid

With my shift finally over, I began the drive back to the depot, eager for a hot drink and a seat that didn’t require vigilance. But the road had other ideas.

As I cruised down one of the quieter stretches, my headlights picked up a figure on the roadside, a crumpled mass of brown fur. At first, I thought it was an abandoned coat or some badly discarded furniture (both possibilities not uncommon in my line of work). But as I got closer, the tragic reality revealed itself: a roe deer, lying motionless but not entirely lifeless, the unfortunate victim of an unseen assailant.

Its breathing was shallow, laboured. Its legs twitched sporadically, its eyes reflecting my headlights in a way that felt both pleading and resigned. It wasn’t going to recover. Not here, not like this.

I sat there for a long moment, hoping some unseen force might intervene, that it might slip away peacefully without me. But the road wasn’t letting me off so easily.

There’s an unspoken rule about these things. You don’t leave suffering behind if you can help it. The weight of the night settled heavier on my shoulders as I realised what had to be done. I moved quickly, quietly. A moment later, the road fell silent again, save for the soft rustling of the wind through the hedgerow.

I stood there for a beat, listening, feeling the hush of the night around me. The road had taken its due. And finally, it let me go.

The Phantom Scooter and the Last Laugh

Not five minutes later, back in the urban sprawl, the night gave me one last reminder that I was still at its mercy. Out of nowhere, nowhere, a blur shot across my path, left to right, so fast that I barely registered it before it was gone. An electric scooter, its rider hunched low like a jockey in the final furlong, zipped inches in front of my bumper. There was no time to react, no moment of shared eye contact where they might acknowledge their near brush with eternity. By the time my brain caught up with what had happened, they had already vanished into the night, a ghostly apparition and no high-vis.

For a moment, I just sat there, hands gripping the wheel, trying to process what I had witnessed. Had I imagined it? Was this the road gods’ idea of one final test? Either way, divine intervention was the only explanation for why I wasn’t currently filling out another report. The grace of God, and perhaps a flicker of luck, had spared them.

As I finally rolled into the depot, weary but intact, I realised that today had thrown everything at me, medical emergencies, mechanical failures, rogue wildlife, and death-defying urban daredevils. But in the world of bus driving, that’s just another Friday.