UBus or Bust?

Photo credit: Roberta Macedo

In honor of the first ‘Canes win of the season — I almost forgot what it felt like to leave Hard Rock happy — I thought it would be only right to talk about the epidemic that is the UBus. As if it isn’t painful enough braving Miami traffic, the school decides that shoving you and 40 other sweaty college kids into a coach bus that smells vaguely of Kirkland brand seltzers and Natty Lights is the best way to get the attendance they so desperately crave at the Football games.

The 45-minute crawl each way to Hard Rock never fails to show students in their rawest form. Shame is left in Coral Gables. From throwing up to throwing ass, one person’s lowest moment is another’s private story’s gold.

While we have all fought demons on the UBus before — 8 a.m. tailgates take down even the strongest of soldiers — actually blowing chunks on the bus is a different level of down bad. As if the smell of frat (iykyk) isn’t bad enough now the delightful aroma of excreted Chipotle wafting from the bathroom is added to the mix. Pair that with the sounds of your fellow ‘Canes suffering through what is sure to be a gnarly hangover, and you have achieved the true UBus experience.

The way back is often much of the same, except those cheerful and spirited drunks are now hungover zombies, and your own buzz has faded into a pounding headache and intense craving for your twin XL bed.

This last weekend my journey home was made particularly painful by a group of freshmen who convinced the poor bus driver to hand over the aux. I was given a front-row seat to an ass-shaking spectacle so involved that people were standing on their seats to get a better view. With hits by Central Cee, Ice Spice and J.Cole deafening those around me, I found myself questioning if the $200 Uber would have been worth it.

I know I definitely sound like a buzzkill right now, and I remember those freshman days thinking that dance circles were peak college, but the UBus is where I draw the line. Those 45 minutes back to campus are a sacred time for napping and contemplating what meal you are going to Doordash when you get home, not for trying to impress the guy in the seat across from you with your knowledge of frat basement anthems.

In many ways, the UBus is a uniting experience. From freshman to senior year, we all stand in line waiting to board a coach bus, or for the unlucky few a Hurry’Canes shuttle back to campus. Until the mythical stadium is built in Coral Gables — shh a girl can dream — and I have better weekend plans, me and the rest of UM’s most devoted fans will brave the UBus.