BY REB STEVENSON

A year ago, my mental dictionary listed the following:

Bus n. Cheerful zoo on wheels in which schoolchildren suffering from Handi Snack overdose develop innovative and gymnastic methods to torture bus driver. (See also: Fun.)

It took just 72 hours to change my rosy impression into a thorny memory when I subjected myself to a gruelling road trip from British Columbia to Ontario. My personal lexicon now reads like this:

Bus n. Hellish rattletrap designed to punish cheapskates through motion sickness, sleep deprivation, and intense boredom. (See also: Hearse, Paddy wagon.)

At $125 a ticket, it didn't seem so foolhardy at the time. This absurdly low rate, known as the Greyhound Go Anywhere Fare, is valid for travel anywhere in North America so long as it's purchased 14 days in advance. A round trip costs $200.
That means you can get from, say, Whitehorse, Yukon, to Miami, Florida, for the amount it takes to buy 10 movie tickets. And you even get onboard movies. Or you can capitalize on a cross-country jaunt to check out our home and native land. Rope a few steer in Calgary, chow down on a mooseburger in Moose Jaw, take a quick dip in Lake Superior.
Cute idea. And you can say goodbye to it right now.
The only glimpse of culture you're getting with the Go Anywhere Fare is the kind that grows in rest-stop washrooms. This trip is a sentence to a non-stop shuttle where two hours on solid ground is a rare treat. Welcome aboard Beelzebus.
I still have illusions as I sit on my bags at the Castlegar, B.C. bus station at 5 a.m. that Wednesday morning.
The bus that pulls up is filled with twentysomethings shifting uncomfortably in and out of the fetal position. Clearly, they've already suffered through a night of beauty rest's polar opposite. They wake up every few minutes, grunt in frustration, fling their pillows into another corner, and pitch their bodies on top in a twisted ballet.
At this point, I face the single most important decision one makes when taking the bus: choosing a seat. This should be approached with the same care as dating. In both cases, if you don't respect the rules you might wake up beside someone who brings on the gag reflex.
The goal is to hoard two seats to yourself. This wards off hours of unwanted smalltalk/bragging/pick-up lines/baby pictures, and it also boosts your chances of getting some shuteye.

Here are the basics of seat science:
1. If you sit at the front, someone will probably sit with you.
2. If you're a young female, someone will almost definitely sit with you.
3. If you're a young female and blond, forget about it.
4. If you sit at the back, you may as well use the toilet as a pillow because it all smells the same.
5. The up-to-no-good bad asses from elementary school still move to the rear.

Prepare to be nasty. Seize a place about three-quarters of the way back and scowl. Avert your eyes or bury your face in your book. If it's got a title like Pushy Proselytizing, all the better. Pile your belongings on the empty seat and lose all manners.
At 7 a.m. we pull into a tiny town called Salmo for breakfast at Charlie's Pizza and Spaghetti House. (Yes, but Charlie's is the only sign of life in Salmo.) Lunch is in Cranbrook, where our choices are A&W, McDonald's, or an overpriced buffet. I start to think scurvy may become an issue.
A long bus trip is a vacation at club gluttony, and credit it to total boredom. Food means stopping, which happens every few hours. We explode from the bus slobbering like a pack of famished wolves that have been held in captivity for weeks. Our prey? Chips, chocolate bars, candy, pop, more chips, Twinkies ... Broccoli ain't going to do the trick.
I'm told there won't be movies until Calgary, which is eight hours away. Temporary relief comes at Fernie, a picturesque town nestled in the Rockies, and in Frank, where the remains of a terrible mountain slide have us pressing against the windows with voyeuristic horror. But once we pass the threshold where the Rockies suddenly bow to the Prairies, the trip takes a turn for the worse.
The catatonic man in front of me stares straight ahead for two hours. There is a smell of feet, but it's hard to tell whose because we're all shoeless in the name of comfort. There are other competing smells.
"Oops! I farted," says a little girl.
At our afternoon break, I meet two young women and we share our fears about the trip over egg sandwiches. One is a tree planter on her way to Quebec. The other is going home to Saskatoon. We're all going insane.
I look for a book in the Fort MacLeod, Alta., bus station, but the selection of literature doesn't extend beyond cheap westerns and Harlequins.
Calgary is frantic. Dozens of people have lined up for the midnight departure with pillows and blankets. Competition is in the air. Some try to budge and others get testy. We're all driven by the same urgent desire to get two seats.
Luckily the folks at Greyhound decide this is a job for two buses. The relief doesn't last long, especially for the man who wakes the entire bus with a nausea-driven dash to the can at 2 a.m.
It's like trying to sleep in a car trunk. For folks under three feet tall, comfort is a possibility. For those of us with limbs, it's a nightmare. Heads are hanging into the aisles, feet are up on windows. We're trying to sleep in yoga postures.
The Prairie sunrise ushers us into Swift Current, Sask., for breakfast. Our brainwaves are anything but swift currents. The only thing flowing is coffee. Our driver finally puts on a movie. It is Twister.
In Regina, I strike up a conversation with TerRon Carroll, 21. TerRon, the only black person on board, has been wearing big headphones most of the trip and gives off a slight gangsta vibe.
TerRon accidently lets it slip that he's got a stuffed bear hidden in his sports bag.
"I don't care what you say! This bear has been with me since I was two years old. He stays with me wherever I go," he says.
A few ladies sitting nearby are jostled out of comas and join me in pressuring TerRon to disclose the bear's name.
"OK ... don't laugh. It's Snuggles," he confesses, pressing the ragged bear to his chest. The first and only hearty laugh breaks though the bus. "Shut up! I hate all of you!"
Our driver, 25-year-old Neil Carlson, brightens the drive to Winnipeg by talking candidly about his job. Yes, hanky panky often goes on in the seats and the washroom. But his favourite occasion is busting smokers who light up in the lavatory.
"I like to stop the bus, wait for them to emerge, then call attention to them on the P.A. system," he says.
Evening descends and the prospects dim for night No. 2. Sleep seems like an outdated notion, considering that at the 2 a.m. rest stop at Robin's Donuts, people mechanically consume fried dough and coffee.
In the morning, I'm shivering and sweating at once, and it's not just the natural reaction to Thunder Bay. Others aren't faring so well either, considering they've been wearing the same underwear for 50 hours. I get weird looks when I stuff my noggin into a tiny sink for a shampoo in White River, but at least I know I'm not contributing to the stench.
Time loses meaning after 60 hours of constant motion. It seems like we'll never get through Sault Ste. Marie and Sudbury, and I still haven't found a book that doesn't feature billowing pirate shirts and bosoms on the cover. I think I hear whimpering in a nearby seat, but it could just as easily be me.
We make it to Ottawa the next morning. It's been 73 hours since I slept on a surface that wasn't shaking and I barely recognize my bed.
But Beelzebus hasn't released its grip yet. As I nestle into the covers, the nausea sets in. It's like reverse motion sickness, a friend explains later. My body thinks it's still moving and can't cope with sudden stillness.
A bargain? You bet. But you pay a pretty high price.
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