lyft mustache

My Lyft Experience

I’ve been seeing more and more pink mustachioed cars while on delivery uptown. They belong to ride sharing drivers with the company Lyft. I decided to do some research.

A few weeks ago, I checked out the Lyft website and decided to download the app. I learned there was a promotion that gave me 2 weeks of free rides (the “Pioneer Program”), but it still took me a week and a half to get up the nerve to take my first.

Samantha

Samanatha

Samantha was my driver. She looked to be in her thirties and described herself as “bubbly.” (Her description was apt. She even said one user complained of her being too talkative.) From Samantha’s rear view hung a tiny dream catcher, a female anime figurine and a power crystal.

Once Samantha knew it was my first Lyft, she launched into her well-rehearsed Lyft introduction. She got involved with Lyft first as a customer, going out on weekends, but then became a part-time driver to supplement her income from her job at a law office.

Samantha told me about the Drivers’ Lounge, a private Facebook group with all the Lyft drivers in Charlotte. Most drive part-time. They often discuss issues like how to respond when a drunken couple starts making out and asks for loud music and no peeking.

Two days later I had another opportunity to use the service. I had my roommate drop me and my bike off at work. I summoned a Lyft afterwards and Michael was my driver. We talked on the phone to make sure he could handle the bike.

michael

Michael

Michael pulled up in an off-white Kia SUV. I stood there a moment as he wrapped up a phone negotiation about a meeting time, or maybe it was the terms of a sales deal – it sounded business-y. Michael was a big man and looked surprisingly normal. A pair of wraparound sunglasses sat atop his head. He wore a fleece pullover, generic jeans and new outdoor shoes. Outside the car, I reached out to shake, but Michael countered with the Lyft ceremonial fist-bump. “Of course,” I said, honoring the prescribed Lyft greeting. Michael helped load my disassembled bike in the back of the SUV and we headed off.

When I asked if he works another job, Michael said he just does Lyft and other odd jobs. Our conversation unwound calmly, moving from Michael’s family to the weather to other Lyft drivers. Michael seemed unimpressed with the conversations in the Lounge.

I found myself comparing him to my dad, but I got the sense that he was a little more left leaning. I read between the lines of a couple comments about traffic laws and his daughter’s school. I asked him about a Buddha figuring bouncing atop a spring stuck to his dashboard. “You’ve gotta stay mellow out here,” he said. I never had to spend any of my own money on Lyft, but I would definitely keep it in mind if I ever got in a pickle.

screenshot-animation

The Lyft app tracks the driver’s approach.

Lyft Logistics

Lyft’s app and marketing are slick and simple. Their instructions amount to a 3-screen slideshow. Lyft is so simple, in fact, that I couldn’t figure out how pricing and payments worked. The app and main website don’t say anything about the topic explicitly. Pricing is different in each city. I finally managed to dig out the pricing page in the site’s help section.

lyft-rates

Lyft Charlotte rates from Lyft.com

charlotte-rates

Charlotte Taxi Rates

My first ride was $16, though I didn’t yet know how to leave a tip. The same ride would have been about $21 in a conventional cab. My second ride came to $21 including a couple distracted turns, and I left $4 for Michael, reaching my $25 limit for free rides under the “Pioneer Program.” A traditional cab fare would’ve been comparable.

The Pioneer program is Lyft’s promotion to get new users on Lyft. They offer 2 weeks of free rides in a new or expanded area. Charlotte is under the Pioneer program now, though neither of my drivers could say when it would end.

My ride with Samantha took place early on a Saturday evening. Samantha said she was just working a 2-hour shift before she went out with friends for the night. Part of the attraction for drivers to join Lyft is the flexible schedule. Michael’s wife works full time. He supplements their income during the day while his 13-year-old daughter is in school.

Lyft is not the only ride sharing service of its kind. Uber is Lyft’s high-brow competition. Michael recounted looking into the company only to find that, at the time, the company required drivers have black vehicles. “I knew that wasn’t for me,” he said. He much prefers Lyft’s friendly, chilled-out culture.

Both Uber and Lyft vary pricing based on demand, although Lyft’s adjustments are smaller. A report on Uber cited a 9x surge price in New York City during a snowstorm this winter. Lyft warned me that I’d pay an extra 25% to my driver on a weekend evening, all of which would go to her. Lyft also recently introduced “happy hour” pricing, reducing rates during slow periods like mid-afternoon and late night. Both companies send 80% of fares to drivers during regular hours, but Lyft gives all of its prime time increases to drivers. Uber always keeps 20%.

I got the sense talking to Michael that he earns a couple dollars an hour more than me and works about as much in a week. Lyft seems like a good part-time job for those with some free time, ambition, charisma and a newish car (2000 or newer).

All this innovation would seem to be a win to both drivers and riders, but conventional taxi companies are likely the sorest players. Ride sharing companies have fought regional legal battles to remain exempt from citywide taxi rates. Lyft gets around this by calling fares “donations” in certain cities. The legal question is still up for debate. Only time will tell how regulators and consumers will shape the future of urban transportation in the years to come.

Howie's tough

I went to the store Saturday to get my shifts covered for a few days to let my wrist heal.

“Did you hear Howie just got hit?” Vicky greeted me. “What? When?” I said. “Just a little bit ago. It was another hit and run!” Howie had called Vicky crying just before his shift and got rushed to the hospital in an ambulance. He asked Vicky to bring him a change of clothes. I offered to go with her.

Bicycle wheels hung from all sides of the second story porch of Howie’s brick apartment building. Bike parts were strewn about the inside of a small apartment. I used a toilet that wouldn’t flush as Vicky rifled through a dresser, piecing together a change of clothes. “Do we need anything else?” she said frantically, reciting a list of collected articles.

Howie's place

Howie’s place

“I’m sorry if it bothers you, but I need to smoke,” Vicky said as we climbed into her car. She reached into her purse, flicked a lighter and drew in a lungful before coughing. “I’m not ready for this sh-t today,” she wheezed.

Our route took us to get keys, then clothes, then drop keys off again. Two wrong hospital campuses and three K-turns later we arrived at the CMC Main parking deck.

Howie was up 3 floors in the trauma ward. Our visitor badges and his medical equipment were labeled with the pseudonym “Xerox,” as if he were some kind of spy or fugitive. Vicky went back first. I had to wait my turn in a crowded ER waiting room set off from a labyrinth of hallways.

I waited what seemed like an hour as sick people coughed and moaned and complained about the wait. I sat staring at my reflection in a security mirror on the ceiling. I watched myself stare glumly back through the ridiculous pair of red plastic sunglasses I wore all day to conceal my black eye. A woman moved her wheelchair and shrieked in pain. She rolled herself to the bathroom door 3 feet away, crying as she fought with the door. A woman waiting nearby, who would introduce herself as Lisa, hopped up and helped the lady in the wheelchair through the door. After 5 more minutes of shrieking and crying both women emerged from the bathroom. Lisa called for help and then knelt down and prayed with the wheelchair woman.

I felt my eyes begin to tear up at the same time as a wave of frustration swept over me.

“I had to wait for him to get X-rayed,” Vicky finally texted. “He’s his usual happy self.” When my turn came, I realized why we could only go one at a time. The ward was buzzing with people. Howie lay on a gurney parallel parked in a hall near a busy doorway. I gave him a handshake and an awkward half hug. I found a nearby chair as he sat up, smiling and talking a thousand miles an hour, which is his normal means of communication. He still had his company hat on, but he was lying shirtless with his legs hidden under sheets. He showed off the biker jersey the medics had cut from his torso.

“I was on my way in. I was coming up to College on Ninth,” he explained. He and an oncoming car passed each other before he was suddenly aware of a vehicle approaching from his left. “I tried to turn to miss him,” he said, but the car struck him on the left leg, pushing him with it for a moment. Howie went over. “Was it green? Was it my fault?” he wondered. The car stopped a few yards away. Howie sat up. The car revved and sped off.

“It had to be green because a cop went through before me, and there was another car coming behind him.”

I couldn’t help noticing the unfortunate similarities of our accidents: neither of us was on the clock, so we couldn’t claim worker’s comp. Both cars ran red lights. Both fled the scene before we could get their plates. And they both happened amidst the craziness of CIAA weekend. Later my roommate told me his valet company didn’t even offer service during the CIAA because of the safety risk.

Big conferences often get gold stars for bringing business to town. Howie and I alone generated thousands in business for both hospitals in town. Needless to say, the experience has left a bitter taste in my mouth. But the weekend was kinder to others eager to celebrate.

Howie later told me that his bike and bones are all intact. Despite being bruised and tender from hip to knee, he rode 6 miles home the next day.

Chris Sirico black eye

Most of you reading this have already seen me or heard about my accident, but here’s the score: my bike’s fine, no worker’s comp, the guy drove off, small fracture in my wrist but I plan to start back work tomorrow.


I came to the store early and had a sandwich before my shift Friday. I noticed a parking attendant eyeing my car near the store, so I told Nikki I’d move it and ride back for my shift in half an hour.

Traffic was crazy with all the CIAA activity uptown. I wove through dead stopped lanes of cars heading up 7th St.

The light at 7th and Tryon turned yellow as I crossed into the intersection. I heard a long honk behind me. An engine roared and a silver Prius raced up on my left in the wrong lane. We exchanged indignant glances, and I took a swing at the car. I found myself leaning against its side as it sped up and left me careening. I flopped on my left and tumbled forward. “This isn’t good,” I thought vaguely as my left eye socket slid against the pavement. My helmet had the foresight to slide up on my head, coming through the fall unscathed. I felt stupid. A touch to my head produced a piece of detached skin with a few eyebrow hairs protruding. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?” a man in a suit had stopped and was examining me with concern. “Yeah, that f—er’s license plate,” I yelled as the car shrank towards the far intersection and made a left.

I stood collecting my wits and humoring the pedestrian for a moment. “I shouldn’t have done that,” I confessed. “I lost my cool.” “It was his fault,” he reassured me. “That’s gonna need stitches,” the pedestrian noted as he stared at my forehead. A moment later I announced my intention to chase the driver down. “He’s gone now, man,” said the pedestrian as I mounted the bicycle, which my body had spared from any real damage.

I made it as far as the next light, where I found a police officer parked on the side of the road. “There was a silver Prius that just passed through two cycles ago…” I explained in my best calm, reasoned tone. “You need attention,” the officer looked up, more impressed with the blood beginning to stream down my face than with my speech. “Nah, I don’t need an ambulance,” I protested. “You need to get checked out. Just let them come and clean you up.”

“I can’t afford this,” I thought as I called in to work. I grew frustrated at the driver, the work I was missing, the officer’s disinterest in investigating my report.

A fire truck produced three helpless gawkers in boots and jackets. I heard the ambulance miss its turn a street over. It came around the block and the police flagged the medics toward me. “Yeah, the guy with blood all over his face,” I joked to the driver, whose window was down.

I was surprised to hear my heart rate recorded at only 80 beats per minute. Two medics cleaned my cuts while making arguments for an ambulance ride. “You’ll need sutures. How do you plan to get to the hospital?” demanded the senior medic. “You could have a brain hemorrhage. You could start driving to the hospital, black out and get yourself killed.” “If you don’t get that looked at you’ll end up with an infection. You’ll be one of those guys talking to himself on the side of the road. You could end up with something that’ll rot your dick off.” I almost laughed as the tactics became more desperate.

“I’m not trying to scare you…” he started. “Sure you are, but that’s part of your job. I get it.” I said. I signed their waver and collected my things. The officer grimaced at my contorted bike as I straightened the handles with the front wheel between my knees.

I rode my bike to the hospital, one arm raised to my chest and my face bloody but swaddled in gauss. I rode awkwardly through crowds of staring pedestrians. “Oh God,” I heard a nurse on her smoke break exclaim. I struggled one-handed up the hill to the emergency room. The check-in nurses at the hospital looked startled when I walked up and greeted them, “Hey, how are you?” “Uh, would you like to see a physician?” “Yes please.” I waited only 5 minutes in the triage room before going back for a few X-rays and a CAT scan.

I spent an hour and a half mostly waiting to be seen for each step of my treatment. I found myself antsy, pacing my room, repositioning the examination lamp arms and fiddling with my phone. I learned I had a small fracture in my wrist, but the doctor said I could still ride. He stitched up my eyebrow in silence while my earbuds played a design podcast. Bright light filtered through the green paper mask draped over my head. My mind wandered from the earlier events of the day to their consequences in the weeks to come. How much would I have to pay? Would I really be ready for work?wrist X-rayLater, a nurse forgot that I needed a splint before being discharged. The splint was hardening before I realized it wrapped almost to the tip of my fingers. It left no articulation to hold a bike handle, let alone operate the brake lever. Two nurses goaded me to the doctor’s desk. “Yeah, that’s fine,” he said impatiently of the splint, momentarily lifting his eyes from a monitor. The overall experience was like being pushed through a system that didn’t have quite enough time for me.

I rode my bike to my car and drove home to an empty house. I felt sorry for myself. I wanted to be coddled, wanted someone to feed me. I found a nice takeout dinner and two chocolate chip walnut cookies my roommate Andrew had left me. I ate the cookies, lay down and knew I’d be okay.