I recently regaled WEEKLY STANDARD readers with tales from my Florida biking adventure—eight days, 650 miles, and two college friends pedaling the east coast of the state to reach Key West—but I haven’t yet told you how we got back home. The return trip was an adventure in its own right, best summed up in a single word: Greyhound.

If you’ve ever experienced the classic North American inter-city bus service, the word itself is a talisman strong enough to conjure up repressed memories of that lean silver racing canine, taking an athletic stride across that navy blue background, and that hellish night you spent on a “Greyhound bound for nowhere,” jostled around with the brine of humanity, with Miranda Lambert nowhere to be found.