Confessions From the Front Seat

Confessions from the Front Seat
By Dan Koehn

Some Uber rides are just point A to point B. Others? They’re full of snoring bears, Tolkien debates, and diplomats on the run.

Every ride starts as a simple transaction—a driver, a passenger, and a destination. But more often than not, it turns into something else: a journey of discovery, whether across town, across countries, or through the twists and turns of our own lives.

Half a minute into the 40-minute ride to Mount Horeb, she was out. And not a peaceful kind of asleep—deep, bear-in-hibernation snoring that made me wonder if I needed to call a doctor or a zookeeper.

I glanced in the rearview mirror, half convinced she’d stopped breathing. Crisis averted—she was still alive, just treating my VW to a thunderous lullaby.

As my she-bear snuggled in, I woke her when we arrived at a steel gate, greeted by barking dogs and her pajama-clad grandfather. For her, it was just a nap. For me, it was a masterclass in the art of sleeping through anything—and proof that even the dullest rides can take a weird turn.

The next rider? A young guy heading home after hanging out at his buddy’s girlfriend’s farmhouse. For once, I was smart enough not to ask for details. The real challenge wasn’t him—it was finding the house.

As we navigated out, he told me they had been “watching Netflix.” Which, I recently learned, is code. I didn’t pursue it. Instead, I changed the subject—movies.

His favorite? The Lord of the Rings trilogy.

“Really?” I said, laughing. “I could never sit through all three. Way too long for me.”

He looked at me like I’d just insulted Tolkien himself, his jaw dropping slightly. I explained.

“That is, until I had cancer. It finally forced me to sit still long enough to watch the whole trilogy. Three long nights in the hospital with The Lord of the Rings.”

“Cancer?” he asked. “Are you okay now?”

“It was Hodgkin’s lymphoma,” I said. “And yeah, I’m fine now. But not only did I have cancer—I also had a saddlebag pulmonary embolism. That’s the kind of blood clot that lodges itself on both sides of your lungs. It could’ve killed me. But here I am, alive and sharing stories with strangers in my car. I like to tell people I’m too mean to die.”

That earned a laugh, so I kept the momentum going.

“During one hospital stay, in UW Hospital’s TLC rooms—you know, their ‘almost’ version of ICU—I had this ridiculously handsome male nurse. Even my husband, Mark, agreed. We actually debated whether the nurse was gay. Mark said, ‘No way—he has a son.’ And I said, ‘Still gay.’”

I paused dramatically.

“Wouldn’t you know it? Five minutes later, the nurse casually mentioned his male partner—as if my room was bugged. I turned to Mark, breathing mask and all, and gave him the biggest, told-you-so smile I could muster.”

My young rider cracked up. “That’s really scary and really funny.”

Our ride, which started as an annoying search for his place, turned into something great. He came alive talking about Tolkien’s world, and for a moment, we weren’t driver and passenger but two people trading stories—his about hobbits and elves, mine about the unexpected battles life throws at you.

Later that night, I picked up two Epic employees—another 40-minute ride. My passengers were fully awake. The MyChart purveyors looked effortlessly polished, like they’d stepped straight out of Gossip Girl. They were buzzing with energy, heading to the airport for a whirlwind eight-day trip to Japan: Tokyo, Osaka, Hiroshima.

As they flipped between discussions of temples and sushi, their enthusiasm was infectious. We got to talking about travel, and I shared a story from another rider.

“I once picked up a short-story science-fiction writer, the son of a Madison-born diplomat in Moscow. He told me it was the best time to live there—especially since he’d just turned 18. At 18, you could drink in Moscow, where vodka wasn’t just a beverage—it was practically a way of life.

“One night, he and his best friend—the British diplomat’s son—were out drinking and causing a bit of trouble (I didn’t ask for details) when the cops showed up. Instinctively, they ran, completely forgetting they had diplomatic immunity. They tore through snowy streets until they reached the gates of the British Embassy. They slammed the gates shut just as the furious cops reached them. Safe behind the gates, they stood there laughing, realizing they could have simply walked.”

For him, Moscow was a playground, a place where youth and privilege blurred the edges of danger. But as he reflected, I realized something: the same privilege that once made him feel invincible might actually make him more vulnerable.

And then the ride ended.

The Epic travelers’ excitement for Japan was unmistakable, their energy contagious. Just like that, I was on to the next fare and the next story.

Whether we’re snoring in the back seat, laughing at life’s absurdity, or chasing some distant adventure, we’re all just trying to find our way.

And in my VW, I get a front-row seat to all of it.