Driving Lyft in Chicago comes with built-in atmospheric perks. Can’t complain about the Lake Shore Drive views.

I’m a Chicago Lyft Driver. Strike that. I was, for all of two months, till I realized it isn’t a sustainable business model — at least not for anyone but the corporate folks living high on crazy-good venture capital monies.

Three months ago, disillusioned at the state of my strategy and writing career in the midst of a stressful Trump Cycle, I bought a cute Volkswagen Tiguan and intently set out on a new stress-free job: driving Lyft in Chicago. Ads blasting across Chicago radio stations heralded some healthy pay!

“Up to $1,500 per week,” they said. “More Lyft passengers tip,” they said. Not bad! This could work.

It sounded like fun. I have always enjoyed driving, so why not? It would beat covering the anti-gay-idiot beat, for a change.

These rides are Lyfting me higher

Truth be told, driving people-of-all-kinds around Chicago proved better than fun. It was downright personally rewarding! Chicago feels a lot different in a car. Smaller. Slightly less intimidating. Friendlier, even?

Some passengers prefer to keep to themselves, but many trips resulted in fun times, memorable conversations and ongoing friendships.

“Look up,” I’d often point out my panoramic roof to visitors shuttling around The Loop and Michigan Avenue. “See the top of the Hancock Tower?” They always loved that one. I’ve accidentally sold more panoramic sunroofs and Chicago Grinder Co. pizza pot pies than I can count.

We’d riff about music and entertainment at night. News and politics in the morning. I hung onto every Cubs Postseason play-by-play, Lyfting besotted smurfs between the sports bars. Pickup some Boystown gays? We’d gossip about the latest in nightlife and restaurant developments. My car transformed into a rolling talk show set, going any direction you wanted to go. Literally.

We had some wild fun, too. I cackled with delight when a bombastic young mom from Chicago’s South Shore suddenly ordered me to pull-up alongside a guy drinking a 40oz as he cruised the Dan Ryan. “Ima give this damn fool an earful!” she declared.

She rolled her window down as I jockeyed to position. Then she slung an animated scolding out the window, so compelling that the drinking-driver apologetically conceded his error with the twist of a bottle cap. I earned a pretty tip on that side mission, and the madd-ass mom invited me over to smoke a bowl afterwards. Wish I could’ve.

Riding through an electoral disaster

In the days following Election Night, every ride felt like the open-casket wake for humanity itself. Each trip unfolded similarly. A quiet disbelief, little-knowing what to say. Try to keep it perfunctory, till mutual sorrow inevitably fills the car, and someone breaks. Then the realness pours out.

An LGBT veteran, wondering if his wrongful discharge might become less-than-honorable, again. A young Latina in fashion retail, worried about her parents’ undocumented status. One sharp-as-all-hell law student from The University of Chicago finely articulated concerns for judicial integrity — as much as her extended-family’s visas.

“Study hard,” I wished her, as I dropped her in the South Loop. “We’re all gonna need smart lawyers if this keeps up.”

A music producer from Logan Square had a different strategy — put your headphones on and relax in the viscosity of Chicago’s bubble. “Tune it all out,” he said. “They will never break Chicago’.”

He may be right. Chicago’s its own indomitable political machine. Maybe that’s a good thing, in times like these.

I processed everything that’s happened over the last month through the lens of my passengers, in the safe space of my car.

Driving Lyft’s a gamble, a game drivers play

Unfortunately, making sustainable profits while driving for Lyft is not likely. A $1,500/week on-boarding promo I signed-up with turned out to be a silly, unachievable recruitment gimmick. Fine print called for 50 hours per week in Online Driver Mode, a setting which indicates that you’re ready to pickup a passenger at a moments notice. In actual working time, that’s 65+ hours.

With that tailpipe dream out of the question, I quickly found that in many hours, I actually lost money. A meager $3 for an hour, with one short ride? Why bother? Trying to minimize my losses, I stopped driving anything but the few prime cut hours. Even then, a running clock of variable expenses ran along in my head, stacked-up against my hourly earnings.

Lyft’s dirty little secret? Some hours on the road look like this.

I did make a C in accounting, but I do have a business degree, and I’ve got a pretty-solid knack for eyeing a sustainable business model. On your average night, I earned $10 per hour after gasoline expenses. That’s before a driver’s many vehicle-related expenses — which, I will call VALMIRT: Vehicle Amortization, Licenses, Maintenance, Insurance, Repairs, and Taxes.

Throw in the $3 energy drinks for those 5-hour night shifts, and candy bars I didn’t-want-but-had-to-buy for convenience store restroom admittance, and I was looking at a take home pay at (or possibly below) minimum wage. Why am I doing this? I’d ask myself, as I’d fill and clean my car before a shift. A guy has got to make a living, and my car isn’t a public service.

Funny thing about that. Public service. Several passengers marveled that Lyft often proves less expensive than taking public transit. One commuter from the ‘burbs revealed how he routinely parks his car for free in Lincoln Park and rides Lyft into The Loop. His fare, car-door-to-office? $2.

In an attempt to get more drivers on the road in vulnerable business critical times — like the morning rush hour — Lyft began offering a “guaranteed pay” rate of $28-$32 per hour in selected hours. Now we’re talking, I thought! This could work.

Not so fast. Hitting the 2-ride per hour metric to secure that guaranteed pay was a total gamble (note: a gamble is the opposite of a guarantee). You may easily find yourself out in an area with no demand, or driving on a slow day, and you will still drive home with $10 per hour before VALMIRT.

Frustrated by gamey-conditions on these “guaranteed” hours, I emailed Lyft Driver Support. Surely, this can’t be right? “Good luck,” they replied. Indeed, you’ll need a lot of luck if you intend to continue driving for Lyft.

Texts like this ring a bit hollow when you’re an independent contractor with a capital investment earning next-to-nothing.

Thanksgiving—I knew that my time as a Lyft driver may soon be coming to an end. I couldn’t afford rent. I took care to appreciate the sun rising on the Wrigley Building, the designs on Navy Pier’s ferris wheel, and the way Chicago’s morning rush hour ticks along so smoothly. Not like any other city. It’s like organized… orderliness?

On my last night, it was very late as I circled around near the University of Chicago, hoping to snag one more ride before driving home to an eviction notice, when I had the very-good fortune of picking up a group of five young super-polite scraggly intellectual types. Not hipsters.

I knew the profile. These were Marxists.

“Do you mind if five fit in the car?” the Marxists asked, in near unison.

“If you can fit, be my guest!”

They piled in. A smiling twenty-something plopped into the passenger seat, and he asked if I made any money on Lyft. Not really, and I mentioned the basic outline of this piece. Why I‘m quitting.

“You know, ride share drivers are unionizing in New York,” he said.

“No kidding! Actually, this doesn’t surprise me.”

“The evil genius of ride share is that they’ve passed all their capital expenses onto the drivers,” he went on. He knew what he’s talking about. “Lyft has almost zero debt, and they run an app. How is it they aren’t making any money?”

“They’re pricing their service predatorily, vying for market share,” I said. “The entire market is so whacked out-of-balance right now, and the only people losing in that game are drivers. Eventually, it’ll get sorted out — especially if drivers get wise.”

“Are you a Marxist? We’re going to a meet-up,” he said half-jokingly, as a Marxist wryly does. “We’re recruiting!”

“Let’s just say I’m Marxist-friendly,” I replied.

My last Lyft ride, taking nocturnal Marxists to their Marxist meet-up, cost ’em sixty cents per Marxist. At least they were good enough to tip a guy a buck, despite being thrifty students … and, you know, studying that Marx fella’.