The recent publicity surrounding Greyhound’s 100th anniversary has given the company an opportunity to exhort the makeover of its bus fleet.

I will admit that traveling in an ultra-modern bus now possibly seems more appealing than by air. I never thought I’d ever say that. Several years ago, I was contracted to write a story that required me to travel with Mayflower Tours from Chicago to Mackinac Island, Mich., and back. With overnight stops along the way, it was quite relaxing. Bus rides, even for extended periods, can be all right.

But regardless of how much more leg room, free Wi-Fi or nonstop routes they offer, bus lines have some issues to overcome.

Bus popularity has seen its ups and downs. Back in the day, train travel was at the top of the heap. Then air fares become more affordable, and getting there by rail went by the wayside, for the most part. The buses still rolled, but the perception was one of seedy depots, stop at every wide place in the road and passengers who couldn’t afford another form of transportation. Although these claims may not always be true, they are still out there.

Today, Greyhound carries more than 18 million passengers, and company executives tout value of its tickets, safety record and convenience.

I’ve ridden Greyhound several times. A journey from Frankfort to Elizabethtown during my teenage years seemed to take all day, and it probably did, as the bus stopped in every village to let off and pick up. Everybody talked to me, especially the uniformed soldiers heading to Fort Knox. I also rode Greyhound from Elizabethtown to Bowling Green once. The route was along U.S. 31-W in the days before Interstate 65, and the bus stopped in Upton, Bonnieville, Munfordville, Horse Cave and Cave City. The station there was like a small Grand Central with several buses converging all at once. Passengers were required to disembark. Hot and cold food, pay phones and bus information were all part of the activity. Back on the bus, we started the process all over, stopping at Park City before reaching my destination in Bowling Green.

But I had another Greyhound experience that was one for the ages, at least for me.

In June 1971, I was living in Bloomington, Ill., and fulfilling my summer military obligation in Camp McCoy, Wis., after having been released from two years of active duty a few months before. I hitched a ride with an acquaintance getting there, but getting back home was a different story. I had a ride from Camp McCoy, just outside of Lacrosse, as far as Chicago, and then I was on my own.

Chicago to Bloomington was about two hours. And with a 2-year-old daughter and an expectant wife, it was out of the question of them picking me up in Chicago.

I made the decision to be dropped off at the Greyhound station. It was one of the most memorable experiences in my life. You haven’t lived unless you’ve been in the Chicago Bus Station in 1971. Fortunately, I was wearing my Army fatigues and carrying a small duffle bag.

I remembered years earlier how friendly everyone was to those soldiers on the bus headed to Fort Knox. Maybe, I thought, they would be the same to me.

Going to the restroom inside the station was not a possibility. I tried and walked through a swinging door labeled “Men,” but instantly I saw obvious drug addicts lining the walls and sniffing glue from handkerchiefs. As the door swung back, I went with it and returned to the station’s lobby. I had been paid $355 in cash upon departing Camp McCoy, and I wasn’t ready to have it separated from me in the Chicago Bus Station. Later, in need of a facility, I sneaked my way onto one of the multitudes of empty buses parked in angled slips waiting to load up and head out of Chicago.

The station was one busy place. The task at hand was to find a Greyhound that would get me to Bloomington. Reading the schedules posted on the walls of the huge station was not particularly easy. And when the announcements rang out over the speakers, the only words I could understand were “now loading.” Forget where they were going.

I found a bus headed to Springfield, Ill. I knew it would pass through Bloomington on Interstate 55, the old Route 66. There was only one problem, and it was a big one. This Greyhound was an express, which meant no stops until it reached Springfield.

Hurriedly, I searched out the driver, finding him standing in front of his bus. Looking far more military than I did, he wore grey slacks and matching jacket, crisp white shirt and a black tie and clasp with an elongated dog emblazoned on it.

Looking frazzled and hoping he might feel sorry for me, I quickly explained my situation to him.

“Lieutenant, I am not permitted to stop my coach on an interstate for any reason other than an emergency,” he told me.

“But this is an emergency,” I responded.

“It’s not the kind I’m talking about,” he said.

I thanked him and went back into the station to figure something else out. Suddenly, there was a hand on my shoulder. It was the Greyhound driver.

“Buy a ticket to Springfield,” he told me. “We’ll figure it out.”

I ran to the ticket window, found a pay phone and called home. I’ll be there in a couple of hours, I said, I’ll try to get the driver to drop me off near a certain exit. Got to go. Bye.

Boarding the bus, I told him what exit. “Sit as close to the front as you can. I’ll motion for you to come up when we get close,” he told me, almost in a whisper.

Fortunately, I found a seat two rows behind my new hero. Of course, I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t take a chance of missing his signal. Just as he said, when the time came, he pointed in my direction. With military precision, I moved smartly to where he was and knelt down. “Sit down on the step, and when I pull over and the door opens hit the ground running. I’ve got to check one of my turn signals,” he said in justifying his good Samaritan deed for me. He did, and I did.

It mattered little to me that I was standing alone on an interstate late at night. I could crawl home from there if I had to. Seconds later, a car’s headlights went on. I walked toward it, climbed a fence, picked up my duffle bag and, finally I was home. Regrettably, I didn’t get the Greyhound driver’s name. Years later, I still have a soft spot for Greyhound. I’m just glad he had to check that turn signal in Bloomington.

There’s no excuse. So get up, get out and get going.

— Gary West’s column runs monthly in the Daily News. He can be reached by emailing west1488@twc.com