I was debating whether to take the normal train or the later train. Assuming most coworkers unburdened by thigh-high moppets would be dragging their asses in late today, I opted for the 8:43.

I arrived at the station on the bike, cutting it a little close. Alas, the slim section of fence where cyclists lock their bikes–uh, no bike rack…yet–was packed tighter than Joey Chestnut’s belly. A train pulled in; it was heading south, but was on the northbound tracks. I tried to make my bike fit, but couldn’t, and searched around for another spot to lock it and hope it didn’t get towed, or whatever they do to bikes parked illegally.

Slowly, it dawned on me. That train heaving and wheezing not ten feet away…It’s heading toward the city. It’s 8:42.

Anxiety set in. Northbound tracks notwithstanding, that’s my ride, alright. I found a spot for the bike and mounted the stairs two at a time. As I reached the overpass, the train pulled away.

A sliver of hope remained. The train was on the northbound track. I’d never once boarded a city-bound train on that track. An announcement came on the loudspeaker in the overpass:

“The 8:43 train to Manhattan is…garbledgarbledgarbled.”

The 8:43 train is arriving shortly? The 8:43 train is stocked with free Starbucks and crumpets?

“I repeat,” the loudspeaker continued, “the 8:43 is running on the northbound tracks.”

Which meant I had a 34-minute wait for the next train.

One thing did brighten my morning, however: the sight of a young woman snapping a photo of a couple–they all seemed to be Filipino–in front of the Hawthorne sign on the platform. One can envision them thumbing through the photo album years down the road: Here we are at Champs Elysee, here we are at London Bridge, here we are at Hawthorne train station.

Good times.