New Columnist Covers Feet Beat

Trainjotting is happy to announce our newest columnist, Tim Coleman. Tim, who graced these very cyber-pages as a guest editor at few short weeks ago (if you didn’t read his essay on what happens when you order a Mercedez Benz with your Starbucks frappuccino, you should ), will cover an underreported segment of the commuter population: Those who get to work on their own two feet.

New York has never been hurting for bipedal commuters, but the timing for the debut of “Foot It” couldn’t be better, with gas prices escalating and everyone at least entertaining the notion of being more green.

A taste of Tim’s feet:

Foot It

I am a commuter, but my means of transportation are my own two feet.

I live and work in Lower Manhattan, and it’s about a 30-minute walk each way. Usually, I move along Houston Street—westward in the morning and back east by night. I go the same way so often because it’s a straight shot from my apartment to my office.

I’m comforted by the parade of familiar sights: there’s the homeless guy on the corner of Elizabeth Street, surprisingly young and often face down; the newsstand without the actual stand, a Latina woman crouched on milk crates and under an umbrella; and the pock-marked, poker-faced security guard who roams the loading area of my building through which I always enter.

Sometimes I mix up. I’ll meander down through SoHo, where the voguish boutiques and so-hot-they-know-it women still beat the construction sites and hardhats that pop up every 20 feet along Houston. Or I’ll venture north into the East or West Village and stroll in relative peace and quiet.

On the rare occasion there’s a severe storm, I’ll break down and take the train. Problem is, the subway line closest to home—the F/V—requires that I get on in the opposite direction of where I’m going and get off way past my office. That actually results in longer commute than footing it. Factor in a wait time for the F or V to show, and I might not reach my building for 45 minutes. Unacceptable.

So I walk.

Most days I’m the lucky bastard you think I am, striding along in shades with my mp3 player blasting System of a Down. But other days? I’m the poor schmuck who forgot to bring his umbrella. Or to wear gloves. Or it’s so goddamn hot out, I’m the ass greeting his coworkers in a thick film of sweat, my shirt darkening in wet spots from the inside out.

In truth, nothing much happens on my walks—then something just does. And it’ll be worth reporting to you. Funny things, sad things. Or just bizarre things. This is the first in a series of weekly columns about my particular commute: the happy feet, the sore soles, and the calluses in between.

Got to go now. My feet feel loose.

–Tim Coleman