I was cutting it close this morning, I knew I was.

On Mondays, I take the later train to steal a little extra time with the kids. I stole a little too much extra time, and left myself just six minutes to catch the 8:43.

Mind you, it’s doable–five minute bike ride, another minute to lock up the graphite horse and bolt up and down the stairs to the platform. But it’s a little too close for comfort, especially if the train is actually on time.

I made it through the intersections I had it make it through, and turned onto Elwood, the final leg of the journey.

It’s a straight shot from here, maybe five blocks. Sometimes I close my eyes and pretend I’m Lance gliding through the Champs Elysee, then open them just before I slam into incoming traffic.

But as soon as I hit Elwood, I saw the city-bound train pulling into the platform.

Not possible, was my initial reaction. It was 8:41, so there was no way the 8:43 was pulling in now.

Still, I went as fast as the ancient Trek bike would go, locked ‘er up, and hit the stairs, not even stopping to lock up my helmet.

The train pulled away before I even hit the platform. I looked at my watch, a (seemingly) hardy Timex Iron Man: It had just turned 8:42.

I cursed Metro-North a million ways for being early, asked the scruffy cab manager how long until the next train, and set out looking to kill 33 minutes in Hummerville.

There’s not much to do in Hummerville. I got a cup of coffee at the Station Deli and grabbed a bench in the tiny garden that fronts the train station. It is entirely possible I was the first non-mentally impaired person to sit on the bench in a year’s time.

I planned out today’s blog post, excoriating Metro-North for its earliness. It was bad enough that I’d missed the later train; it was badder still that the boss was in from L.A. today.

I looked at my Timex Iron Man, then took out my cellphone. Then it hit me: It wasn’t Metro-North’s fault at all.

A little back story. When you leave it to the last possible second to catch your train twice a day, you need a trusty timepiece. When I walked to the train during my first six months in the ‘burbs, I relied on my cellphone–a handsome, sleek Samsung thing I bought on eBay from a guy named Osama (totally serious). It was synched perfectly with Greenwich Mean Time when I bought it, and still is today, a few years later.

But when I started biking, I wanted a watch that would be easier to acces when I was flying down Champs Elys…er, Elwood Avenue. So I bought the Iron Man from Super Runners Shop in Grand Central for about $45.

Well, over the weekend, I was putting Little G to bed, and was periodically hitting the light on my watch to see how long we’d been at it, and help make sure his various efforts to delay did not push us past our 30 minutes of stories. While feeling about for the watch’s light (it’s called “Indiglo!”), I’d mistakenly reset the Iron Man’s second hand to zero, meaning, say, an 8:13:42 time had been reset to 8:13:00–thus knocking me back 42 seconds, or just enough to miss the train when you cut it close.

As is my full-blown right as an American, I will avoid any personal culpability for missing the train and will instead assign all blame to the Iron Man. The damn thing is called Iron Man–one should be able to wield a machete through a field of bamboo, pythons nipping at your ankles and rabid ocelots at your wrists, without the Iron Man resetting on you.

I cursed my Iron Man–I think it was the ‘F’ word–as I killed 33 minutes in Hummerville. I read the paper. I watched cars go by. I checked out the fake thermometer on a big sign in front of the station, the fake mercury showing how much money the town has raised toward a new clock for the train station.

Hopefully the new clock won’t be an Iron Man.