Miserable morning in the northeastern U.S., including a hard, steady sideways rain. Let’s call it the Umbrella Buckler.
Biking to the train was way out of the question, and even walking there seemed less and less viable.
I asked The Missus about perhaps hopping a ride when Little G was heading off to school up in Priusville. That would mean them leaving earlier than normal so I could catch the 8:43; it also meant helping get both Little G and Little Miss C dressed, shod and ready to rock by about 8:35.
I stood in the shower and hoped the walk to the train would not be a repeat performance of standing in the shower. I was leaning toward the ride-with-the-kiddies option, but when I got downstairs, Little G’s school pants I’d picked out were dirty, Little Miss C had fouled yet another diaper (on top of the, what, six she desecrated yesterday. We’re tapping her damn piggy bank for the next batch.), and the place was in a typical state of disarray. I had 13 minutes to make the 8:43, so I bid good bye to the clan and set out on foot.
It was awful out there, and I hadn’t gone 30 feet before my umbrella caved and my feet were wet. But to be honest, it wasn’t as bad as the Great 2009 SuperSoaker from December 9. The rain wasn’t coming down as hard, and it was actually warm this morning.
Still, a miserable day to walk, with only the middle of the street free from giant puddles. I jogged to Amsterdam and crossed Bradhurst.
I ventured down the hill, that sleepy neighborhood where that one house still has the McCain-Palin sign up, and spied a white Cadillac easing out of the driveway a bit ahead.
The driver put it into Drive, went 20 feet and stopped.
As I approached the driver rolled down the window. Could it be?
“Can I give you a ride somewhere?” asked the woman.
Score.
“Sure,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”
As I opened the door, the woman said, half kidding, “You’re not dangerous, are you?”
“No,” I said as I slid into the passenger seat. “Are you?”
“Well, not really,” she joked.
We made small talk. She said it was an awful day to try to walk. I explained how I could’ve waited to go with my son, but I would’ve missed my train. The kid thing…immediately and insuperable evidence that I was not, in fact, dangerous. We discussed mine (wee little folks) and then hers (college age). She told me to enjoy them while they’re young–just as the nice elderly man with the two young dogs does every time I pass him with one of my kids on a walk. (Random trivia about that man: his name is Joe Girardi, and he says he’s a distant cousin of that Joe Girardi.)
I promised the woman I would.
I mentioned that I usually bike; she said her husband had bought a bike and wanted to get out more, but found the Mount Pleasant area completely unsuitable for biking. I suggested the old rail trail running parallel to 9A and the Saw Mill; park in the lot near the Pleasantville exit off 9A, and ride from there.
She said she’d mention it to him, and suggested that the info was a fair trade for driving my ass to the train. She didn’t actually say “ass.”
We got to the back entrance to the station on Broadway. I thanked her again, and hoofed it up the stairs.
Three times now, I’ve been driven to the train by strangers: a woman from Ireland, a man from Russia, a woman from Yonkers.
Humankind is doing OK, if you ask me.
Mother Nature, she’s still a bitch.