Metro-North.

For my entire six months of commuting, I took the 8:17 in the morning. It took months, but finally the number became burned into my memory cells. Yet it was more than one number I’d remembered. It was an entire series that comprised my morning routine: 7:45, shower. 8:02, kiss the Missus and Little G and leave the house. 8:12, be at least as far as the pizza place, or start hightailing it.

But as of last week, my beloved 8:17 became the 8:16, thanks to a wholesale schedule change. You might say, simply move your entire routine up a minute. But it’s not that simple. 7:45 and 8:02 and 8:17 were familiar; they’d become touchstones for my morning commute. 

But now? 7:44? 8:01? 8:16? Who are these guys?

Thanks, Metro-North. I hope you’re happy. I hope you had fun printing all those new schedules reflecting the one-minute time difference.

–Trainjotting 

Metro-North Responds:

Thanks to the ever-cheerful spokesman Dan Brucker, we have a response. After a not-very helpful colleague of Dan’s sarcaastically wondered, “Did we ruin this person’s life?” Dan dug in and got some information. An extra train was added at Mt. Kisco, and Metro North needed an extra minute to create a buffer zone–a little more time so the new train and the old train, spaced a few minutes apart, could comfortably pull into Grand Central without fear of bonking into each other.

Played it all wrong on the 8:17 this morning. Despite my better judgement, I went looking for my beloved Conductors-Only…or Not? seat. The first one I came to was locked in the upright position. Heading into the next car, the second one I came to was… occupied! (By a man who surely read about the wonders of the 1 3/4-seat on this very cyber-pages, no doubt!)

And boy, was he working it–laptop out, headphones on, needing only a masseuse and martini to complete the picture.

As the train rumbled along to Valhalla, I had to move quick. By this point, I was near the front of the train. And the front fills up much quicker, as riders with morning appointments and/or actual work to do are steps closer to work when it pulls into Grand Central.

I eventually found an open seat in the handicapped section, a fold-down seat that’s hardly a choice location.

The front of train experience is different. There’s something to be said about someone who’s looking to be at work a minute or two before the rest of the train (of course, one wonders why they didn’t take the earlier train); put a hundred of them in a car, and the dynamic is indeed different than with the slackers in the middle and rear. They seemed to be more efficient commuters: quieter (yes, nary a cell phone!), and fitting better into a tight space.

Unfortunately, at White Plains, one of these go-getters was looking to grab the fold-down seat across from me. It’s only about 18 inches between the two, so we were more or less having sex by the time the train cruised through Scarsdale: My leg, his leg, my leg, his leg, you get the picture. There’s wasn’t even room to read the Times, though at least the smaller trim size of the Wall Street Journal came in handy.

But, as promised, I was mere steps from Grand Central as we braked at the platform. Must’ve saved myself a whole 60 seconds. Hope the boss appreciates it.

As often seems to be the case, the morning commute both warmed my heart and drove me nuts. We had a dusting of snow this morning, perhaps a half-inch, which presumably caused the 8:17 to bashfully crawl in at 8:21.

We were rolling along, not exactly making up time, but not making a crummy ride any worse. Then, at 8:47, in that nether region where you don’t know if it’s Westchester or the Bronx, we pulled to a stop.

We were stuck between two concrete walls. Mercifully, we moved before they started closing in on me, and were soon looking out to a massive graveyard that I’d never noticed before.

All told, we pulled in six minutes late. By my calculations, that’s officially tardy.

Ah, but the happy news, you ask. I discovered a new seat. OK, I didn’t actually discover it; thousands–perhaps millions–have sat there before, and I’m sure I even have as well, wrapped in some fugue some past morning.

It’s a 2-seater (actually, a 1-3/4-seater because the leg room is cut off on one side) that’s right outside the conductor’s booth. Sometimes it looks like it’s for official conductor business: control panels are exposed, lights are flashing. This morning, it was wide open, so I grabbed it.

Since it’s a stunted two-seater, you’re almost assured of getting it to yourself (Slippery Rail season notwithstanding). In real estate parlance, it offers two exposures: a window facing north, and one facing west.

Best of all, you can’t see a single other commuter. It reminded me of hitting Europe with a Eur-Rail pass after college, those six-seater compartments you’d get, and your travel-mate Rather Large Greg–the big, scary hippie who didn’t realize hippies were supposed to be nice–would let down his hair and make scary faces every time some poor rider would attempt to enter our compartment.

And not only do you not see your fellow commuters, but you can’t be seen either…unless the conductor is peering at you through the tinted window in their booth.

Quite a find. I just might have to bow to the beckons of early-onset O.Seat.D.

Brother, were we humming. The 8:17 pulled in at 8:16 and change, we hardly suffered from the usual crawl through the Grand Central underbelly, and we were stepping off the train fully three minutes early.

Now that’s a way to start a work week.

Ah, but what troubles awaited at the 6 train. If I wait five minutes for the 6 in the morning, it’s surprising. So I was extra surprised when 10 minutes passed; after all, that’s nearly 31 1/2 half minutes in commuter time (duh, multiply by Pi).

As the bodies amassed on the 42nd Street platform, agita growing with each passing minute (and each passing express train across the platform), I saw another first: a man (large, well-dressed, black) chastise another man (greasy, bespectacled, resembling an unemployed I.T. worker) for standing in the “Trains Stop Here” box in the platform (the “crease”, in hockey terms).

Eventually, the 6 shuffled in and as many of us poured in as we could (as the reunited Police once sang, packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes). But hopes of a record commute–and a truly excellent week!–had already been dashed.

From the textbook on the lap of the guy next to me on the 8:17:

Chapter 2: The Present Values, the Objectives of the Firm, and Corporate Governance

Foundations of the Net Present Value Rate

The net present value rate seems sensible enough. It worked for you when you decided to buy that vacant lot and constructed an office building on it.

Needless to say, the man slept– head bobbing and weaving like Ali against Liston, alternately resting against my shoulder and jerking upright.

Today, I became the Man I mocked for so many years in Manhattan. You know that Man — bitter soul cursing the extreme weather as he chips the ice off his windshield and prepares for his perilous commute, as his Manhattan brethren gambol about on snowshoes.

Yes, compounding the excitement of my first commute in extreme weather, I had a rental car to return (Car in shop after the Missus hit a deer. Long story.) I turned on News 12, which had its every reporter freezing alongside some Westchester highway, dodging skidding cars. “Stay home,” they said in unison. “Drink hot chocolate. Watch DVDs.”

But when Enterprise turned down our request for a foul-weather grace period, I chipped off the ice, put the Taurus in low gear, and hit the road around 8, wending through the byways north of Westchester. We’d opted for no insurance (though I later found out the Missus called Enterprise after I’d left and tried to buy insurance on the fly), so I took it extra slow.

The ride was blissfully uneventful, and the staff at Enterprise — they’re all ridiculously nice — said they’d provide a ride to the train. I must admit to a little excitement; different train station, different train. Fresh material for Trainjotting, dear reader!

A staffer drove me to the White Plains station. He grew up in White Plains and said it’s grown too much, there’s too much traffic, parking is too expensive. He would through the maze that surrounds the station and dropped me off. 

I headed up the stairs, just as the conductor barked out, “8:29 Express.”

I hustled along the platform, careful not to become that other Man — the Man who slips on the platform while running in extreme weather (close cousin to the Man who curses extreme weather while scraping off his windshield). As I boarded, I did the math. 8:29 from White Plains. That’s 12 minutes after the 8:17 from Hawthorne. I looked around the train. Familiar faces. My same damn train.

She got in just before 9:07, two minutes past the scheduled time. Well done, Metro North.