While much is known about Joe Biden’s knack for a deliciously inappropriate malapropism (Lesson of the day: Calling a presidential candidate an “articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking” African-American will not necessarily preclude you from being said African American’s V.P.), less is known about his tricky commute.

But not for long.

Often called the stingiest man in the Senate, Biden is known to commute via Amtrak from Capitol Hill to his home in Wilmington most every day.

Biden even thinks of the Amtrak workers he sees each day as “family.”

The A.P. reports:

Sen. Joe Biden, the vice presidential half of the soon-to-be-official Democratic ticket, made a surprise appearance Monday at the Amtrak station he has used for years to commute to his day job in the U.S. Senate.

“These guys have been my family,” said Biden, who has taken Amtrak during his 35 years in the Senate. After Senate sessions, Biden travels home almost every day to Wilmington on a train.

Expect the Biden-Amtrak story to get lots and lots of play in media outlets considerably larger than Trainjotting. As the pundits either try to paint Biden as a DC insider, or distance him from that sketch, the fact that he schleps home to his family–well outside the Beltway–for dinner each night will be referred to frequently.

In fact, no less a figure than Biden’s favorite well-scrubbed minority mentioned it in a speech this past weekend.

The Washington Post says:

“He never moved to Washington,” Obama told a crowd of several thousand here, in one of several references to the train. “Instead, night after night, week after week, year after year, he returned home to Wilmington on a lonely Amtrak train.” 

A round-trip on the Acela from Wilmington to Washington costs between $83 and $97, and the pokey ol’ Northeast Regional runs one about $60-$75. The trip takes around 80 minutes.

We’re curious to see if Amtrak seeks to capitalize on its highly visible customer with some sort of marketing campaign.

[image: phl-caw.org]

Following their trip to the Irish Catskills and big brother TJ’s house for the christening of Little Miss C, sister Kate and clan hopped back on the Amtrak auto-train for the long schlep from lovely Lorton, Virginia to outside Orlando, Florida.

Kate and hubbie Brian gave the auto-train mostly high marks on their trip north–fairly comfy seats, decent food, and a sincere effort by the Amtrak staff to make the ride pleasant for all.

The return trip, hauling 140 cars, 50 vans, a motorcycle, and their respective owners, proved to be more of the same. In fact it was an overall better ride, thanks to some pointers the Kates picked up on their first trip, such as hoarding as many free snacks as possible before the train even departs.

Brian also proved to be a pioneer in the field of train interior design, creating a privacy screen with an Amtrak blanket, a strategically placed hotel key card wedged into the ceiling, and a spent piece of MacGyver’s bubble gum. Apparently other riders were asking Brian to erect a similar screen around their seats too.

Kate said after the first leg that your fellow riders will make or break your trip. This time around, the girls had three young Disney-bound playmates to frolic with right up until sleepytime, which needless to say made for a much more pleasant ride for mom and dad.

Brian gave the veggie lasagna the thumbs-down on the northbound, and went with the Choo Choo Chewies chicken fingers that his daughters were so raving about. Alas, the dyspepsia was every bit as intense. Surely an overnight stank wafting through the car that Kate called “tuna mixed with sauerkraut” did not help matters.

On the bright side, the Amtrak pulled into Sanford, FL a full hour earlier than expected. Even after waiting 40 minutes to be reunited with their minivan, the Kates were still on the road before they were even supposed to pull into the station.

The final verdict? “It’s really not that bad,” says Kate. “We’ll probably do it every summer.”

[image: trainnet.org]

Our little sister was in Westchester over the weekend, en route to taking the girls i on a little vacation in the Irish Catskills. Kat and Brian were fresh off the Amtrak car train from Florida (near Orlando) to Virginia (near DC).

They’d booked the auto train several months ago, some prescient thinking with the price of gas through the roof. The cost ran about $900 for the four of them and, of course, the fully-packed minivan.

Kat and Bri said mostly favorable things about the trip, which took off at 4 p.m. and pulled into its destination in Virginia around 9:30 the next morning. They’d scored four seats in the back row, which meant the girls could sleep on the smallish floor space between the row and the wall (they’re 6 and 3). The downside of that spot was hearing the car doors open every few minutes more or less until 2 in the morning.

It’s worth noting that bro-in-law Brian is like 6′ 8″, with a bit of the Restless Legs Syndrome to boot. He said, if you can sleep in a Lazy Boy, you can sleep in one of the car train seats–they recline a bit, and there’s a footrest for everyone under 6′ 8″.

Also on the plus side of the ledger, every row had an outlet, and Kat and Brian gave the service very high marks–Amtrak staffers who were constantly looking to make your trip better (particularly after you’d greased the bartender’s palm to score some free snacks for the girls).

Kat and Brian said your car train trip would be basically a joy or a debacle based on the people seated around you–remember, you’re on a train with strangers for over 17 hours. It’s mostly old folk, who tend to behave themselves, while some kiddies pushed fellow riders’ buttons, so to speak, with noisy video games.

There were several dinner seatings in a dining car (Shannon spoke highly of the Choo Choo Chewies chicken fingers, Brian not so much on the veggie lasagna), a movie in the lounge (”Mad Money”, if you’re scoring at home), and bathrooms that rated higher than their airplane counterparts.

Keys to keep in mind on the car train–bring earplugs (or Bose headphones, for that matter), pillows, blankets and socks (apparently people from Florida don’t always wear them), and sign up for AAA for a major discount–like kids are free or something like that.

Happy trails.

I had what may be my first-ever commuting dream last night. I was trying to catch a 5:46 train, only it appeared to be an Amtrak, and the station wasn’t Grand Central–which I guess makes sense of it was an Amtrak.

The ticket lady gave me my ticket, a large, rectangular thing that had something the size of a stamp sticking out of the side, connected with perforated paper. I read it: It was a voucher for a free cocktail. (Yes, this is what I dream about.)

I remember I had several minutes to locate my track. I suddenly had an attractive travel companion who was looking for the same train. The concourse was filled with flat-screens that were supposed to show departures, but all had a Yankee game on. Adding insult to injury, A-Rod was rounding the bases after smacking a homer.

The clock ticked. I went from having plenty of time to anxiety creeping in. We flew around the concourse, looking at each screen, lugging our bags, desperately searching for a functioning departures screen. Complicating the logistics, I now had a giant cocktail in hand, spilling over the rim as I ran.

I approached several uniformed railroad workers and explained my situation. They smiled politely and walked away.

My travel companion said it was only 24 minutes to the next train should we miss the 5:46. I told her it didn’t matter, I had to be on the 5:46.  I had to be on the 5:46.

I missed my train and woke up in a cold sweat.

Think someone needs a vacation–one that preferably doesn’t involve traveling via train?

A first-time reader/first-time commenter took Trainjotting to task for what they deemed to be an egregiously unfair and woefully inaccurate portrayal of New Rochelle in a post about The Missus and Little G missing their New Ro train stop on Amtrak last summer.

By chance I came across your ‘trainjotting’  comments when looking through a selection of  interesting articles covering the impressive architecture of New Rochelles public schools. I am not sure how I ended up on posting, but certainly regret wasting a full minute of my time reading it. [Editor’s Note: We assume you also regret wasting a few more minutes commenting on our error-filled “rant.”]

Just bringing some clarity to the skewed picture ‘vision’ you laid out.

As we approach the one-year anniversary of the Easter Sunday Riot (not a vital chapter in Ireland’s fight for freedom but a case of wilding youths at New Rochelle entertainment complex New Roc City), we pose the question: Is New Rochelle’s long-awaited “renaissance” here, or is it something that the Journal News and New Ro residents simply will continue to talk about for the next few decades?

I enjoy a post-work commutation lubricant as much as the next passenger, but the drinking on the train may be getting out of hand. Last night I was a party to two situations where the police were summoned, all within the space of about 40 minutes.

Granted, the first incident was set on an Amtrak train, not an LIRR rattletrap. On the three-hour haul from Washington, a group of four was getting increasingly louder as the three men—apparently two twentysomethings and a guy in his thirties—downed more beers. They had a running joke where they’d call each other slang names for female genitalia. This was on a packed train, scheduled to arrive in New York at 8:30.

Finally, one woman asked very politely that they refrain from using words like twat, poontang, vagina or crim. Which prompted the eldest of the bunch to start getting abusive, telling the middle-aged, well-dressed woman that she could just go find another seat and to get out of his face. And then he and a buddy started up again with gleeful cries of “Muff!” and “Beaver!,” like 12-year-olds on a backyard sleep-out.

When we got to Penn, I started to exit the train and found myself between the head dope and the woman. He started in again, telling her, “Hey, you have a nice night now,” and laughing in a menacing way.

I couldn’t help myself.

“You out to be ashamed of yourself,” I told him.

And then I was the target. Though other people on the train chimed in, and soon he was hurling abuse at several more people. I could see that two of them, both young women, were clearly scared.

I didn’t take his taunts. Instead, I walked up to a conductor outside the train and told her, “Look, this guy is threatening us. I think you need to do something.”

She was nice, but said the window of opportunity for her was closed.

So I trudged on, heading up the escalator. Sure enough, he was waiting for me at the top of it, and started in again. I cut him off with, “The police are on their way.” He dusted.

Curiously, I did see a cop right then and stopped him. I explained what happened, and he clearly didn’t care if I had a knife sticking out of my back. He wasn’t going to be bothered. He treated me like a crazy person.

So off I went to the LIRR section of Penn Station to complete my journey home. The 8:49 was loading, and I could see that it was a crowded train, with lots of kids tugging balloons on ribbons. There must’ve been some type of event at the Garden.

I sunk down in an empty two-across and cracked open a beer. All was right with the beer until the low-level hum of dozens of conversations was interrupted by a very loud, “Fuck you! You ugly piece of shit! You pimply fat-assed, ugly bitch.”

I looked to see a guy who looked like Vito from The Sopranos. He was standing near the door, yelling at a heavyset woman, about 5’ 3”, sitting about three seats away.

The guy kept at it. There was a kid on my car who looked like she was ready to break the window and jump out, she was so scared. And the yeller’s anger was clearly climbing as his control seemed to be slipping away.

Finally, he crumpled up his beer can and threw it at the woman, who reminded me of the nurse at my grammar school. And then he stepped toward her.

In front of the woman was a middle-aged couple, a guy who didn’t exactly sport the build of a gym rat and, we were to learn in a minute, his wife.

The husband told the yeller, “Okay, that’s enough.”

The guy kept coming, now threatening the husband. So the hubby stood up, in an act of courage that went beyond admirable. Because there was going to be trouble, clearly.

I and another guy walked over, though I had no idea what I was going to do.

Meanwhile, the woman who’d been the target of his abuse slipped into the next car. Soon a conductor charged into the car with a kid in a knit wool cap and jeans. He opened his coat and showed his badge—an undercover cop.

The abuser immediately turned into an altar boy, denying that anything had happened. But now the hubby and his wife were telling the cop what happened. At that point, the doors opened at Auburndale, and people started to get out. One of them was a tall lanky guy who said to the cop, “I saw exactly what happened.”

The abuser smiled and told the cop, “Now you’ll get the real story,” as if he was suddenly in the clear.

The guy exiting turned to the drunk low-life and said to him, “You were a threat to this car, and what you did and said was outrageous.”

Then he turned to the cop. “You should arrest him.”

With that, the guy exited. Unfortunately, the rest of the crowd was not as sympathetic. The cop told us that the train would have to be held there until backups arrived, and he turned to the wife whose husband had stood up to the creep and said, “You’re the one who wanted this.”

I could see that the cop was losing his enthusiasm for doing right.

The husband suggested that the perpetrator just be kept off the train and that the train proceed.

Unfortunately, the perpetrator’s stop was Auburndale, so he got off essentially scot-free—no doubt to tell the tale the next night over a few beers down on Track 16.

–PeterFromPort

Had a new entry into my all-time Top 5 Amtrak lowlights this past weekend. (#1: 1990. Loudspeaker announces we’ll have 20 minutes to kill in New Haven. We go outside. Train leaves five minutes later with our luggage. Travel companion tells customer service, “Your commercials say ’something about a train is magic,’ but the only magic I’m seeing is the disappearing act you did with my bags.”)

I was picking up the Missus and Little G in New Rochelle, under strict orders not to be late due to the challenge of removing Little G and large suitcase from the train. Unfortunately, Amtrak didn’t get that memo; the Missus called and said it was due in 15 minutes late.

That gave us a little time to poke around the New Rochelle train station. New Ro is an interesting case study. They’ve built a couple Avalon high-rises next to the station, and Trump/Cappelli are joining forces to erect some 45-odd-story residence nearby. As the skell chatting with the coffee lady at the New Ro station–site of the infamous New Roc City riot four months previous–wondered Saturday, “Who the hell’s gonna pay $700K for a 1-bedroom in New Rochelle?”

Indeed. For all we hear about the resurgence of New Rochelle–30 minute commute, lively downtown, diverse–it hasn’t really happened. We did a reverse commute to New Ro for three months back in the wacky dot-com days, and despite all the reports about its renaissance, it looks exactly the same, only with two and a half giant apartment buildings now. Think of it as a tiny version of Detroit: gorgeous suburbs surrounding a dodgy downtown.

Anyway, back to the Amtrak debacle. The train pulled in, people got off, the conductors signaled to each other, and it took off. Where were the Missus and Little G?

“This is the Amtrak heading south, due in at 12:15…” I confirmed with a lady next to me. Indeed it was. I told her I couldn’t seem to locate my wife and baby.

“Maybe you’ll feel better if you call them,” she said. So I did. (Honestly, I was thinking of that even before she suggested it.)

I got the Missus on the second ring.

“WE MISSED THE STOP!” she yelled.

Turns out, they were in the back of the train. When it stopped, the Missus saw nothing but dark tunnel and figured they were pausing before approaching the station. Then, the train took off, and the conductor bellowed, “Next stop, Penn Station New York.”

Ever the dutiful husband and father, it was on to Gotham for me and my trusty chariot…er, minivan.

The Missus says there was no announcement for New Rochelle. I, however, suspect it was the free booze they’re giving out.

Amtrak announced it will offer $100 booze vouchers to preferred customers on its line of fancy overnight trains. It’s an effort to bring train travel back to the old days of luxury trips across the country, says Amtrak, and an enticement for people to try the rail company’s high-end GrandLuxe Limited sleeper car service.

Surely you’re thinking what I’m thinking–can’t Metro-North try something like this? Heck, even a ten-spot’s worth of booze would help me sleep on the 6:10.

Q: Engine Bob, I got used to seeing those old-style diesel locomotives pulling my train and then suddenly a few years ago they all disappeared. What happened? 

A: Those old engines were among the last relics of post-WWII railroading still in regular passenger service anywhere in America. The official name for the locomotive you remember is the FL9, and Metro North had them in service on all three divisions (most served on the Hudson.) Even commuters who weren’t railroad fans developed a soft spot for those engines because, from the front, they looked almost human: A pair of windshields slanted down like an expressive pair of eyebrows above a characteristic “pig nose” with a headlight at the tip.  You might not think much of General Motors cars, but GM sure knew how to build a locomotive. The company’s Electro-Motive Division began rolling out FL9s between 1957 and 1960, and polished off 60 in total. While the assembly lines at EMD cranked hundreds of “F units” that looked very similar, the FL9 was exclusively a New Haven RR engine—and it had no shortage of impressive stats. The majestic, 59-foot-long FL9 tipped the scales at 282,000 lbs., could run on both diesel fuel and third-rail power, and sported a unique, six-axle A1A flexible-coil wheel truck at the back (granted, only a railfan will get a woodie from a deet like that, but it sounds cool anyway, doesn’t it?) Each engine generated 1,800 horsepower from its two-stroke 16-cylinder engine—and those cylinders were bigger than coffee cans (I know because I was lucky enough to stand on an FL9 engine’s catwalk once, and my hearing has yet to recover). Best of all, the engines were simply kick-ass: Loud enough to wake up hell, they left roiling clouds of black smoke in their wake, those hammering pistons weeping in a high-pitch wail that was as exciting as it was haunting. 

Got a question for Engine Bob? Email it to trainjotting@gmail.com.