I hit the garage yesterday morning to climb on my bike, cutting it close, as usual, for the 8:16.

I’d dodged a pair of bullets the day before–the giant storm that struck seconds after I arrived at Hawthorne station in the morning, and the rains that arrived when I rode home that evening.

I’d thrown a plastic bag over my bike seat to keep it dry Monday, which altered my morning routine just enough yesterday morning–taking the bag off the seat, folding it, throwing it in my backpack–to throw me out of whack.

I hopped on the bike and headed down the driveway, then the street. The TJs have this little tradition where the entire family–Little G, Little Miss C, The Missus–lines up in the bay window to wave to me (no, they don’t sing “So Long, Farewell, Auf Weidesen,” etc.).

According to The Missus, Little Miss C, who is 2, noticed it first.

“Hat!” she yelled. She is of few words.

“Is Daddy going to be OK?” added Little G.

Indeed, Daddy had forgotten his helmet. I’d sparred with Little G for weeks over the importance of helmet wearing, and here I was, rolling off into the sunset al fresco. Nice example, Dad.

I contemplated heading back to the garage, but decided I didn’t have time and set out commando style. What’s more dangerous, I wondered–riding slowly and safely with no helmet, or flying down Heartbreak Hill on Broad with no helmet because my train leaves in three minutes.

I passed neighbor Tea Party Steve as he watered his lawn.

“Yeh forgot yer helmet!” he yelled.

I made a lame quip about forgetting my head too, and kept on my way.

I’d ridden bikes without a helmet almost every day from age 5 to 16 or so; why was I so worried now? Probably because kids’ heads are padded with styrofoam packaging material, and adults’ noggins are not.

In fact, I liked the way it felt without a helmet, like going for a ride in your friend’s convertible on that first warm day of spring.

I liked arriving in the city free from the clutches of dreaded helmet-head, and I think the 82 rail-thin models who winked at me suggestively between 42nd Street and 28th appreciated my carefully coiffed pate too.

I thought for a moment about retiring the brain-bucket full-time, but figured I was lucky to get home in one piece without it yesterday.

There it is, what was once a proud little testament to green commuting, now a jungle gym for ants and ladybugs.

The quick “Behind the Music” story of the bike rack–we asked Town Hall for it in 2007, Town Hall delivered, a number of people locked their bikes to it, and it was knocked down by a snow plow during one of our crazy snurricanes this past winter.

Up until this week, it was at least upright–not useable, as the rack was separated from its concrete moorings, but at least standing with a hint of dignity.

Now, it’s down and out.

Town Supervisor Maybury and I spoke about the rack in late March, and she said the highway department was set to fix it. I left a message for her yesterday morning and haven’t heard back. [UPDATE HERE, SHE DID CALL BACK.]

And what’s up with Mount Pleasant Taxi? They had a sign out a few weeks ago saying they were moving to the other side of the tracks (and if you’ve been on the Broadway side of Hawthorne station, it is indeed The Other Side of the Tracks), potentially clearing out the station house for a coffee shop, reading room, or whatever. But it sure looks like the cab crew is still installed inside its longtime digs.

This is a bit ironic.

Hopped an earlier train home yesterday, thanks to a late afternoon meeting at 30 Rock that didn’t quite leave enough time to hustle back to the office.

So I made a few phone calls from an absolutely filthy MSNBC Cafe, soiled coffee cups and sundae containers spilling out of garbage cans onto the floor. There’s a candidate for Keith Olbermann’s “Worst Person in the World” prize–the clean-up guy/gal at MSNBC Cafe.

I then sat amidst the tourists around the mushy skating rink–it was 92 here in Gotham–and slowly made my way to Grand Central for the 5:27.

When we pulled into Hawthorne, I saw that just about each and every car in the main had a flier on the windshield. So tenacious were the purveyors of leaflets that they even rolled one up and slide it into a loop in my bike lock.

What, pray tell, was the message in these fliers that would inevitably end up floating around the revitalizing Hawthorne train station like big-ass Noreaster snurricane flakes? [EDITOR’S NOTE: To be fair, I didn’t end up seeing the fliers littering the ground. I guess residents got the message and threw them out properly.]

“Clean-Up Day!”, in fact.

“Please join us on Saturday, April 10th,” the flier implored. “We care about our town and hope you feel the same way!”

In fact, I do. So I’ll pass along the rest of the info: Meet at James M. Carroll Park in Thornwood–a.k.a. “Goose Poop Park” to those who’ve been there–at 9 a.m. to help clean up Kensico Road, the Saw Mill entrance, Columbus Avenue, Broadway Field and, yes, Goose Poop Park itself.

Coffee and donuts will be served.

Please take care to dispose of your damn Dunkin’ Donuts cup.

Got to the station today, and my train was  cancelled.

Folks talking, phoning, muttering, making alternate plans. Some just waiting and staring at the puddles.

Usually in this situation I would get back on my bike and trek the mile to the Summit station hub. But I had driven to the station, on account of the rain. It was a thirty minute wait for the next train, and then unknown crowding and delays. 
 
So for some nostalgic reason, I opted for the bus. I walked a block to the bus stop, and lacking a schedule, hoped a bus would come by soon. I was joined by one other (blackberry-packing) train defector, so I felt my plan held water.

Fifteen minutes, and $9.30 later, I was aboard the packed Summit Express, and scored the last seat. It was a snug ride, but quiet. (A sign read: Cell phones for Emergency Use Only).
 
We made a few stops and took on some “standees” who were not pleased. Two guys actually got off after a few stops, to wait for the next bus. They felt it necessary to argue with the bus driver.

“Have a good day, sirs.” was the weathered bus driver’s weary retort.
 
I watched as the houses turn to highway, and soon fell asleep in the dim lights and splash of commuter traffic in the rain.

We parked at Port Authority by 8:20 a.m., and I joined the Monday walking fray.

I’m not sure how the train faithful made out after all.
 
-jerseyjim

Westchester is still digging out after the two-foot ass-kicking we took late last week. Much of the county lost power for a significant amount of time; some are still without power, I think,

Chappaqua resident Peter Applebome, who writes the My Town Our Towns column for the NY Times, writes about the misery of being off the grid for three days up there in Clintonville. To be fair, Applebome says it ain’t exactly the same as being an earthquake victim.

I saw stretches of outages while walking home Friday, including Broad just east of Bradhurst.

While we were able to keep Dinosaur Train airing on Sprout for Little G all weekend, we were nonetheless dismayed to find our beloved little bike rack–the one we pestered Town Hall for 2 1/2 years ago, the most publicized little bike rack in the free world–flattened from the snow.

What fond memories we have of the rack: Seeing it arrive that fateful day in July 2007. Seeing it become a popular hangout for two-wheeled vehicles when gas got freakishly expensive. Seeing it get totally full of bikes after some initial resistance.

[The curvy black bar behind the fence]

Well, perhaps it was not entirely flattened, but it’s looking for all the world like it is not something you will ever again lock your bike on, at least not in its current state.

It appears the snow plows, while clearing out the Hawthorne station lot, shoved a mountain of snow against the rack, which has been lifted off its moorings on one side and now is raised to the sky at a 45 degree angle, as opposed to the right angle more commonly seen on bike racks. The plows presumably busted the thing right out of its concrete platforms, which, frankly, didn’t look so secure from the start.

We’ll see what it looks like when the mound of snow clears. For now, there’s so much snow keeping the rack in place that it seems safe to lock your bike to–heck, I did this morning, and the long vacated Power Climber bike is still there, more neglected than Kirstie Allie’s StairMaster.

But the Town maintenance guys are going to have to do some jiggering to make it viable after the snow’s gone.

I was chatting with Saugatucker about the merits of biking to the train recently. Sure, it’s a few minutes of misery on those 20 degree mornings. But we agreed there’s something about driving to the train that just feels like the ultimate suburban cliche…wait, the image of the angry commuter chipping ice off his windshield before driving to the train would be the ultimate suburban cliche.

Saugatucker carves almost three miles through the Westport terrain each morning on his bike, a much lengthier jaunt than mine. We mentioned the quiet delight we experience when seeing neighbors climb into their cars around the same time we set out on our bikes, both looking to make the same train, but only one of us having to navigate the labyrinthian misery of the commuter parking lot.

Of course, on those bleak wintry-mix mornings when I set out on foot, I’m all too happy to have those neighbors give my sorry ass a ride to the station.

So I was torn between walking to the train and riding the trusty steed this morning, with all the precipitation nonsense that fell yesterday. I was fearful of the dreaded black ice this morning, but also tired of all the walking to the station I’ve done of late due to all the snow. So I decided to set out a few minutes early and bike cautiously.

At the end of my driveway, I saw a neighbor climbing into the passenger seat of her car, with her husband at the wheel. Their kid was in tow too–heading to the city with mom due to winter break from school.

The roads were fine and I resumed my normal speed after descending Heartbreak Hill to Memorial Drive. I pulled into the station parking lot just as the stone-faced D was dropping off T and Little V–chalk another one up for the bike guys.

My morning momentum was short-lived, however, as the 8:16 was late. At 8:22, the loudspeaker crackled to life.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the 8:16 is running 10 to 15 minutes late,” it said.

Us platform pigeons performed a collective exhale to show Metro-North our displeasure, and sought refuge from the morning chill in the plexiglass shelter.

At 8:29, the 8:16 rolled in. No explanation for the delay was forthcoming, and the 8:16 pulled into Grand Central at 9:13, a full nine minutes late. That’s even late by Metro-North’s generous 5:59 rule, which says trains arriving up to six minutes late are, in fact, on time by the railroad’s standards. In fact, the latest issue of MNR mouthpiece Mileposts said the Harlem Line was “on time” 98.6% of the time in 2009–meaning us poor suckers on the so called “8:16″ this morning were privy to something that only happens 1.4% of the time.

How special! Perhaps I was better off riding the bike to the city.  

Those who bike to the train each day–such as Saugatucker and his 2.7 mile-each-way haul to Westport station, JerseyJim and his Summit haul, and the Phantom Power-Climber of Hawthorne station–must contend with motorists who are not happy to share the road with the two-wheeled set.

Here’s a little something to ensure they either run you off the road, or honk nastily–depending on which shirt you’re wearing. For a cool 60 bucks, you can own either the Share the Damn Road or the Don’t Honk at Me cycling jersey.

If nothing else, the shirts look warm for those 20-degree morning commutes.

We were fairly psyched when we saw the first signs of a new restaurant along Hawthorne’s sleepy strip in the fall. Indeed, Punta Cana Restaurant promised “Spanish & Portuguese food”–a nice variation from the red sauce and bar food available in Hawthorne.

The place opened a few days before Christmas, and I’m just not getting the sense that it’s booming as I bike by every day. Indeed, most days, I see the proprietors–a pair of affable Latinas–looking a bit bored inside. More often than not, there are no customers in there–at 6:30 p.m., no less.  

We got takeout there once, over the Christmas break. I got the “Bonless” chicken with rice and beans; I may never get tired of English-as-a-second-language typos on menus, a pastime stoked across many years of visiting the curry joints and their malaprop-rich menus on 6th Street in the East Village.

The food was decent. The portions were huge; I had my bonless chicken for dinner, had it for lunch the next day, and even snuck a few bonless bits into the Hawthorne multiplex for a snack during Invictus a few days later.

The Missus wasn’t so wild about hers. She detected a shallow pool of oil in the bottom of her aluminum dish, which likely means we’ll never go back.

The main proprietor was sweet and said she lived a few doors down, and that her kid goes to Hawthorne Elementary School.

So let’s get out and support the newest culinary addition to Hawthorne Heights. They even serve breakfast. The food may not be Gramercy Tavern-level, but it’s better than that dirty comic book shop/deli that used to grace the main drag.  

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.

The guy holding up the line on the stairs at Hawthorne station because he was playing Connect Four on his smartphone.

Sir.

It was the end of the long workday, and we all just wanted to get down the stairs at Hawthorne station, climb into our cars (or, in the case of three people in the whole of Hawthorne, climb onto our bikes), and head home for dinner and a Don Draper digestif.

You, Sir, were in no such rush. No, you took your own sweet time heading down the stairs. You were, in fact, engrossed in a game of Connect Four on your Blackberry.

Yes, when I finally had the slim opening to pass you, I saw the bright glow of your PDA screen, with the Connect Four board shining in the dark mid-Westchester November night.

Connect Four! That mid-’70s Milton Bradley creation, a barely entertaining mash-up of checkers and tic tac toe (frankly, neither of its forefathers was all that entertaining either, so it’s no surprise the offspring ended up dull).

In fact, the most lasting legacy of Connect Four would have to be the commercial: a bowl-cutted lad outfoxed by his sister, if memory serves, offering up a defeated “Pretty sneaky, Sis!” with equal parts dejection and respect.

That’s what occupied your mind, fellow traveler, and that’s what held up the masses behind you.

What’s next for you, Sir, a Hungry Hippos app?

Frustratedly,

Trainjotting