With tomorrow being Bike to Work Day and all, I called Mount Pleasant Town Hall to ask where I might lock my bike up at the train station, in advance of my heroic ride tomorrow morning. The convo went something like this:

Me: “Hi, I’m curious about where I can lock a bike up at Hawthorne train.”

Her: “I have a Metro-North person right here! I’ll ask him!”

Mumbling ensues.

Her: “He says at the bike rack next to the stairs. But I passed by there today, it’s not there.”

I waited for Plan B.

Her: “OK?”

Me, in my head: No, not OK!

Me: “So…I’m on my own?”

Her: “Yup.”

Click.

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.

I’d never seen this before. The 7:22’s about to leave. A guy—Lennon specs, preppy, clean cut–asks another guy—rumpled beige suit, loosened tie, tired, resembling Robin Williams when he has a beard–to let him in for the window seat. Robin Williams obliges.  

The train takes off. Clean Cut makes a joke. Robin Williams, munching a bag of nuts and quaffing a Sam Adams, offers a perfunctory laugh.  

A conversation ensues. Clean Cut, drinking a plastic cup of cola that is or is not augmented with alcohol, is clearly the aggressor; when he speaks, he turns towards Robin Williams. Williams, meanwhile, is playing defense; short retorts to Clean Cut’s questions, looking straight ahead.  

Mind you, they’ve already broken the most hallowed of commuter rules, the same golden rule you learned when you were six and your friends were turning up on milk cartons: don’t talk to strangers. Blame the drinks. The one convo I’ve had in my four months on the train, my seat-mate wished me a happy holiday, and I responded “You as well.” He then asked me what I did for work, intrigued because I’d said “You as well” and not “You too.” Honest. That’s what he told me.  

By Harlem, the two are well-engaged, yet still holding fast to their roles: Clean Cut pushing the convo, Robin Williams half-heartedly playing along.  

But by the Westchester border, Williams warms. Instead of answering to the seat-back in front of him, he turns about 45 degrees to Clean Cut to answer. They’re smiling. They’re laughing.  

What are they talking about? 

At White Plains, the usual gaggle gets off. I inch closer. Clean Cut says the Democrats have become smarter, are much more in touch with their people.  

Moments later, Clean Cut asks what the name of the parish is. Robin Williams struggles to find the answer. 

“Sacred Heart,” eventually comes the reply.  

As we approach Hawthorne, Clean Cut has bad news: it’s his stop. Will they shake hands, promise to do lunch, barbecue in summer, introduce their wives, hug? Not so. Smiles and nods, and Clean Cut is on his way.  

The February edition of Metro North’s Mileposts is out. If you haven’t seen the publication—and I’m fairly sure I’m the only one who reads it—it’s a surprisingly well-produced little rag with a sly wit.  

The lead story in the Valentine’s Day-themed issue, titled “We’re Very Punctual (Unlike Your Last Date)…”–see, I told you it was funny—touts the railroad’s performance scores. Metro North scored a 97.8 on-time percentage for 2006. As I’ve groused about before, Metro North gives itself a six minute leeway; if a train that’s due in at 8 gets in at 8:05:59, it’s “on time.” (Wish you could’ve had that clause with your curfew growing up, huh?)  

Yet nowhere in the issue is this caveat revealed.  

Also of note: ridership east of the Hudson was 75 million last year, a record and a 3.1% increase over 2005.  

And while listing capital improvements, I learned that “The second phase of the Upper Harlem Station Rehabilitation (White Plains through Southeast) was also completed.” So for crummy old Hawthorne, done up in dingy pool-cover-blue, its old station house a repository for someone’s junk, that’s as good as it gets for the foreseeable future.  

Lastly, Mileposts sneakily encourages good behavior on trains by dressing it up as relationship advice: “As Valentine’s Day approaches, you don’t need to waste money on expensive dating services to find the ideal ‘soul mate.’ Just look at his or her behavior when they are commuting on the train. Do they:” 

The article then mentions some things to look for, such as keeping one’s feet off the seats and using the cell phone responsibly.  

The train was more crowded than usual at Hawthorne. Instead of my typical 10 minutes of blissful not-having-to-share solitude, I joined another guy in a three-seater.

At North White Plains, the announcement came on: “Ladies and gentlemen, as you’re well aware, we’re short two cars today,” the conductor said, before explaining that, at some point this morning, the third rail went kaput somewhere, a train was stuck, we had to lend ‘em a few cars, something like that. “It’s going to be extremely crowded, so please make all seats available,” he continued. “Thank you for your patience.”

The faces of the new arrivals at
White Plains shifted from blank (commuter default) to concern (am I getting a seat?) to anger (I’m not getting a seat). A man gestured about the availability of our middle seat (in car parlance, “sitting bitch”). I got up to let him in.

The man opened a copy of Nature Magazine. He started to read something on the brain, which was illustrated with graphics that looked straight out of CSI. He grew bored and started reading my Times from my right flank. It was about Oscar nominations. It had pictures of pretty women. Better than the brain.

Rough start, but an otherwise smooth ride.