I’d walked to Grand Central  Friday under a black cloud shaped like a Mohawk haircut; clear skies over the East River and the Hudson, angry thunderheads roofing the middle of Manhattan. I thought of potential dry spots to duck into along Park, but got to the station before the deluge.

I bought a Sam Adams to mark the end of the work week and got onto the 5:46. The doors shut and we started up the track, then stopped about 30 seconds later.

Two minutes passed.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re being held momentarily,” said the conductor, with no further detail.

Two more minutes passed. I tried to concentrate on the Times but couldn’t.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” went the conductor a moment later, “we’re told a tree is down on the tracks and none of the trains are getting out. We’ll let you know when we have more information.”

Groans. Silent curses.

At around 5:55, the conductor came on again, told us they’d open one door in each car so we could stand on the platform, get out and use our phones, etc.

I sat and waited. Neither the phone nor the Blackberry was working. I silently seethed.

At 6:05, our conductor got back on. He said multiple trees were down, multiple trains were screwed, and the Harlem line was essentially jammed up for the foreseeable future.

I’d heard enough. I jumped out and made my way up the ramp, where another train’s worth of people were massed at the track entrance in Grand Central, hungry for bits of information. One man asked me what I knew. I told him what the conductor had said. He shook his head and thanked me.

I scanned the giant Hudson line board–I actually had to figure out where it was–and saw there was a 6:20 to Tarrytown, a doable cab ride from Hawthorne.

Walking to track 40 for the famed Hudson line and all its picturesque river glory, I wondered just how jammed the 6:20 would be–every poor Harlem line refugee jammed in there. I bought a Post at Hudson News and stepped onto the train.

In fact, it was half empty, and would stay half empty right up until departure. My cell and my Blackberry worked; I called The Missus and told her I was late, and retrieved my three CleverCommute emails (and, some time later, MTA Web Advisories) about storm damage on the Harlem line.

The train rolled out at 6:20, and we were mercifully headed to points north.

(It’s worth noting the MTA Web Advisory I got at 6:11:

–

Service has been suspended on the Hudson and Harlem lines due to storm impacts (high water, trees down across the tracks).

–
 Uh, the Hudson line is moving, folks.)

I’d been on the Hudson line one time in recent memory, while doing a little “research” for a magazine story about a pub crawl on each of the three Metro North lines. The part of the story taking place on the Hudson line had ended at Striped Bass in Tarrytown, where I’d taken a cab home and spent around $14 for it.

In fact, the cab remained as the lone iffy wild card on my trip. Even though the train was not full, surely there would be dozens of Harlem liners looking for a cab at Tarrytown, the first stop on this train.

I stepped off the train under the shadow of that wonderful erector set project known as the Tappan Zee and saw a cabbie from Tarrytown Taxi. I waved and he nodded me into his car. I told him where I was going and he nodded again. I shared the back seat with another Hawthorner, and just like that, we were off.

When we got to my house around 12 minutes later, the cabbie told me it was $20. I told him I’d spent around $14 for that same ride a few months before, but he confirmed it was $20. I shelled out $22 and was just thankful to be home–around 45 minutes later than I would’ve been on the usual 5:46.

I called Tarrytown Taxi the next day and asked how much it would cost to go Tarrytown to Hawthorne. I encountered a very strange man.

“Anywhere between $16 and $25,” he said. “Depends who drives ya. If it’s a white guy, maybe $16. If it’s a Hispanic guy, more.”

I said something along the lines of, shouldn’t it be a flat fee.

“Why should it be?” he said. “If they can get $20, they’ll get $20.”

I suggested it might be illegal to charge different fees for the same ride.

“This is the most crooked company in the world,” he told me. “I’ve been here 15 years, and it’s the most crooked company in the world.”

I asked his name and he said John Anderson. He then proceeded to blame the price range on the “local politicians,” and told me the true fare should be $16 to $18.

In truth, I was so happy to get the damn cab that I didn’t mind a little price-gouging.

Trainjotting examined the first two parts of InTown Magazine’s “The Great Train Revelry,” covering the pubs along the Harlem Line and the New Haven Line, earlier this week. Here, ladies and gentlemen, is the third and final installment: the Hudson Line.

Of the three rail routes, the Hudson Line is the hands-down winner in the looks department, thanks to that snaking body of water to the west. It’s the pub crawl that’s best suited to the daylight hours; if you’re heading out of the city, be sure to snag a seat facing front-left for full visual pleasure.

The boxy warehouses of Yonkers give way to the leafy greensward of Hastings-on-Hudson, and we disembark. We head up the hill on Southside Avenue, and have barely hit 100 steps before we’re inside the impossibly cozy Maud’s Tavern, every bit J.C. Fogarty’s rival for “Most Charming Joint You’ve Ever Seen.” Bartender James Dale serves up a hearty pint of our beloved Captain Lawrence. A man comes in and grabs the stool next to us. James deposits a Beck’s before he says a word.

When he does speak, Chris has a thick Liverpool accent. He was transferred from Britain to Westchester and bides his time in Maud’s until his wife scores her visa. He lives just a block away. “It’s easy,” Chris says of his own nightly pub crawl. “Too easy.”

Before we get too comfortable—because Maud’s is just that kind of place—we head back down the hill, then hop the next train for Dobbs Ferry. Unlike the previous two legs of the crawl, there’s a certain fitness level required to conquer the hills of Main Street, and I .nd myself wishing I’d spent more time at the NY Sports Club on 9A in Hawthorne, instead of the Applebee’s across the parking lot.

Dale had recommended the Celtic Corner—and it does indeed look appealing—but we’re conserving energy at this point, and Austin’s Steak & Wine is a few doors closer. Oh, and the fivesome of young women laughing at the bar doesn’t hurt either.

Alas, the women are escorted to the dining room as soon as we drop anchor. But there’s college football on the plasma—New Rochelle native Ray Rice (who also happens to appear on page 46 of this issue) is hauling the rock for Rutgers—and jazz on the house system. The menu offers a selection of lighter fare, perfect for a pub crawl. We order up crab-cake po’ boys and a handful of sliders, and the barkeep pours us a delightfully hoppy creation called Goose Island Honker’s Ale. Life is good.

It’s tough to leave Dobbs, but we must press on.

Back on Metro-North, we pass Ardsley-on-Hudson and get out in Irvington. While the village’s main drag is to the east of the station, we head through the tunnel under the tracks and end up on the western side, to a long riverside warehouse that holds a trendy new restaurant (and one of InTown Westchester’s top 10 restaurants of 2007) called One.

The joint has big-city ambiance—a warehouse-on-the-water setting that looks like a more manicured version of Red Hook, Brooklyn. And the guy in the ironic glasses explaining the intricacies of a wine label might as well be a sommelier from TriBeCa. The bartender, a feisty blonde woman (Bay Ridge?), shows us the wine list. She’s pushing the quartinos—those containers that are bigger than a glass but smaller than a bottle. She’s all attitude when I opt for the glass.

The guy in the specs swirls his wine around as he describes its “notes,” the word grenache rolling off his tongue like he’s been saying it since boyhood. I close my eyes and can see Belushi, clad in a toga, smashing the man’s acoustic guitar.

We take a quick tour of the dining room, and it’s a sleek space—high ceilings, an entire wall dedicated to wine storage. The waiter gives us a brief history: One is turning two (will they change the name?). While neighbor Flirt Sushi recently went out of business, the new Red Hat outpost is a welcome addition.

After One, we cross under the tracks, get to Main Street, and start climbing the steep hill like Lance Armstrong taking on Alpe d’Huez. Night has fallen and, other than our huffing and puffing, it’s dead quiet. Going up toward town hall, we think we see yet another urban trapping—a homeless guy, long beard down to his belly. We get closer, though, and see it’s no vagabond at all, but a bronze statue of Rip Van Winkle—a hero to nappers everywhere. Fighting off a serious urge to cuddle up next to Rip for a little snooze, we reverse direction and head back to the train for our final destination.

It’s only one stop, but the spirit of Mr. Van Winkle seems to hover; it takes considerable effort to stay alert and not wake up in Cold Spring (seasoned commuters call that pulling an Accidental Tourist). The train whisks us to Tarrytown, where we’re faced with a dilemma: Schlep the few blocks—steep blocks, needless to say—up Main Street, or take the overpass and walk all of about 25 feet to Striped Bass. Our arms are a mad tangle of high fives as we cross the threshold. Mission (nearly) accomplished!

Set on the river, sailboats docked nearby, Striped Bass offers an inspiring view of the Tappan Zee. In the warmer months, the deck is open for live music, lobster rolls, and cold beer. Inside, photos of ships and giant fish line the walls. The roster from the Tarrytown Boat Club sits in a frame. We order up beers at the Bass’s ample bar and re.ect on the evening’s crawl.

There’s something about the Hudson Line that we can’t quite put our finger on, some faint itch of déjà vu—massive hills leading out of the train stations, gabled homes built into the bluffs, glittering landmark of a bridge. It’s all so… San Francisco! Suddenly I’m in the mood for some Ghirardelli chocolate and a glass of Napa pinot noir, or even just a bowl of Rice-a-Roni and an Anchor Steam. Perhaps a little Journey on the juke—that song about the lights/going down/in the ci-tay.

Eventually reclaiming my sense of place, I sit back, sip my beer, and watch the bridge twinkle overhead. The cars are rushing to get somewhere, whether it’s Westchester, Rockland, or points beyond. I scoff in the direction of the drivers, strapped in their steel boxes while we’re getting around on the rails, some shoe leather, and a bit of ingenuity.

We drain our beers and step outside. Uh… Where does a guy get a cab around here?

MAUD’S TAVERN Hastings-on-Hudson

ORDER AN Espresso Martini to boost your stamina for the homestretch.

PUB GRUB Does comfort food get any more comfortable than fried chicken with cole slaw and french fried potatoes? (149

Southside Ave.; Hastings-on-Hudson; 478-2326; maudstavern.com).

AUSTIN’S STEAK & WINE Dobbs Ferry

ORDER A Winter’s Bourbon Cask Ale, which warms the imbiber on the chilliest of eves.

PUB GRUB Steak on toast (39 Chestnut St.; Dobbs Ferry; 693-1575).

ONE Irvington

ORDER A 2005 Castle Rock cabernet—a taste of California wine country without leaving the county.

PUB GRUB A dozen Wellfleet oysters (1 Bridge St.; Irvington; 591-2233; restaurantoneny.com).

STRIPED BASS Tarrytown

ORDER A Macallan 12-year-old Scotch.

PUB GRUB Half-rack of grilled St. Louis ribs in tequila barbecue sauce (236 W. Main St.; Tarrytown; 366-4455; stripedbassny.com).

The Hudson Line, the darling of the Metro-North trinity, gets a whopping 41 more trains each week when the spring timetable goes into action April 6.

All told, Metro-North is adding an extra 67 trains each week to keep up with growing–and changing–rider demand.

Besides those sweet river views, the Hudson Line gets 21 additional weekend trains, including a pair of Upper Hudson “Saturday Only” expresses leaving from Poughkeepsie and Grand Central.

As defits its middle-child status, Harlem Line gets 16 new trains, including an early morning express out of North White Plains at 5:55. (North White at 6 in the morning…is there a more depressing thought?)

The 7:52 p.m. out of Grand Central now goes express from White Plains to Chappaqua, and the poor suckers in between (North White, Valhalla, dinky little Hawthorne and Pleasantville) will have to wait for the new 7:57.

The black sheep New Haven Line gets mostly lip service with an early morning ride out of Waterbury, Connecticut at 5:57, arriving in Grand Central at 8:18. (Dude, get a job closer to home.)

Finally, the young UBS bucks sentenced to Stamford can be at Jeremy’s Ale House on Fridays by 5 p.m., thanks to a new Stamford express leaving “The City That Works” (yes, Stamford’s actual slogan) at 3:47 and pulling into GCT at 4:41.