None of this would’ve happened if the 6:10 hadn’t been five minutes late pulling in to Hummerville.

For the second time in three days, I studied the darkening sky as the train lumbered through White Plains, North White, Valhalla. I prayed we’d get to Hummerville before the skies opened up and soaked my sorry ass as I pedaled home.

The moment we pulled into Hawthorne–several minutes after the scheduled time  after much too much dawdling amidst the South Bronx rubble–the rains fell like God’s swimming pool had sprung a massive leak.

I gingerly made my way up and down the stairs and over to the shell of our former station house, finding an overhang that afforded me a glimpse of my sorry cycle. I waited for a slight break in the downpour, and even found a positive–unlike Monday, I was not wearing a suit. (Rocking the suit while riding the bike…a.k.a. pulling a “John John.”)

A man of about 50 took a spot next to me, eyeing a car that was parked over by the overpass, a couple hundred feet away. We made small talk, a few jokes: Why did I think riding was a good idea, where’s The Missus to pick us up, with a fresh martini in hand.

The rain showed no sign of subsiding.

Five minutes passed. I called The Missus to see it it was Code Red on the homestead. It was, for once, not. She said the rain was slowing up at the homestead, all of 9/10ths of a mile from the station.

Sure enough, by the end of the call, the rain occupied a much tamer volume level.

“I can give you a ride,” said the man next to me.

I stammered…No, really, I’m fine, it’s OK.

“I’ll give you a ride,” he insisted.

As if that wasn’t a grand enough gesture of kindness, he then said he’d run to his car, and swing back to pick me up. I stammered some more: Not really necessary, I don’t mind getting wet, OK.

Sure enough, he sprinted off, then pulled in two minutes later. The rain was merely a steady drizzle now, but my spongy bike seat held enough water to sate a third world nation. I left the bike on the rack.

We made some more small talk as he drove me home. He lived in Briarcliff, he was a mile from the Pleasantville station, but there was no sidewalk and the route is perilous for pedestrians.

We pulled up to my house. I offered my name and my hand. We shook. He was Bill or Jim or something with three letters. If only for a moment, he reinforced my faith in humanity.

A martini would’ve been nice though.

BATTLE OF THE MIDWAY /BAHT ull uv the MIDD way/ noun:  The non-verbal jockeying for ownership of the empty middle seat between occupants of the window and aisle seats on a three-seater.

Usage: The guy in the window seat had his briefcase in the middle seat on the 8:22 to Valhalla, but I kept moving parts of my Times over until we ended up sharing the space.

Weird Coincidence of the Day:

I had Frank Black’s “Dog in the Sand” on my iPod this morning. Just as we pulled into Valhalla, this lyric came up.

Excuse me now I’ve got a call
I’ll take this call from Valhalla
Please tell my friends from outer space
You are my son you’ll take my place

Unfortunately, nothing like that happened as the train pulled into North White Plains.

The 6:33 was chugging along to points north. I had the express pleasure (or was it the local pleasure?) to have the Missus and Little G in tow, after Missus visited with a friend in Gotham.

We were pulling out of Valhalla when a rider came bursting through the door.

I’ve seen this a few times. As any regular rider knows, those wishing to exit in Valhalla and Pleasantville must not be in the rear two cars, as those doors don’t open. In fact, I can almost recite the conductor’s speech by heart.

Apparently, the message never reached this guy. He was a young man, maybe 30, in chinos and a green polo shirt, hair closely cropped atop an increasingly crimson face, a finger still holding his place in a paperback Harry Potter book.

He bolted to the closed door, put his face on the window, and watched Valhalla inch away. He screamed for the conductor and swiveled his head around for some sort of emergency switch.

Someone pointed to the ceiling, where some mystery Mission Abort button resided. Like a kid trying to reach a Nerf ball stuck in a tree, the man leapt repeatedly, finger extended, trying to hit the button. Within seconds, a young Asian conductress entered the car. The man got in her face and gave her what-for: announcement never came, he had no idea, yadda yadda yadda.

Slowly, she shook her head. No, the train was not backing up so the man could egress at Valhalla. He grew redder. His voice grew louder. She shook her head again and walked away.

The man saved his best blast of unintentional comedy until this part. He took four steps to the vestibule, stopped in front of the door, cocked back his fist, eyed the ideal target, and shot a right cross at the waist-high metal handrail strip.

The pre-meditation of his movement struck me. Punching a wall is a spontaneous act, or at least should be. But this man, this reader of Potter, this misser of Valhalla station, painstakingly prepared for his flash of anger.

It reminded me of Yankee washout Kevin Brown, who after yet another putrid performance, retreated to the clubhouse tunnel and had the uncharacteristically good sense to punch a wall with his left hand, thus breaking his non-pitching hand.

As the train ambled toward Hawthorne, we debated offering him a ride back to Valhalla, then decided he was sort of a jerk.

Well, I guess I owe someone an apology. Last week, I pointed out that my return train had been on time all of 2-3 times since I started my commuter life in October, then cheekily introduced a contest asking readers to guess when Metro-North would next be on time (defined as within 59 seconds of scheduled arrival time) heading out of Grand Central. Wouldn’t you know it, Metro-North pulled the proverbial rabbit out of its hat Monday night. Yes, the 5:46 train pulled into Hawthorne fully three minutes early! A 39-minute train ride! (What are we, Valhalla or something?) The Missus was stunned as she pulled into the parking lot and saw me waiting for her, for once. “What’re you doing here?” she asked. So the contest is over, and Metro-North gets a hearty smack on the back for throwing it back in my face.  

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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.