Yes, I recorded my worst-ever ride on Metro-North yesterday in eight months of commuting. Worse than anything encountered during Slippery Rail Season, worse than during those Noreasters, even worse than when Joey From 5A and I hobbled through Hartsdale during last month’s near tornado.

Yesterday’s 6:10 started like any other ride, until we got over the bridge and into the Bronx. We sat facing a makeshift garbage dump for several minutes; adding insult to injury, several trains mockingly screamed by.

We ambled along, slower than usual, then hit another dead stop somewhere in Mount Vernon. Like the subway circa 1992, a man got on the loudspeaker and garbled something unintelligible.

We then crawled from Mount Vernon into White Plains, admiring all those things along the tracks you don’t normally get to see at cruising speed, such as that tiny steel bridge in Scarsdale.

Riders, to their credit, didn’t really grumble. They took advantage of the extra time to read, sleep and for the most part not talk on their phones.  (It seems as though some veteran commuters actually prefer delays because it means less time with family. I sincerely hope this never happens to me.)

As we got to White Plains–nearly an hour after leaving GCT–the loudspeaker came on. “Ladies and gentlemen, White Plains will be our next stop,” the man said. “Please remember to take all personal belongings.”

Uh, what about the half-hour delay? 

“Once again,” he continued, “there’s been a lot of congestion due to…”

Again, the loudspeaker went garbled, but it sounded something like a tree down on the tracks.  

When we finally pulled into Hawthorne at 7:18–fully 26 minutes late–the Missus was there to give my weary ass a ride. The side window had fallen out of the minivan earlier, and Little G refused to be dressed. So my first glimpse at the family was my toddler wearing only a diaper, through the empty window frame in the van.

When did I get so white trash?