I wimped out on heading to the city yesterday in the face of 12 inches of snow, choosing the enviable ‘work from home’ option, and the railroad got its payback on me this morning.
I debated biking versus walking to the train, and opted for the latter. The roads are a bit icy still. Plus, with all the plowing commitments around town, I doubted the Hawthorne station bike rack would be a major priority for the road crews.
Of course, the sides of the roads are a mess too, and I got hung up for a few minutes on 141, waiting for a break in the traffic to hop across the Bronx River Parkway entrance. (Supervisor Maybury told me she may put in a sidewalk or path along that stretch of road, but what I needed at that moment was a crosswalk.)
So I had to turn it up a notch as I bolted down the back road that leads to the ass-end of Hawthorne station.
As I neared the stairs, I heard the blare of a train’s horn at around 8:14:30. I put it into yet another gear, and had a large woman blocking the narrow path.
“Excuse me!” I yelled as I jumped past.
Clearly she’d given up on the 8:16, making no effort to run.
It was going to be close, I thought as I cursed the early train. I took the stairs two at a time–not a great idea after a foot of snow falls–and hit the overpass.
The overpass was jammed with about 50 riders, none of whom had made the effort to descend the stairs to the train.
The train kept going, a phantom express.
“The train is 5-10 minutes late,” a woman I see every day told me.
It dawned on me that the entire overpass full of people had likely just witnessed my awkward winter gait, chuckling that I was the only one who did not know that train streaming by would not stop. Hell, I would’ve laughed too.
I took a seat along the platform and steeled myself for the 10-minute wait–a 5-10 minute delay is never a five minute delay, is it?
Yet there was the train, at 8:21, exactly five minutes late.
I scored the precious, private 1-3/4 seater, and was on my way.