Forget The Marathon, There’s Always Competitive Commuting

I discovered a new sport last weekend.

It had nothing to do with breaking records, winning titles or earning large sums of money – but it had everything to do with survival.

We’ve never seen this type of sport in Maine before. In order for us to do what we have to do to support our families all we had to do was show up. The showing up part involved little stress because it usually entailed a short drive down an uncrowded highway or back road. But, like everything else in this world, times have changed.

The population of our now very popular community has increased exponentially over the past 20 years. More and more people have made their home in York because it represents what life should be. There is little industry to support this population boom so many of our new citizens have to travel long distances in order to get to work. This necessity has crowded our roads and made life a bit more difficult for people who yearned for a better quality of life.

A new means of transportation has evolved from this increase in population. The train is now becoming part of a new routine to get people to their high-paying jobs in Boston, Portland, or New York. In fact, this new means of transportation has become so popular in such a short space of time that Amtrak had to increase the number of passenger cars on its new, much publicized Down Easter service, which started a few weeks back. This is what has inspired a new kind of sport that takes place every morning before 7:00 am and every afternoon around 5:00PM. A sport we might call competitive commuting.

In Wells or Exeter this competition is minor league. A few people attempt to get the best seats but everyone is still able to stretch out and enjoy their journey up north to Portland or south to Boston. The trip down to Boston gets a bit tricky as soon as you hit South Station. This is because, if you have to travel on to New York City or Washington DC, you have to somehow get over to North Station. I think this is arranged to condition new commuters to the competition that is about to begin.

There are a couple of ways you can transfer between stations. You can take the “T” but that entails changing trains about three times. Since I still get lost in York I figured if I attempted this means of transportation I would end up somewhere in Indiana.

The next best way is by taxi. This sounds easy but remember there is a whole bunch of people making the same transfer at the same time. Plus there is that process still underway in Boston of digging the largest, most expensive hole in the world. So, as soon as you leave South Station you are in the midst of total chaos. Let the games begin.

I made it to North Station in time to pay the ransom charged by the cab driver and buy a restorative cup of coffee but then had to throw it away when I realized I had no time to drink it. Off I ran in search of the right track and, to my surprise, actually got on the right train.

The ride from Boston was okay, mainly because I was comfortable with the fact that I could not get lost. Of course, that did not mean the train would not break down.

My travel time was extended by at least an hour spent looking out my window at passing traffic on Route 128 in Massachusetts, most of whose drivers were no doubt laughing at those of us traveling by what was supposed to be a more efficient means of transportation.

I compensated for this humiliation by having a couple of Heinekens and toasting the passing drivers as often as possible.

As soon as I arrived at Penn Station, however, I knew I had made a tactical error. As soon as I exited into Penn Station I found myself in the midst of more people than I have ever seen in one place in my entire life. This was due to the fact that I had arrived at precisely 5:00 PM. I was awed by the amount of people jammed into the station all-waiting to take the train to their homes via The Long Island Rail Road.

So, I did the only thing I could do. I panicked. At a guess I’d say it took me 30 minutes to find the ticket counter. This was because I first attempted to use the automated ticket machine but it proved way too difficult for me to figure out. Bioinformatics should be so complicated. I eventually pushed my way to the ticket counter through crowds of people who seemed ready to eat my liver – I think they were called New Yorkers – and paid my $8.50. The person behind the ticket counter mumbled what to me sounded like a short prayer and gave me my change.

Already, I noticed, my mellow Maine personality had begun to change. I found myself walking very fast and all of a sudden had the capacity to weave in and out of people while knocking aside only small women and children. I avoided the big women because they all looked like linebackers in running shoes. I then noticed that everyone was looking up at a large black sign at the front of the station. The sign made continuous clicking sounds as it displayed a rapidly changing array of important information about what train was leaving when and from where. I waited and watched feeling like I had become one of a gigantic pack of ravenous Pavlov’s dogs.

I studied my ticket. It was about an inch square and seemed to be written in Russian. The only thing I could understand was a number that said 18. I looked up at the black board and saw that the name Huntington Station appeared. But, it was not loading. I also noticed that there were 25 other gates. The crowds no longer threatened me because, if I divided all of the people jammed into the station by 25, it really wasn’t that bad. The board started to rattle and click again like a busload of skeletons going over a railroad crossing and declared that Gate 18 could now be loaded. The entire population of Penn Station then emptied into Gate 18.

I was swept down a chute and a flight of stairs to Gate 18 and I don’t think my feet touched the ground more than twice all the way. When I reached the platform I felt like a piece of driftwood thrown up onto the beach by a nor’easter as the crowd dispersed in search of seats on the train.

I assumed this was the law of diffusion at work as I was going from an area of greater concentration to an area of lesser concentration. Or at least that is what I thought. The only problem with this theory was that I discovered that there were more people on the train than there were trying to get on board.

The notion of sitting down, I realized, was an urban myth. Instead I was jammed up against a mural of a woman sticking out her tongue to display a large and malignant tumor. The accompanying caption advised that oral cancer should be checked out and that the examination no longer caused any pain. I can, however, attest that having your face jammed up against a picture of a woman with a tumor on her tongue for an extended period of time does cause a great deal of pain.

I spent the best part of the next hour with my new poster friend, unable to move, sometimes unable to breathe and contending with the increasing demands of the two Heinekens that needed to exit my body after the unscheduled delay of two hours earlier.

The train stopped and started, people got on and off, I did not move.

After counting my fictional friend’s teeth for the 50th time in a futile effort to take my mind off my expanding bladder I saw the sign for my station and pleaded with other commuters to let me out. My pleas were met with little sympathy but somehow, by a process I still do not understand, I was expelled violently and indifferently onto the platform.

As the train pulled away I rearranged my clothing and checked my pockets to see if anything was missing, or god forbid, anything was there that shouldn’t have been there. Then I went in search of a restroom knowing I had just had my first experience with competitive commuting – and lost.