A commuting horror story of a different color
Okay, I got berated for including too many non-personal stories in my blog. Hey, sometimes even my life isn't all that interesting! Well, this story does keep coming up, so I thought I'd include it.
I met some friends out the other night, and we were discussing commuting horror stories. You know, stuck on Muni for hours stories, two hours to go seven miles stories, my-god-why-can't-they-just-drag-the-body-off-the-tracks-and-just-go stories. Mine took the cake.
Not so much a commuting from home story, but commuting from a friend's place. Last May I went to London for the first time, and I was staying with a friend out in suburban London. Right convenient, actually, just two stops on a suburban rail line from Victoria Station, about 25 minutes. (Not Soho, I know, but anyplace free to stay in London is a good deal!)
So one night we went out. We were out late, and my friends had to go home early. I said I'd catch another train. So I get to Victoria Station about 3 AM. I'm buzzed, I've had a few (or more than a few, as the recipients of my drunken texts would tell me). I get on the train and start listening to my iPod. Clapham Junction comes up. I know the next stop is mine.
So the next stop approaches, I get off there. The train starts to pull away. I look around. This isn't my stop.
Holy crap, I got off at the wrong stop.
It's 3:30 AM, it's raining, there's not a soul around, and I'm somewhere unknown in the middle of suburban London.
I run over to one of those big red "Infospot" buttons.
"Hello, London Transport Help Desk"
"Uh, yeah, I seem to have been let out at the wrong station."
"Which station are you at?"
I told her. I honestly don't remember which one it was now.
"Which station are you trying to get to?"
"East Croydon."
"Oh, I'm sorry. The train must have made a crew stop."
"Well, when's the next train to East Croydon."
I hear clicking of keys on the other end.
"7:30 AM."
My heart sinks. Four hours. It's raining. It's cold. My buzz is quickly dying.
"Well, I'm not going to wait here for four hours for a train," I said.
"Well, you might want to see if there's a cab outside or something."
Of course there's not.
"Well, exactly how far away am I?"
"Oh, I don't know. It's at least a few miles. I wouldn't walk it if I were you."
At this point I'm thinking, my people stormed the beaches of Normandy for your people and marched all the way to Berlin, the least I could do is walk a few miles to get a good night's sleep.
I did not say that of course.
So I thanked her for her help and started walking.
As it turns out, I was about four miles away. I've run less than that on an off day on the treadmill. I could see the office towers of downtown Croydon in the distance. I proceeded to walk, and in about 45 minutes, I was home safe and sound and warm and dry in my bed. I got a few hours of sleep, put on my tux and made it to my friends' wedding on time.
Now my hangover was a completely different story. :-)
I met some friends out the other night, and we were discussing commuting horror stories. You know, stuck on Muni for hours stories, two hours to go seven miles stories, my-god-why-can't-they-just-drag-the-body-off-the-tracks-and-just-go stories. Mine took the cake.
Not so much a commuting from home story, but commuting from a friend's place. Last May I went to London for the first time, and I was staying with a friend out in suburban London. Right convenient, actually, just two stops on a suburban rail line from Victoria Station, about 25 minutes. (Not Soho, I know, but anyplace free to stay in London is a good deal!)
So one night we went out. We were out late, and my friends had to go home early. I said I'd catch another train. So I get to Victoria Station about 3 AM. I'm buzzed, I've had a few (or more than a few, as the recipients of my drunken texts would tell me). I get on the train and start listening to my iPod. Clapham Junction comes up. I know the next stop is mine.
So the next stop approaches, I get off there. The train starts to pull away. I look around. This isn't my stop.
Holy crap, I got off at the wrong stop.
It's 3:30 AM, it's raining, there's not a soul around, and I'm somewhere unknown in the middle of suburban London.
I run over to one of those big red "Infospot" buttons.
"Hello, London Transport Help Desk"
"Uh, yeah, I seem to have been let out at the wrong station."
"Which station are you at?"
I told her. I honestly don't remember which one it was now.
"Which station are you trying to get to?"
"East Croydon."
"Oh, I'm sorry. The train must have made a crew stop."
"Well, when's the next train to East Croydon."
I hear clicking of keys on the other end.
"7:30 AM."
My heart sinks. Four hours. It's raining. It's cold. My buzz is quickly dying.
"Well, I'm not going to wait here for four hours for a train," I said.
"Well, you might want to see if there's a cab outside or something."
Of course there's not.
"Well, exactly how far away am I?"
"Oh, I don't know. It's at least a few miles. I wouldn't walk it if I were you."
At this point I'm thinking, my people stormed the beaches of Normandy for your people and marched all the way to Berlin, the least I could do is walk a few miles to get a good night's sleep.
I did not say that of course.
So I thanked her for her help and started walking.
As it turns out, I was about four miles away. I've run less than that on an off day on the treadmill. I could see the office towers of downtown Croydon in the distance. I proceeded to walk, and in about 45 minutes, I was home safe and sound and warm and dry in my bed. I got a few hours of sleep, put on my tux and made it to my friends' wedding on time.
Now my hangover was a completely different story. :-)
posted by Joe Carlin at 12:53 AM
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