Running for the Overland
Melbourne to Adelaide, Thursday 22 March 2012
Running for a train is never fun. Running for a train with bags is even less fun. Running for a train with bags, across several city blocks, is towards the bottom of my ‘Enjoyable means of travelling’ list.
This was exactly what I found myself doing to be sure of catching the Overland from Melbourne to Adelaide.
It was an incredibly stressful way of spending a Thursday morning.
Steph had suggested that driving into the city to drop me at Southern Cross station was an exercise in futility; the alternative was to hop on the train at Ascot Vale. It would only be a few stops and far less stressful than navigating Melbourne’s morning rush hour.
Only, it wasn’t.
The train from Ascot Vale didn’t stop at Southern Cross/ Spencer Street station. It stopped at Flinders Street station. If I’d’ve known that I needed to change at Elizabeth Street, everything would have been cool and groovy. Instead I ended up very hot, very sweaty, and very stressed as I had to make my way from Flinders Street station to Southern Cross station, laden with rucksacks, weaving through commuters and school kids, and with only about 20 minutes before the train left for Adelaide.
Taking the Indian-Pacific from Sydney to Perth has been one of my 1940s romanticised rail journey ideals for years. But seeing as I wanted to take in Melbourne and see what Adelaide was about, it wasn’t going to happen on this trip. Instead, I made do with the ten hour journey from Melbourne to Adelaide. Suffice to say, if I’d’ve missed this train, getting me to Adelaide wouldn’t have been quite so easy as jumping on the next one. It covers 823 kilometres and only runs three times a week.
I nearly had conniptions trying to get into Southern Cross station: I could see it, but couldn’t figure out how to get to it. There were bridges and intersections and trams and cars and me with my rucksacks and my tickets and a serious case of ‘I have three minutes to get on this train!’
Thankfully, I knew the platform from which the train was departing and there weren’t any crazy barriers or unhelpful staff to navigate or appease. All I had to do was run. Which is easier said than done if you’re me.
I hurled myself onto the train as the whistle was sounding, but I think that my sigh might’ve been louder.
All I had to do then was find somewhere to stow my luggage, locate my seat, and collapse into oblivion with my book. I don’t remember very much of the journey, save for crossing the Mighty Murray and having to switch my watch to South Australia’s peculiar half-hour time zone when we left Victoria.
