I Caught the Earlybird Train
A small commute victory that teaches me not to give up
It was 6.05 am in the morning, and I had a 6.12 am train to San Francisco to catch.
I dropped everything, threw a ham sandwich I’d made into my backpack, leaving a second one on the table. Speeding my scooter to the train station wasn’t exactly conducive to eating while I commute.
I used all my will and energy to fly through the dark streets. The crisp morning breeze hit my face and wake up my loose flannel to dance like a flame to my rocket engine.
I arrived at the station to find out that the train had already arrived — on the opposite platform. My mind abruptly calculated that it would take slightly over two minutes from where I was to get inside the train. From my side of the platform, I couldn’t see the doors opened. It’s customary. Anyone who has ridden the Caltrain knows they’re strict about their door policy. Once they’re closed, they remain so.
So, I froze. I was defeated, to be precise. I was ready to give up. My scooter dropped to my feet. I could take the next train to San Jose, the opposite direction, and then hop on another bullet to SF. No biggie. I would still have plenty of time.
The new plan was fine but I still couldn’t help feeling defeated. It was a shame to miss it when I could still see the train a few feet away from me, across the rails. What could I lose showing up there? I’d lose face, that’s what, when the train left the station as I stood at it’s closed door, passengers staring at me with pity. Or maybe risk not making it back to this very side to catch the San Jose train, which would only give me a 3-minute window.
To my joy, I realized the doors were open all along.
Suddenly, I picked up my scooter, ran down the long stairs, went across the underpass, climbed another set of stairs, and ran all the way to the closest Clicker meter (for non-Californians, it’s where you tap your train pass to get on). To my joy, I realized the doors were open all along, waiting for me. It totally slipped my mind that I could gain seconds by riding my scooter. I was only hoping the conductors would notice me running, panting like a dog, and be kind enough to hold the door. Then, I tapped in and flew on board, exactly 7 seconds before they closed the doors.
I waved to a lady conductor, the same one who used to frown at me for tapping twice and confiscated my ID. She smiled widely and waved back. I’d like to think she was delighted in my little victory. If I had only stayed defeated on the other side for a few seconds more, I would not have discovered that the doors were open. I would not have made it. I could have possibly caught the train to San Jose, but again I could have messed that up, too (That is just how life is. It messes us up even when we think we choose the less risky path).
As the train slowly transcended the station, I gazed one last time at the exact position I was minutes ago on the opposite platform. My favorite poem from my childhood sang in my ears —
…And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.— Robert Frost
By showing up, I have made all the difference.
