Train Surfing

Over the last couple of months I’ve developed a new hobby. It’s free, it’s fun, and it takes absolutely no time out of my day.

I never leave work at 5:00. There’s nothing waiting for me at home that can’t wait an extra hour while the smashup of people clears out a bit. I used to wait so I could maybe find a place to sit right away since I have a longer ride home than most people. One day it occurred to me that I sit all damn day, and when I’m standing I spend too much time leaning on something.

When I was a teenager, I leaned on things in cool ways that made me look like a cross of James Dean and Marlon Brando. Or that’s what I had thought. When I finally saw myself in a mirror (or maybe it was a photograph), I discovered I looked like a tubby, lazy kid who thought he looked cool because he was leaning. Also there were pimples. More recently I’ve caught myself leaning on something when I wasn’t all that tired, and I realized I probably look like a tubby, lazy adult with more facial hair than acne.

Since those days, whenever I find something I can improve about myself, I do. Usually this translates to mannerisms or phrases too often repeated. Once I realize I’m saying or doing something with regularity, I make myself stop. Partly this is to minimize predictability (I love keeping people on their toes), and partly this is to keep from being annoying (I’ll be damned if I ever develop a personal catch phrase), and mostly it’s to keep sharp my imagination and creativity. Anytime I find an outright weakness, I work to eliminate it.

So instead of rushing to a seat on my ride home from work, now I find a place where I can stand undisturbed. Usually there’s a free handicapped area in the first car; if not, I stand in the doorway, well aware which side of the train the doors open at each stop so I have to shift as infrequently as possible. A firm grip on one of the many handrails can be beneficial, but not necessary 100% of the time. This fact fools many a tourist into complacency.

Mostly the trek between stops is smooth unless there’s too much speed on a particular bump. The regular riders know where these are and firm their grip on the safety rails with lightening reflexes. But no one can predict when an operator will see some emergency and yank the throttle backward. Say what you will about the capabilities of the CTA, but a fully loaded 8 car train can stop on the proverbial dime, and a suburbanite in a Cubs jersey suddenly gets a physics lesson.

But the longer I’ve lived here, the more I felt disquieted at never getting better at riding the train. Sailors get their sea legs, why shouldn’t a Chicago commuter get El legs? So I began to put this to the test. I loosened my grip on the rail, making a cursory loop without actually holding on. I began to shift my legs like a gyroscope, adjusting to the bounces of the train like a stuntman standing on the back of a galloping horse. My feet have to be placed far enough apart, but with one in front of the other to account for sideways lurches. My goal is to never actually move my feet once they’re set, but rather to shift my weight in counterbalance to the train’s motion.

After some practice, I’m delighted to report this works. I can now make the entire commute home (eighteen stops, forty-five minutes) and never once grab a handrail. I can even put one hand behind my back and hold a book with the other, dexterously turning pages with a thumb. Sometimes I just get into the music on my headphones, tapping out the rhythms on my bag which hangs at hip level. On particularly troublesome stretches of track I bend my knees to lower my center of gravity, bounce my lower half to match the train’s jumps and bumps while keeping my torso still and steady, and wish for a good Dick Dale tune.

My favorite part is watching people nervously watching such a large man seemingly do nothing to save himself from his peril or their own, for if I landed on another passenger my failure would be their misery. I delight in showing them that large is not the opposite of lithe. Time and again I’ve run into the conception that being a big person means being no more nimble than a pregnant yak. I like showing people that a seemingly obvious negative stereotype can be wickedly wrong.

Most especially if you apply that stereotype to me.