Training Days: Late Nights

The first time I took the train out to Claremont, the thought that I would soon tire of this commute flickered across the corpus collosum more than once. At first, second, and twenty-third glance, you might not protest. But there’s more to this route than meets the eye.

The path of the train roughly follows the 10 Freeway, darting north somewhere after El Monte. The rails wend their way through light industrial areas, the patches of homes carved out of rusting factories and strip malls like pioneer clearings near the Cumberland Gap. Like I said, after a few trips, it would be easy to ignore the seemingly endless parade of low slung plants, manufacturing unknown widgets or serving some intermediary function in a larger commercial endeavor. But the landscape actually ages well, revealing intriguing details with every viewing, like watching Bottle Rocket.

Take the strip malls, just for one example. It took the better part of a month for me to realize that the train paused, every day, by a fine establishment called Miss Kitty’s Topless Bar. A strip joint in a strip mall. Finally, my boyhood dreams were realized: strip malls do in fact put the “strip” in “mall.”

Or consider perhaps a more interesting example. Those factories that looked like they manufactured rust or scrap metal? They’re fascinating places when the sun goes down. As the train slows into a Covina (I think), there’s a whole row of them that are actually printing presses. Coming alive at night, perhaps to print the local daily or the Inland Empire edition of the Times, the old rust buckets come alive with spinning wheels and flying paper, moments stolen from an episode of Mr. Rogers.

Even more impressively, the outlook changes vastly depending on which side of the train you sit. Looking to the south, I noticed, only after four weeks of traveling this line, that the Metrolink passes right beside the In ‘N Out homeworld. Acre after acre of semis suckle at the many teats of the queen burger, slurping into their air-conditioned containers vast quantities of fat patties, fresh tomatoes, and heads of romaine. In a mile stretch, there must have been seven actual In ‘N Outs, each bearing an antique marquee and petite drive-thru. (I’m sure real numbers about this place exist somewhere on the web, but I prefer my imagination).

Somehow, I managed to miss that place until just last week. Incredible.

Be it the herons poking among the sewage in a flood canal or the cock strutting amid horses at a sudden (and utterly out of place) ranch, the train ride home never ceases to amaze...to the detriment of my schoolwork. But how can Plato compare to the sight of a teenage couple necking in a graffiti-strewn storm drain? Well, quite favorably, as a matter of fact, but that’s beside the point. The truth of it is, this train continues to grow on me (even though it had me from, “Hello”).

I guess there are worse fates than being captivated by your commute. Like commuting to captivity (which is what a crappy job would be, I guess).