Bulges Seat

Dear J—

The train cars we usually ride in date back to 1985 and I tell myself that’s not very old – thirty-two years! – considering they replaced cars that dated back almost sixty years in 1985. Still, though. I know they’ve been recovered because I remember the old color scheme from when they were less than ten years old and I was a student here, riding BART from Berkeley to San Francisco and transferring by foot (and Rollerblade) that mile down Powell Street to Fourth and Townsend. Nowadays, of course, there’s other options; you could ride BART all the way to Millbrae and walk through the gates over to the Caltrain station, and someday, there may be an extension that moves the Caltrain terminal up to the Transbay Transit Center. We may never get to the point where we have a frequent transit system that you just hop on and forget about schedules like BART, but it’s a good start on it here.

But for today, I’m stuck with what suspiciously feels like a broken spring jabbing me in tender areas, though perhaps not as tender as I like to fear, what with the years of bike riding now gone by. We have been in Santa Clara for over a year now and I’m ready to declare victory over the commute, six miles each way between the train station and work taking me a consistent half hour or less. The train plus a bike means freedom, and I’m grateful for the luxury to be able to spend that much downtime commuting and reading and lost in my head, at least until the next seat cushion breaks.

Mike

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