Catching Flights and Feelings

The unadulterated joy of rushing for transport

I am bad at time keeping. I am in the camp of people who counts 5 minutes late as on time. I’m also convinced I have something called dyscalculia (the numerical version of dyslexia).

I refused to wear a watch until I was 15 years old because I found someone asking me the time abhorrently stressful. I can’t perform simple sums in my head. The way I manage, is to convert numbers into a series of convoluted sentences that I reshuffle in a two-sides-of-a-triangle-work-around to land me at an answer. My sense of direction is shocking. I have high levels of mathematical anxiety. So, even by the sheer miracle of acquiring a science degree and working hard at a data-driven company for the past 7 years with view to improving my statistical skills, I still frequently struggle with an accurate sense of time. I unintentionally believe (and behave) as if there are more than 24 hours in a day. I’ve never had a diagnosis — and, even if I had one it wouldn’t change much. So, I prefer labelling this missing lobe of calculation cortex as inherent optimism; a glass half-filled with endless hours and minutes of possibility.

Alongside my cherished friend by the name of Microsoft Excel, I have learnt over the years to give myself stress-free space to perform mathematical tasks. I have also developed a borderline sociopathic ability to leave significantly less time than Google Maps suggests and somehow make it to my destination without being obnoxiously late. Due to my ‘everything-is-schedulely-possible’ mindset, I live most daily tasks as if I’m on Supermarket Sweep or Race Across the World. Everyday is a thrilling adventure in my very own low budget Bond movie.

I left my flat in Tufnell Park once at 5.00pm for a film starting at 5.35pm in Leicester Square — I made it with enough time to purchase popcorn before the screening. I’ve had less than three minutes to make it up the escalators at Marylebone, frantically attempt to use a broken ticket screen, pivot to purchasing a fare via the dodgy Trainline app and had to update expired card details, yet still jumped on the train with seconds to spare. My inability to interpret the 24-hour clock earlier this year, rendered me with the dreadful realisation that my flight for a wedding was at 1.20pm and not 3.20pm. I discovered this at 11.26am standing in sweaty running gear in North London with a completely unpacked suitcase. The flight was from Gatwick. I still made it in time for a pint at Spoons. The rush of adrenaline and the swiftly-consumed shandy left me so buzzing, I managed to chat up (and subsequently snog) the hot doctor sat on the plane next to me. Result.

Most people reading this may assume creative license on the above time stamps. I too, would assume embellishment for the purposes of this article. However, if you ask any of my close friends, they will attest that dashing for transport is perhaps my biggest super power on this earth. I have a terrifying ability to make trains, planes and automobiles that probability would have you believe is somewhere near impossible. I hear what you’re thinking, this way of living sounds awfully stressful. Or you’re too perfectionist — you wouldn’t want to run in specific shoes or perhaps the flapping might ruin your hair. Get over yourselves. This isn’t the Met Gala.

Running for transport is a skill I’ve honed to new levels. The truth of the why I have repeatedly chosen not to be conservative in my time-keeping is this: I enjoy putting myself through this minor anxiety. It is unexpectedly joyous. Let me tell you why…

Life is a stressful place. It is full of noisy thoughts; of problems, panic and dread. When you’re running for transport, every little move is important; every single second counts. Finding something small but raising the stakes is good for our souls. It has a childlike, hyper-fixated thrill to it. It is a reminder of what we can do if we become okay with the idea of making a fool of ourselves. It is a microcosm; a mini testament of what putting our minds to something looks like. Rushing for transport is a mentality. If you tell yourself you’re going to make it, you will. I promise.

An acute adrenaline rush on something that feels important but is ultimately insignificant is a welcome reminder that we are all just running around in this silly little game we call life. If we think about the bigger reality and our purpose on this planet, it’s easy to get existential. What were you thinking about the last time you ran for a bus or train? Usually, if the person coming towards you will move left or right? Or if the pedestrian crossing turns green, you might make it in time. Are you thinking about whether you’ll ever get that promotion at work? Or why your bank balance is sitting lower than normal this month? No. What about whether you have been put in this life for a specific purpose? Or if you create your own purpose? If it’s the latter should you rethink your entire career? Have been living your entire life wrong? Nah, l thought not.

The human existence is hilarious. We are complex creatures but something as simple as running for a train can unite us and bring us joy. Last summer, I watched whole hoards of people at Paddington (myself included) rampage the measly rope barriers Great Western Rail ‘temporarily installed’ on platform 7 in an attempt to deter people from boarding an over-filled train. A foppish man with a suit carrier in hand started the revolution:

‘This is ridiculous! Do they not know I have a wedding to get to!?’

With a raised eyebrow, he looked around for group consensus.

‘You reckon we can we just go underneath this!?’

We nodded back, then performed what I can only describe as an ensemble scene that would give any version of Les Mis a run for its money. The rail staff added to the drama with pantomime levels of chasing and shouting. More conductors magically appeared from inside the train, jumping off to block the path to board. Just as the train was about to leave, foppish-suit-carrier watched them retreat and took a running leap, fractions of a second before the train doors closed. A collective cheer. One small leap for foppish-suit-carrier, one pure moment of joy for platform 7.

If you still need any convincing that running for transport can bring a feeling of uplift, I beg you, try this: ask someone for a story about a time they had to rush to make the transport (and they caught it). Watch them beam ear-to-ear as they recount the tale.

I’ve witnessed a set of parents giggle and interrupt one another as they re-told their experience of being abroad and navigating the train system. Bundling their kids on the train before their luggage which was sat 20 metres adjacent to them on the platform, the sudden realisation that European train systems are mercilessly efficient resulted in them charging to get the luggage prior to the train departing. If they hadn’t made the dash, they’d either have ended up without anything to wear for their 2-week mountain holiday, or more likely, ended up waving the kids off to the other side of Germany without them. Both of them couldn’t describe this story without laughing hysterically. Now anytime they end up in a hurry, they scream ‘Schnell!’ at each other. It’s a memory that will last them their lifetime.

My favourite, an American in Euston, confuddled with the railcard system but having purchased a 16-25 ticket, was in the midst of convincing the woman at the gate to let him on the platform, after she tried to re-direct him to the information desk. So desperate to make it to a best friend’s party in the North of England and with two minutes to go, he decided to bolt past her from a different direction. Out of breath and begging, he persuaded the conductor doing the final checks along the platform to let him aboard because, as chance would have it, when he glanced down at his lapel, they had something in common:

“Your name’s Scott too? It’s a great name. You take care of it?”

“I certainly do young man — now, get yourself on that train.”

As he verbalises the anecdote to me, you can feel the resurgence of adrenaline flush his cheeks and warm his soul with the memory.

These high-intensity, low-severity moments prompt us to remember we exist on a planet with other human beings. In moments of mishap, it takes the support of a crowd to encourage you to make that bold leap against the authoritarian system. It takes a driver to spot you running for the bus and decide to wait 10 more seconds. It takes a train conductor to trust you’re not lying (or just decide they’re in a good mood) and let you aboard. That in itself has a certain beauty to it.

Remember it’s also a privilege to be able to rush. Not everybody is so lucky. One day you might be older, frailer or not have the opportunity to do so. It’s an honour to be able to run for something that is really just a little tin can full of people that moves from place to place. Enjoy it while it lasts.

So, next time you’re sitting on on a train and you watch the person who tries to downplay their celebration as they leap over the gap with the doors closing; or you see the chaotic family abandoning their coffees, flailing their suitcases with tiny toddlers in arms as they run towards the closing boarding gate — shoot them a wink, why not give them a thumbs up? They’re living.