The Zone
Ladies and Gentlemen, I have quite a story to tell. Buckle up.
So, my dad and my brother are currently away on holiday, on a cruise to New York for around two weeks. Being the helpful soul that I am, I decided to venture home for the time being and look after our dogs, or to have them look after me, as they would probably have you believe. Believe me when I say that nothing destroys your confidence quite like a black Labrador looking at you as if you're doing nothing but endangering yourself. All the time.
Anyway, this altruistic plan on mine involved me journeying home from Glasgow back down to the south west of Scotland, a journey I have done so many times now that I could do it in my sleep. I thought.
Since I was going down for the best part of a week, I had to take two suitcases. Being a student, I don't consider myself truly unpacked until I've filled the washing machine with my laundry. Two cases of it may seem excessive, I grant you, but clearly you've never seen the price of washing at student halls.
My friend went with me to the station and we sat and waited for the platform announcement together. The 1627 for Ayr was soon revealed to be leaving from platform 11. So off I skipped, suitcases in tow, beyond the ticket barriers and outside the awaiting carriages as they were readied for their next journey. As a habit, I tend to ask another passenger if I'm at the right train. "I hope it's the train for Ayr," the kindly woman I asked replied, "because that's where I'm going." We chuckled about that and then lapsed into silence. The chances that we had both shown up at the wrong platform were highly unlikely. I thought.
So I get on the train, find a seat and put in my head phones. I watch the first few stops pass by, the same ones as usual. Only, once I look up and see that I'm at an unfamiliar place. One called Stevenston. That's not on the route home. Why was I doing there? I mean, what are any of us doing anywhere?
Petrol was poured on the needlessly existential fire when the next stop was Saltcoats, another unfamiliar station. At this station I was in time to take out my earphones and hear that this train I was on was not bond for Ayr, but rather Largs.
Stress ensued.
My train ticket seemed to take the brunt of it, my agitated hands scrunching up the piece of papery plasticy stuff.
Upon arriving in Largs, in the rain, with two suitcases and a potentially very limited time to get to where I needed to go, I raced to the ticket booth to ask for advice. I was referred back to the train that I had just gotten off, and told to get a connection at a town called Kilwinning, the last stop that I had recognised before my life was ruined.
Managing to sort everything out with the person meant to be meeting me at the other end through hurried and panicked phone calls relieved a lot of the stress, so I was able to calm down mostly.
Then the train pulled into the chaos storm that is Kilwinning Station. Now, this is not a big station, it has only four platforms, and nor does it get particularly busy. The problem was very much in the timing of the arrivals of the trains.
My train pulled into platform 1, and I stepped onto the platform with all my luggage and looked off into the direction of Glasgow and saw the headlights of a train approaching. I felt in my guts, in the very depths of my stomach, that that was the train I needed to be on. Luckily I only needed to cross the bridge above me and get onto platform 2. I thought.
Now, I'm not particularly strong, but I managed to heft all of my luggage across the bridge without dropping anything or having to slow down. Although, I'm not strong enough that it didn't hurt a bit when I dropped everything when I got down to platform 2. You could search far and wide, but I doubt you would ever be able to find someone as scrawny as me.
So, with aching arms and no breath, I landed on platform 2, in time to see the train I was getting swing round and pull into platform 4. I died inside.
Grasping up my suitcases, I charged across to platform 3, my heart telling me to give up the second it took into account the second bridge that I would have to cross to make it to 4. My arms quivered like pathetic twigs in a strong wind, my breathing burned. I was going to miss this train.
Then I entered "The Zone".
The Zone is a magical place (and a pretty obscure reference). When within the Zone, a person can push aside every single distraction and allow their body to achieve 100% of their physical potential. I decided I was getting on that train, or I was at least going to die in the process of trying.
With all my pain and wimpishness forgotten for the moment, I hefted up my cases once more and charged up the bridge. Half way across, I met the people that had just disembarked from the train I was intending to get on. Being a nice guy I would normally slow down and make sure I didn't hit anyone with my cases. This was not that day. I moved through the crowd, shouting a couple of apologies over my shoulder as I went. I charged back down the stairs and landed on platform 4...
...just as the train doors started to close.
With one last burst of strength, I leapt for the door, throwing the larger of my suitcases into the closing gap. Somehow, my case bounced off the door, causing it to begin to open again and giving me just enough time to slip inside.
And that was that. I was on the right train. Never had I been gladder for a sit down in my entire life. The ticket inspector passed through my carriage and did a double take when he saw mine, peering closer to look at the dates.
"It looks pretty old for one that was bought today," he mentioned, apologising for doubting me. I couldn't blame him, I had tortured it so much with my nervous hands I was surprised that it was still in one piece.
"Yeah," I replied, "We've been through a lot together."
Thanks for reading! See you next time!