EARTHQUAKE / THE LONG ROAD BACK : The Metrolink Will Never Be the Same : Transit: The Santa Clarita-to-Union Station line had been a quiet comfort zone for this regular rider. The quake has done what promotional campaigns couldn’t.

For months, it was my secret transportation paradise, a movable feast of bright lights, cushy seats. There was always enough room to fling your briefcase on the open chair beside you and--if the conductor wasn’t watching--put your feet up across the aisle.

Sliding down the ugly, graffiti-tattooed backsides of Los Angeles’ industrial zones, we riders were comfortable and perhaps a wee bit smug as we read books, wrote reports, scanned the papers or balanced checkbooks on the hour-long Metrolink run from Santa Clarita to Union Station.

No crowds, no noise, no traffic jams, no auto emissions--and we were performing an environmental service, to boot. It was bliss.

But on Wednesday, it was . . . New York! There were more desperate souls at the Santa Clarita Metrolink station on Soledad Canyon Road than miracle-seekers at Lourdes. It looked like they were filming a movie.

Cars crammed the station parking lot that usually is only half full, and sheriff’s deputies directed hundreds more to overflow lots at the adjacent Saugus Speedway. Santa Clarita Transit employees hawked free connecting bus schedules like theater programs to the throng of commuters standing nervously on the platform for the 204, the 7:33 a.m. with stops at Burbank and Glendale.

Uh-oh. The earthquake had done what promotional campaigns couldn’t. In the past, people would look at you as if you were speaking Tagalog. Metrolink? You mean Blue Line, don’t you? The Red Line?

By Tuesday, however, the term was falling with alarming regularity from the lips of television newscasting talent.

“No amount of advertising could encourage these many people to ride,” said Mary Redmond, another regular who works in Disney’s international film department. Attorney Richard D. Walton confessed amazement and began to lament.

“There was always plenty of room,” he said. “It was like a secret.”

The fact that we were even speaking showed you how far things had gone. The unwritten rule on Metrolink is that except for pleasantries, you stake out your seat and keep mum out of respect for those working or reading. An occasional conversation on your cellular phone is OK.

As we waited for the train, however, Walton opened up, telling me he moved his law practice from Beverly Hills to Downtown in August so he could ditch his car and ride Metrolink. Now he rides to Union Station, takes the subway to the Pershing Square and walks two blocks to his office.

“I used to drive 80 miles a day. Now I drive 15 miles a week,” he bragged. “I’m in love with the Metrolink.”

The feeling was familiar. Metrolink was one of the biggest reasons we decided to move to Valencia. Before I ever dialed a realtor, checked the school test scores or consulted crime stats, I called the Metrolink office and studied a map to make sure it would work.

Originally, it was a chance to avoid the infamous L.A. freeway creep. Over time, however, Metrolink has evolved into a cherished part of the day when I am delivered from urban Angst , when I can either gear up for the workday or psychologically decompress to the seductive rhythm of the rails.

Unless, of course, we hit a car. Or a person. Thankfully, my trains haven’t been responsible for the handful of deaths. But last week we did sheer the rear bumper from some idiot who tried to run a crossing guard off of San Fernando Road. He drove away, unharmed.

There have been some difficult adjustments. Although Metrolink’s inflexible departure schedule delivers you home in time for dinner with the family, even when it rains, it dictates discipline, requiring you to curb workaholic tendencies and forfeit after-work schmooze fests.

It also forces you to master the fine art of the Five O’Clock Brush-Off. The trick is using just the right dash of rudeness as you rush toward the door, averting direct eye contact and praying you don’t encounter a chatty boss.

The biggest problem with Metrolink is those foursomes of facing seats, which must have been designed by Lilliputians. Easy enough on a person’s, uh, frame, there’s little clearance for competing pairs of knees. That’s why any regular dreads the day when ridership increases to the point that we have to sit at awkward angles. Hey, buddy, my knees were here first!

Sure, we secretly root for Metrolink to gain in popularity--perhaps to ease our guilt over the fact that California taxpayers subsidize us at an estimated $21 a trip. But we never wanted it to get out of hand.

Then came the movement of geological plates. Now everyone has discovered Metrolink. U.S. senators, even, are calling for additional Metrolink cars within earshot of the President of the United States. On Wednesday, Metrolink administrators announced that they would extend the Santa Clarita by adding four stations all the way to Palmdale.

The result, as John Milton would say, is Metrolink Lost. The finality of this hit me when, as the train chugged up to the Santa Clarita station half an hour late Wednesday morning, someone breached decorum by shouting “Here it comes!”

Then a conductor used the public address system to make an announcement that Walton, Redmond and I would never have dreamed possible just last week.

“If you find a seat, grab it! You’re lucky!”