The Great Race: Rail vs. Road

Picture two Ventura County neighbors who toil the same hours in the same building in the heart of downtown Los Angeles. One would as soon be without his car as without his pants. The other swears by the train--even if it means chucking his freedom and fitting his personal schedule to Metrolink’s. Which commuter gets to work faster? Who spends less money? Who gets home first? Who has more time to call his own? Who is happier?

With Metrolink’s board voting Friday to nearly double its Ventura County service by the fall, such questions will take on added weight for local commuters. To answer them, two Times reporters set out for the big city from the corner of Cedarpine and Donnybrook lanes in the Peach Hill area of Moorpark--a spot chosen only because it sounds so idyllically suburban. Besides, how better to steel yourself for a tough commute than with a donnybrook?

Vying for best time Tuesday, Coll Metcalfe drove and Steve Chawkins took the train. For competition purposes, both had to be at their work stations in a municipal building called City Hall East at 8 a.m. (Among other things, the building across Main Street from City Hall houses the office of Los Angeles Mayor Richard Riordan, as well as the Bureau of Fire Prevention’s hydrants section.)

At 5 p.m., the two raced--albeit slowly--from downtown back to Donnybrook Lane. Here are their stories:

Steve’s Journey to L.A.

6:12 a.m.: Fog shrouds the orange tile roofs of Donnybrook Lane. My 1984 Honda Accord wheezes but it starts up better than I do. I need coffee. Driving down Spring Road, I see not a soul on the streets, except a woman in yellow sweats power-walking beside a field of waving goldenrod. I figure there will be coffee at the station.

6:30 a.m.: The station is 2.7 miles from home. There is no coffee. There is no ticket booth either. Instead, you use a vending machine that at this hour looks like the mechanical equivalent of a Bulgarian tax form.

“Want some help?”

A man named Eugene Hunt wears a distinctive purple vest and a badge that says “Metrolink Ambassador.” He helps unschooled commuters such as me feed the machine $12 for a round-trip ticket to Union Station. Old hands pay $176 for a monthly pass.

A 70-year-old retired factory maintenance supervisor, Eugene greets travelers two mornings a week here and three mornings at the platform in Simi Valley. He loves his job, bounding out of bed at 3:30 a.m. for it.

“Hey, Cora!” he says as a woman strides to the platform. “Kind of early this morning, aren’t you?”

On the platform, the commuters look crisp, showered, ready for the day. Already, a man has fired up his cell phone and is making some important points about a contract gone awry. Down the tracks, a yellow dot appears--the 6:43, right on time.

7 a.m.: We are climbing Santa Susana Pass, past huge boulders set amid willows and scrub oak--Hopalong Cassidy turf that is a far cry from typical commuter terrain.

Mostly, the scenery has been rear-view--the rear of strip malls and warehouses, tattered backyards, the underside of a soaring freeway overpass. The palatial Simi Valley Cultural Arts Center glistens in the mist.

My fellow commuters are quiet. A woman unwraps an English muffin and stares into a blue folder full of documents. She seems to have a hard time focusing.

Across from me sits Norma Wozniak, who boarded at Simi Valley. She tries minding her business and reading her paper but I interrupt with some hamhanded reportorial questions about the train.

“I don’t look at driving as an option any more,” says Norma, who navigates from her Simi Valley home to her job as a payroll supervisor at an HMO in Pasadena. “Even when I was car-pooling, I used to hate being on the road. I haven’t had to buy a new car since 1987.”

Norma will get off at Burbank, where her employer, like others, will have a shuttle waiting.

7:15 a.m.: We are pulling out of Northridge. As we have trekked through the San Fernando Valley, the scenery has grown decidedly urban. River channels are lined with concrete. Graffiti spreads like bougainvillea across a quarter-mile of storage lockers. Wrecking yards display the detritus of the freeways I’m glad to avoid. A truck that says “India Spices and Sweets” idles evocatively at a loading dock.

The train gently sways, lulling us into the kind of meditative state that we used to pay the Maharishi good money for. Just as a mystic cedes control of his consciousness to higher forces, so too does the train commuter surrender to Metrolink. We are not driving ourselves crazy weighing the equally dismal choices of the 405, the 101, the 5, the 110, the rat’s nest of surface streets; our fate and the fate of Train 104 are strictly in the hands of the engineer. We relax.

I see a brown-suited middle-age man with deep circles under his eyes in the classic train-riding commuter’s pose: hands clasped in lap, head nodding, newspaper still folded.

7:30 a.m.: We stop at Burbank Airport. The terminal is a mere stroll from the platform. A man lugging a suitcase descends for the third phase in his morning of planes, trains and automobiles.

7:45 a.m.: The train is packed now with all the commuters who filed on in Burbank and Van Nuys. When we rolled through Burbank, I caught sight of what appeared to be a statue of Goofy.

The general torpor lifts as people prepare for the morning’s real work. Across the aisle, a blonde woman who had been thumbing through Vogue puckers into a postage-stamp-sized mirror and meticulously applies her lipstick.

Downtown looms through the windows on the right. There is City Hall, across the street from my office. I happen to know it was modeled after the Nebraska state capitol in Lincoln, but I keep that to myself.

8 a.m.: I’m tearing through Union Station. We pulled in four minutes late at 7:57. With silent thanks to Eugene back in Moorpark, I expertly shove $1.35 into the formidable vending machine that spews out tickets for the Red Line subway. One stop later, I surface into a cool but muggy Civic Center morning.

With briefcase flailing, I dash into my building 17 minutes late. Incredibly, Coll Metcalfe--my purported neighbor and automotive counterpart--arrives at the same minute. He had left Donnybrook Lane 32 minutes after I did.

We deliver ourselves to the mercy of our bosses. We hope they, too, commute.

Steve’s Journey Home

After a presumed hard day’s work as Los Angeles civil servants, we dart back upstream at the stroke of 5 p.m., not that we have been watching the clock.

5:15 p.m.: I’m back in Union Station. The brisk walk down disappointingly nondescript streets took all of 13 minutes. Somehow my route skirts the polyglot richness of downtown L.A., where Little Tokyo, Olvera Street and the Kosher Burrito co-exist in multicultural coziness.

I buy an onion bagel with light cream cheese and head for Track 5. The 113 to Ventura County awaits.

5:30 p.m: I’ve opened my New Yorker and I’m quietly starting an article about a sadist-for-hire called Nurse Wolf when I notice a woman across the aisle fixing me with an odd expression, as if to say, “You maggot!”

I turn the magazine over. I instantly see that I have been holding up for the perusal of my fellow commuters a full-page photo of a leather-clad woman bearing a smirk and a whip.

My train mate is now looking resolutely out her window.

I want to tell her I just read this thing for the cartoons, but I resist.

6 p.m.: Outside Burbank, a phone rings. Handbags and briefcases fly open. Cell phones are yanked from jacket pockets like blazing guns. It turns out to be the conductor’s. He chuckles into his receiver as he takes tickets and joshes with the regulars.

6:15 p.m.: I chat with Hosni Nabi, who sat across from me hoping to browse the Chronicle of Higher Education and the Wall Street Journal.

Instead, we talk about kids and schools and careers. He is president of the 16,000-student Los Angeles Trade-Technical College downtown. He hops the train from Chatsworth whenever he won’t need his car during the day.

“It’s amazing how much work I’ve done on the train in the last month,” he says. “You want to write a memo or check your e-mails, you just open up your laptop.”

6:40 p.m: We are coming into Simi Valley. I’m more impatient than tired. Outside Chatsworth, a few people were leading horses around a ring. Now I see a couple walking their Dalmatian by the tracks, boys lined up at a batting cage, a man swinging a golf club in his yard, men in striped shirts playing soccer in a park. On a grill in one of the tattered backyards, meat sizzles.

I’m still on the train.

7:01 p.m.: We pull into Moorpark six minutes late. In 10 minutes, I’m back at my home-that-never-was on Donnybrook Lane, not thinking about tomorrow.

Total cost of commute: $13.35 plus a few drops of gas to carry me 5.4 miles. Total time between home and office: Four hours and 16 minutes, including time spent waiting for trains.

Coll’s Journey to L.A.

6:44 a.m.: I head to Simi Valley, where I swing by the bank for a little cash and then over to McDonald’s for a hot cup of coffee.

There are only about five cars on Los Angeles Avenue but I manage to get held up at every stoplight.

7 a.m.: Pulling off 1st Street in Simi Valley I ease onto the Ronald Reagan Freeway, gunning the engine to match the speed of my fellow commuters.

Traffic is thick, but moving at a steady 60 mph. I take a sip of coffee then whip through the radio stations for something entertaining. I settle on KNX, where I listen to an irrelevant update of Orange County’s traffic.

7:15 a.m.: I whiz past the Balboa Avenue exit and begin switching lanes to hop onto the 405, which I will take to the Hollywood Freeway and downtown Los Angeles.

Of course, many roads lead downtown. From Moorpark, Southern California Rideshare recommends staying on the 405 for 30 miles and lacing across town on the Harbor Freeway and El Segundo Boulevard. Other commuters head downtown via the 5 and the 170. But each route has its flaws, and this morning, I’m betting on mine to have the fewest.

Traffic is still heavy, but there is no slowing. I settle back and sip some more coffee.

I pass a woman who is darting her eyes from the road to the rearview mirror while applying some lipstick.

A man in a truck next to her is eating a burrito. He lets it hang from his mouth while pulling into the right-hand lane.

In a few minutes, I’m in the middle of the four-lane parking lot known as the 405. I yawn and change the radio station, settling for oldies.

“Don’t know much about history, don’t know much biology,” I sing to myself. “But I do know that I love you and I hope that you love me too . . . “

7:30 a.m.: I’m at a dead stop near Burbank, about a mile and a half from the Hollywood Freeway. My thoughts are now focused squarely on my bladder.

I need a restroom, but such conveniences aren’t available in the No. 2 lane of the 405.

Next to me, a man in a van signals that he wants to switch into my lane. I let him pull in and he gives me a gracious wave.

The all-for-one glow quickly sours, however. Taking advantage of my good nature, a woman in a raised pickup veers in ahead of me without so much as a signal and callously refrains from giving me the wave. I’d like to give her a piece of my mind but her bumper sticker makes me reconsider.

It reads: “Keep honking, I’m reloading.”

7:45 a.m.: I have just reached the Hollywood Freeway. Only a miracle will get me to work on time.

I’m stuck between a moving van bearing a poor rendition of Popeye--he looks something like a wrinkled kidney bean--and a dented station wagon crammed with squirming children. One of them tosses a wadded napkin out the window.

We edge forward a few yards, then stop. A man in a vintage purple Camaro stares vacantly at the endless line of cars before him.

He pulls on his bottom lip, stretching it up until it almost reaches his nose.

8 a.m.: I’m happy to be cruising at 20 mph. At the Silver Lake Boulevard exit, I see downtown silhouetted against a grainy yellow sky.

A woman next to me in a shiny red Mustang rages into her phone. She keeps taking her hands off the wheel to make emphatic, pounding gestures.

I feel a headache coming on. I wish I were anywhere but here. It’s muggy and I’m sweating. I creep along, alternating between the accelerator and brake. For no apparent reason, traffic picks up to 40 mph.

The good times quit rolling about a quarter-mile down the road. I shout: “Come on, let’s go!”

But it doesn’t work.

On KNX, a traffic reporter lets me know how I’m doing down here on the Hollywood Freeway.

“It’s slow, but moving along,” he says.

Thanks.

I’m late and there is nothing KNX can do about it. I exit onto Broadway, speed through a yellow light and turn left on Temple Street, where I must wait for a gaggle of lawyers to cross.

I make a quick right on Spring Street--only to be stopped by a line of cars waiting to enter my parking lot.

8:15 a.m.: “That’s gonna be $12,” the white-shirted attendant says to me as I fish out a wad of bills.

That is a lot to pay for daily rent on a 12-foot by 8-foot patch of cement, but I suck it up, cursing this brazen extortionist.

I jaywalk across Spring Street and dart through a throng of people waiting for a bus.

I’m amazed to see Steve Chawkins trotting up to our office building just as I arrive. I don’t have time to remind him that I got to leave Donnybrook Lane 32 minutes after he did.

After all, we are both late--and I really need that restroom.

Coll’s Journey Home

5 p.m.: T.G.I.F.--Thank God It’s Five.

I make my way down in the elevator where a woman comments on the thickness of my hair. She asks if it’s real. I invite her to feel it, but she declines.

In the lobby, I chat with Steve about his vaunted Metrolink. Too bad he has to wait 42 minutes for the next one.

A little past 5, I’m idling at a stoplight on Temple Street, waiting as pedestrians cross, wondering what a hassle it must be for smartly dressed women to lug a pair of sneakers to work every day.

I’m in the middle lane--a bad mistake--and have to anger at least one honking driver as I dart left to catch the Hollywood Freeway.

But I wave, understanding the disarming power of the gesture, and loop around the ramp onto a completely clogged superhighway.

5:15 p.m.: Since stepping into my car I have made it exactly six-tenths of a mile and am nearing the Sunset Boulevard offramp.

A little boy in a minivan makes a face at me. I make one back. A woman in a car with Minnesota plates attempts to merge with traffic, but is obviously unaccustomed to the aggressive nature of Southern California driving.

Instead of just forcing herself into a lane, she stops, flips on the turn signal and waits. A man behind her honks.

Near Vermont Avenue, traffic speeds up a bit. I am hopeful for smooth sailing from here to the 405. But I’m wrong.

All four lanes slow to less than 5 mph, almost too slow to register on my speedometer. Miles to go before Donnybrook Lane.

5:30 p.m.: The sign for Lankershim Boulevard drifts by as I nudge up to 35 mph. Teenage girls in a car next to me sing loudly to a rap tune. I listen until they pull ahead and into another lane.

Traffic moves faster until I reach the Bruce Hinman Interchange and Studio City, where it thins to a broken line speeding by at 65 mph.

I roll down the passenger window for a steady stream of cool air. I figure Steve is far behind me, cramped in a train car with hundreds of other tired, hungry, hot commuters.

However, a choice must be made: Do I avoid the 405 and proceed down the Ventura Freeway all the way to the Moorpark Freeway--or do I take my chances on the route I plied this morning?

I decide to take my chances.

5:45 p.m.: So much for gambles. I’m now parked mid-405 at Roscoe Boulevard.

A Land Rover zips by on the shoulder, apparently assuming that no CHP officers are around to take issue with such a bold move.

Past the exit, the congestion clears. Before long, I’m on the Ronald Reagan Freeway and closing in on my target.

6 p.m.: Cruising in the fast lane, I shoot past Kuehner Drive with nary a thought. The minivan in front of me doesn’t seem to want to match my 75-mph pace.

I flick on the blinker, pass the van, and smile as signs for Stearns, Yosemite and Tapo Canyon roll by.

Within minutes, I pull off onto Tierra Rejada Road. A quick left, then a right: Donnybrook Lane is just down the hill.

6:15 p.m.: One hour and fifteen minutes. Not bad.

My round trip was exactly 100 miles. I paid $12 to park and used about $4 in gasoline.

Is it worth taking your own car?

I think so. I got there faster and came home quicker. I have spent a bit more money, but in real life, my employer probably would help with parking.

If not, I’d just go without extra fries for a week. Who cares? It’s probably better for my health.

(BEGIN TEXT OF INFOBOX / INFOGRAPHIC)

Commuting: the Numbers

While peace of mind defies measurement, other important aspects of the daily commute are easily quantified. For our Moorpark-to-downtown-L.A. run, here is how the numbers stack up:

Time--The round-trip train ride took 2 hours and 34 minutes. But reaching the stations, waiting for the trains, and finally getting to the destinations at either end took an additional 1 hour and 42 minutes. Total time: 4 hours and 16 minutes.

By contrast, the round-trip drive time was 2 hours and 38 minutes. Add 10 minutes for the walk between office and parking lot for a grand total of 2 hours and 48 minutes.

Money: Round-trip train fare from Moorpark was $12. One-way subway fare from Union Station to Civic Center was $1.35. Grand total: $13.35. Real-life totals may be lower, as fares decrease with the purchase of a monthly ticket. In some cases, employers chip in.

As for the car trip, parking was $12. Round-trip mileage was exactly 100. Figuring gas at $1.25 a gallon and a car that travels 30 miles on a gallon, gas adds up to $4.02. Grand total: $16.02. Again, in real life, parking often will be subsidized by employers.

Even so, that does not count the cost of oil, tires, insurance or general wear and tear. Using the standard IRS allowance of 31 cents a mile (counting gas), the round-trip cost $31.