DIARY OF A NEAR-FROZEN CTA COMMUTER

Morning. Hearing the news I decide to work at home for an hour to let the rush-hour traffic subside.

I walk to the Argyle stop on the Red Line, over mounds of snow where folks haven’t shoveled their walks.

There are strong gusts but my nylon shell — pullover anorak-style top and zippered pants like those runners wear — blocks the wind.

It’s a long wait on the platform, but I haven’t started paying attention to the time, still thinking the trains will run normally.

My commute requires a change from Red to Blue Line, usually taking 50 minutes. With one stop at the Brazilian consulate, I make it to work a little after 11. Not bad.

Time in transit (except the stop), 1:15.

Afternoon. I leave early not knowing what to expect. The Halsted platform is deserted so I must have just missed the train. I stay in the upper enclosure, a spot that’s boiling hot in summer, but now it’s freezing.

Reading and stamping my feet keep me occupied for the long wait.

I’m still not keeping close track of time. Finally, a train on the horizon, the accumulated passengers sprint to the platform.

Some doors won’t reclose. The conductor has to get off and close them manually. This happens at every stop.

Reaching Jackson at last, I rush to make up for lost time. The Red Line platform is pretty empty — another bad sign. It’s a long wait, but I’m reading. The stormy weather is still so new; I can be patient.

On the train, the routine continues with the doors. At every stop the conductor has to go out and close doors by hand. It’s a long, slow progress but we make it.

Time in transit, 1:25.

Morning. I’m up a little early to get the jump on the commute.

Bitter cold and wind. The wait on the platform at Argyle takes so long I can’t feel my fingers and toes.

I’m a blimp, with long johns, long-sleeved shirt, sweater, fleece vest, winter coat and hooded nylon shell, plus two pairs of gloves and socks under heavy boots. With a scarf and a fleece cowl, only my eyes look out (the goggles I considered and rejected — too much fogging).

Finally a train — but no room. Stepping to the door, I plead: "Just one more, please?" A small man turns sideways and the two of us squeeze into the space of one.

I’m all gratitude.

We stand facing each other, too close to talk, and smile awkwardly for the next 45 minutes. Long delays occur at every stop as too many people try to get in and the doors won’t close.

Finally, released at Jackson, I speed down the stairs and through the cold tunnel to the Blue Line platform. There is a train on the O’Hare side waiting, but facing the wrong direction. I wait, then watch the doors close and the train moves — the wrong way! It was my train, but on the other track.

I wait 30 minutes, more time than it would take me to walk the three stops (if the sidewalks were cleared). By the time the train arrives, I’ve finished the book I’m reading.

After I get on, the conductor announces the train will go only as far as Clinton. Fine, I think, I’ll walk a few blocks to Halsted. We go one stop to LaSalle and the conductor announces: "You’re going to be really unhappy with me, but I’ve been directed to turn this train around. Everybody has to get off. Please don’t be angry with me!"

We all get off and the train continues empty in the same direction. This end of the Blue Line subway is drafty and cold. I have nothing to read. We all wait another 15 minutes for the next train.

Time in transit, 2:25.

Afternoon. To avoid the commute I decide to stay home tomorrow. I work late, collecting and organizing tasks to take home. I’m out the door by 7:30 p.m. but spend almost half an hour on the Halsted platform.

The news said as long as you’re feeling tingling and pain you don’t have frostbite. Good, I keep telling myself, I’m still in pain.

The train makes it just fine to the Jackson stop and I’m off as close to running as I can manage in all these clothes. The Red Line platform is crowded and cold. Armed with reading from the office I pass the 20 minutes quickly.

On the train I can’t get warm. Cold gushes in at every stop.

Usually I have to shed my hat and gloves and open up my coat, but this time I get all the way to Belmont curled up on a seat and still not warm.

There’s no announcement, but the train leaves the station and then passes Addison without stopping. Alarm runs through those riding in the car. The train barrels past more stops and some passengers turn giddy.

Their laughter is strained, goofy. They look around at each other in disbelief. We zip by Wilson, Lawrence, Argyle, Berwyn. My heart is pounding. Where will it stop?

Finally at Bryn Mawr. The entire train empties, people urgent to get out to escape this out-of-control train. We cross the platform, grumbling, and look along the empty rails. Nothing.

"Did they announce anything?" one woman asks, and everyone reassures her. No announcement. One young woman launches into the story of looking up and thinking she had spaced out and missed her stop. Another says she was going only to Addison. There’s a pause.

The Addison woman groans. "I’m taking a taxi," she announces, and heads out. I follow and offer to share the taxi. We wait maybe 10 minutes — lots of people have the same idea. The taxi hits all the lights and drops me at Argyle in nothing flat. I pay for that leg and wish the Addison woman luck.

Time in transit, 1:45.

No commute.

Morning. My appointment for travel immunizations is at 9, so I’m out of the door by 8. On the platform the wind makes the cold intense. The weather report predicted wind chills 25 below zero. I’m wearing double long johns, one made of polypro, along with all my other layers, but I’m still cold.

A train speeds by, mostly empty, without stopping. There’s no train in sight so I go back down into the station. The attendant is calling to get an update. The next train will also be an express, she says, but the following train will stop.

Just in case I go up to the platform. The second train speeds by, mostly empty. Looking down the track we see the lights of another train, so that’s OK. The first two trains passed about 10 minutes apart.

I’m braving the cold and wind, in position to get on the second car (which is always less crowded than the first, for some reason). The third train speeds by, mostly empty, kicking up a whirlwind of snow. I feel like the kid a school bus just forgot to pick up.

In all I count six trains pass, mostly empty, bound north to Howard.

My nose is running, my face feels thick and hard from the cold. I retreat to the shelter of the stairway. Here there’s sunshine and less wind. It’s a 15-minute wait until the next train.

I barely squeeze onto the crowded car and stand numb on feet of ice. At each stop the conductor pleads with people to get off so the doors will close. One woman forces her way in, pushing and swearing, but her bags hang out. The conductor says "Please" repeatedly and attempts half a dozen times to close the doors.

"There’s another train right behind this one," he lies at one stop.

At the next he says, "There’s another train five minutes behind this one."

He scolds some guy whose briefcase is blocking the door on the sixth car.

"Please get off." He’s whining now.

I get off at Chicago. It has taken me 95 minutes to get that far.

I’m half an hour late for my appointment, which takes only a few minutes to complete.

Giving up on the trains I take two buses to go the rest of the way to work. By the time I use my transit card again I get charged another full fare.

Time in transit (less the stop), 2:25.

Afternoon. I’m at the station at 7:15 p.m. Asked how often the trains are running, the attendant says, "Oh, they’re pretty much on schedule." I go right down to the platform for the 7:17 train, which never arrives. The next two trains listed on the schedule don’t arrive either. I stand under the warming lights thinking of those rotisserie chickens, but the wind overpowers any heat. With no place to escape the cold my hands and feet go numb again. It’s 7:37 when we board.

At the next stop, the conductor announces the train will stand in the station for two minutes. He leaves the doors open most of the time, chilling the car. I’m reading the Lonely Planet travel guide and fiercely imagining beaches.

We finally reach the Jackson stop, but there’s no Red Line train for a quarter hour. I keep reading but find myself constantly monitoring every stop, fearful of getting stuck on another express train. It actually goes smoothly, but I’m unnerved by now.

Time in transit, 1:55.

Morning. I’m up early, getting ready as fast as I can. When I start to put on my winter things my hands turn cold and I’m shivering. This is crazy, I keep telling myself, but I’m shell-shocked by this week of commuting.

Even thinking of CTA trains make me feel helpless. I wish I had a car but that would be no better. I wish I lived closer to work or only one train ride to work. I wonder about car pools. Perhaps I shouldn’t have moved to Andersonville. Maybe I should sell my condo.

I’m still rushing and out the door an hour before my usual time. At the corner I hesitate. Should I walk 15 minutes and try to take Metra (something I’ve never done before)? The news says there are busses paralleling the Red Line route so I decide to walk to the Argyle station.

When I’m half a block away I see the train pull away. I just missed it! I’m surprised at the sharpness of my disappointment. I resent the snow piled at the curb and I cross Broadway dejectedly, slogging through the new layer of snow-turned-slush. At the station, I decide, I’ll ask about the bus.

As I walk in the door I hear a train arriving. I’m running to the turnstile, struggling with my wallet and the transit card, then flying up the stairs. I arrive as the doors close and the train pulls away. It’s half empty and came about 3 minutes after the previous train. I’m winded and furious, my heart pounding. I remember I’m pushing 50 and should take it easy.

There’s another train’s headlights visible two stops away. I find myself fuming that this one will probably be an express, that I’ll be standing in the cold for 30 minutes, resenting all those people in Rogers Park and Evanston riding comfortably despite the temporary closing of the Purple Line.

I’m wrong. The train stops — just a five minute wait — and I get on. What’s more, I get a seat facing forward. I know it’s silly, but my emotions well up. I want to cry over a train on time, with heat, and a place to sit down.