Happy 20th Birthday to a Key Piece of the Washington Woodwork
By Bob Levey
March 22, 1996
Twenty years ago next Friday, I left my desk at lunchtime and walked through the streets of downtown Washington, as I had for ages. But when I reached Connecticut Avenue and L Street NW, I boarded an escalator. What lay below were cathedral-like stations, space-age pylons and a strange machine that sold me something called a Farecard. Metro, they called it. Different, I called it.
Today, Metro is woven into thousands of lives. We read aboard Metro, we work, we get to work, we sleep, we socialize, we daydream. It's family.
In 1976, it was as if we had blundered into a new section of Disneyland. We sat stiffly, and we gawked.
Metro celebrates 20 years of business next week. Is there a system anywhere as good, as clean, as fast, as safe? If there is, I haven't met it. Happy birthday to a key piece of the Washington woodwork.
And thanks for the happy memories of my first ride on the Red Line. I didn't take the trip on the first day. Too much of a photo-op day for politicians. I went on the second day, from Farragut North to Rhode Island Avenue, the only stretch Metro opened at first. The ride covered only about four miles. But it was really a ride from the old Washington into the new.
Today, Red Line trains whoosh along the same route (and many others) at upwards of 50 mph, and no one thinks much about it. On Day Two, they were still getting the kinks out, so top speed was about 25 mph or so. But speed didn't count as much as atmosphere.
What were those strange bongs that announced the closing of the doors? What were those flashing lights embedded in the lip of the platform that announced the arrival of each train? And look, ma, just poles, no straps.
How clever to offer a heating system that kept it comfortable in an iffy month like March—never too hot, never too cold. And how remarkable to hear those helpful announcements of impending stations over the loudspeaker. Didn't they know that in Chicago and Philadelphia, you have to crane your neck, squint through the windows and guess?
On my first ride, I noticed what has struck me during every ride since: how quiet Metro is. In New York, Montreal, Paris and anywhere else subways have operated since the 19th century, wheels grind and cars go clunk against each other. But Metrorail moved swiftly away from one station and stopped smoothly at the next.
And this was a ride, with surges and dips, not just a way to get from Point A to Point B. When we emerged from Union Station and sprang into the sunlight, the tracks tilted as a roller coaster's might. We sped at a considerable angle past parked trains, then up onto stilts to the Rhode Island station.
"Swoopy," said a woman riding with me. I don't know weather she was a wordsmith. She should have been.
I rode every lunch hour the rest of the week. Most of my fellow passengers were thrill-seekers who weren't actually trying to get to Rhode Island Avenue. But on the fourth day, for the first time, I realized that Metro would be a force in the commuting wars.
As you pull into the Rhode Island station, you notice the huge D.C. post office complex at Brentwood, immediately to the south. About 1,200 people worked there in 1976. I had never given much thought to how they got to the complex each day. But I looked across the aisle, saw a man in a postal uniform and said, "Hmmmm."
During that first week, I heard many passengers say that this new toy was great, but it didn't go where they wanted it to go. That irritated me then, and it irritates me even more now.
Metrorail is more carefully planned than any other subway system I know. Trains go where most people are and where most people want to go. If not, a bus generally will offer a convenient connection.
I'm terribly sorry if trains don't sigh to a stop right in front of your home. But this is mass transit, people. If you want a cab, call one.
And I'm terribly sorry if you think subways are prohibitively dangerous. Perhaps other systems are. Ours is about 20 times safer than the streets that run beside or above it, to judge from the 1994 FBI crime statistics (the most recent available).
You know what the most common offense is in the Metrorail system? Eating or smoking. Tell me they'd ever do an episode of "NYPD Blue" about that.
I still don't love the signs in Metro stations (way too hard to read). I don't love the way Farecard machines refuse crinkly bills (although this is less of a problem than it once was). I don't love the laziness of some kiosk attendants (although I love the energy of many others). And I can't imagine why they chose smooth tile for the floors (highly slippery when wet).
But in every other way, Metrorail has earned its spurs. Imagine local life without it. I can't, and I hope I never have to try.
Off I go for 10 days, to places where they've never heard of subways, Farecards or workaholics. Make sure you eat your vegetables. I'll be back on Comics Page No. 2 on April 1.
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