By Suzanne Coulson | Artwork by Katie Stewart
Normally, Metro passengers are united only by silent suffering – enduring delays, socially inept teenagers treating the carriage like their personal DJ booth, or the horror of someone unwrapping an egg sandwich at rush hour. But every so often, something happens that turns a train full of tired commuters into a single, oddly determined unit.
Like the time we staged an impromptu protest … over a bike.
The Metro had been gliding along just fine from St James’ as I was on my way to Shields, when we pulled up at Manors. A handful of passengers got on, including one with a bike. Now, there are rules about bikes on the Metro – folded ones can go on at any time but those that don’t fold have restricted times. Depending on the time, the busyness and the driver, it’s mostly fine and enforcement is… let’s say, flexible. I’ve seen electric bikes hauled on, Uber Eats bag and all so quite often, as is common with the metro – anything goes!
So on this day on comes this bloke with his pedal bike. He had the look of a man who’d endured a long day at work and was dreaming of collapsing onto his sofa. Cue the garbled driver’s announcement – initially unintelligible, but clearly bad news.
The carriage exchanged confused glances, waiting for clarity. Then, the announcement came again, this time crystal clear: the cyclist had to get of!
Technically, sure, bikes weren’t allowed at this time. But the train wasn’t packed, and nobody was tripping over his front wheel. It was a harmless rule break at best as it neared the 7pm allowance. And yet -like a Mexican standoff – the bike didn’t move, and neither did the train.
At first, there was glances and glares. But as the minutes ticked by, the mood in the carriage shifted to mild irritation. A couple of knowing looks were exchanged. Someone sighed dramatically. Someone else let out a long, passive-aggressive tut. A group of young lads, apparently mistaking this for a tribunal, started calling the cyclist some choice words one couldn’t possibly repeat here.
I plonked the backpack on the seat and stepped in – bracing myself for a verbal battle. ‘Really lads? The bloke just wants to get home like the rest of us. Doesn’t exactly make him a criminal, does it?’
They looked momentarily stunned, as if nobody had ever questioned their insult selection before. But before they could retort, the cyclist took matters into his own hands – kicking off a game of what can only be described as Metro Chess.
First, he hopped off the train.
Then, as the doors beeped, he hopped back on.
Then, sensing the driver’s rage levels rising, he hopped off again.
Back and forth he went, calculating his odds against the unflinching might of Metro law enforcement.
The train still wasn’t moving. The bike was still there. And now, the standoff had escalated.
The initial frustration had long faded. This was now a spectacle. The crowd, sensing the injustice (and hilarity) of it all, collectively decided ‘Nah, we’re not having this.’
In a bold move, one of the young lads took matters into his own hands. He jumped off the train and marched straight up to the driver’s cab. What was said remains a mystery but judging on his choice of language earlier, I’m sure it wasn’t savoury. The carriage looked on, foaming at still being sat there but ready to pop out the popcorn when the boy ran back through the doors followed by the beep beep beep beep beep of the doors warning of their closure.
The doors slid shut.
Victory!
The train pulled away. The bike stayed on. The people had spoken.
And then, in the most anti-climactic twist of all time, the bloke got off at Chilli Road!
Could’ve cycled quicker.
