The Needham Times pits cars against trains in a race to downtown Boston

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Which commuter has it better and faster: the driver, who braves the traffic and tolls of the Mass Pike in rush hour, but does so within the comfort of his own vehicle? Or the train rider, who shares a car with a dozen or more cranky, undercaffeinated commuters?

That’s what Needham Times reporters Steven Ryan and Neal Simpson set out to learn last Friday. Simpson would ride the Needham Line of the MBTA commuter rail, while Ryan would drive his Toyota Corolla through the highways and backstreets of Eastern Mass. Both would leave Needham Heights at precisely 8 a.m., and the first man to reach the corner of Atlantic Avenue and Summer Street in downtown Boston would be the victor.

 

The odds were stacked against me. The train doesn’t have to worry about traffic, getting lost or parking.

I left the Needham Heights Commuter Rail station just as Simpson’s train pulled out. The streets of Needham were relatively quiet that morning, and I was quickly on a sparse Route 128.

Upon taking the Mass Pike exit, I was concerned there may be some traffic at the tolls, which is often the case during my drive home from Needham to Winthrop. But when I arrived: nothing. And although there was some traffic between the West Newton exit and the one near the Sheraton Newton, everything else was smooth sailing. I taunted Simpson via text message. Photographer Sarah Gatzke, who was riding with me, did the honors since I needed both hands on the wheel. 

It was 8:25 a.m. as I took the South Station exit, and I was soon in the midst of the Hub of the Universe. Everything was going according to plan, except I had to find a parking space. With Simpson’s train arriving at 8:40, this is where I needed the one-quarter of Irish in me to bring a bit of luck.

I first ventured to find metered parking on some of the back streets across from South Station. But every time I thought I found an open space, either a fire hydrant or a foreboding No Parking sign dashed my hopes. We saw cars double-park or, more dramatically, head into garages charging up to $23 for parking. I wanted to win, but not that badly.

It was hopeless. And as I circled South Station, I saw a train I just knew was Simpson’s pulling in. There was one last hope — the post office. We took a wrong turn near there earlier in our ordeal and found out there was 15-minute parking at the post office behind South Station if we were customers. But I as I made my way there, I passed the front entrance of South Station and saw Simpson standing at the corner.

Since I still had to meet up with him, I went ahead and parked my car at the post office. Feeling guilty about pretending to be a customer, I went inside the post office and bought 50 cents worth of one-cent stamps from a vending machine. The machine gave me $19.50 in change — all in quarters and one-dollar coins. As I walked up to South Station to meet the race winner, who was smiling ear-to-ear, I had a heavy heart — and even heavier pockets.

 

As soon as my co-workers left me on the Needham Heights platform, I begin praying for traffic. Even with typical Mass. Pike congestion, I seriously doubted the lumbering commuter train was going to beat Ryan’s speeding Toyota Corolla to Boston. Five minutes later, as my train crawled into Needham Junction, I wasn’t feeling much better about my chances. Ryan had been on the road for eight minutes by the time we left Needham.

But while my co-workers dodged speeding semi-trucks on the Pike, I was thinking about taking a nap. The car was silent, except for the occasional yawn and pockets of hushed conversation. To be honest, most of the conversation was between my digital camera and me, which was recording the journey for www.needhamtimes.com. As we pulled out of Needham, I received more than a couple of raised eyebrows from fellow travelers weary of the young reporter apparently talking to himself.

Already self-conscious about the riders watching me, I was also growing anxious about the issue of fare collection. I had tried to shove a wad of bills at the conductor as he passed, but he waved me off and placed a white paper stub, marking my point of origin, on the seatback in front of me. I didn’t know when he would return, but I kept my hand on my wallet in case he snuck up on me.

Nonetheless, the ride itself was actually quite pleasant. My sleeping neighbors didn’t seem interested in conversation, so I resigned myself to watching the passing greenery. As the train rolled over highways, rivers and lush fields, I thought about where I would get my morning coffee when I pulled into Boston.

I was thus occupied when I noticed that the train was surrounded on all sides by concrete instead of trees. I has arrived at Ruggles Station and was now within striking distance of South Station, but it was 8:34 a.m., and there was no way I was going to beat my co-workers.

I wasn’t, however, going to give up that easily. When the train finally pulled into South Station, I jumped off the train and shot down the narrow platform, dodging passengers as I ran headlong toward the exit.

But instead of a smug reporter at the corner of Summer Street and Atlantic Avenue, all I found was a couple of newspaper hawkers shoving the morning news into the hands of passing commuters.

It was only later that I realized I had never paid my fare.