State-Sanctioned Masochism: The Central Line in Summer
Written by Hash Rifai
Londoners, who fancy themselves a stoic breed, speak of the Central Line in summer with the same grim resignation that one reserves for Monday morning ‘catch-up meetings’ or the middle seat on an EasyJet flight. It is a place where all human pretence is stripped away and commuting becomes something more akin to an endurance trial. For some, hell is not other people, it is simply Zone 1 to Zone 3 on the Central Line.
The Central Line, for those unfamiliar, is the red thread on the underground network that cuts through the city, carrying commuters to as far east as Epping and as far west as Northolt. As you descend down the escalators on a hot summers day, you notice an aggressive rise in mercury, followed very shortly by air so hot and so thick, that you swallow instead of breathe.
Once on the platform, you wait patiently for the sounds of scratching metal that precede the trains arrival, while gazing through warm and sticky eyeballs at large billboards advertising the Shen Yun dance troupe. At this point, every pore on your epidermis is bubbling with sweat, and you spend the next few minutes deliberating whether ordering an Uber is an indulgence or a necessity. Then comes the train. Its arrival heralded by a noise like a thousand tortured violins. The gust from its approach not cool, but warm, and the wind carries with it tunnel grit, brake dust, and the ashes of discarded Evening Standards, the particles of which settle in nicely into the sacs of your lungs.
Once inside, you will notice that the Central Line is the last truly egalitarian space in London. City banker and hotel cleaner alike glisten with the same thin sheen of sweat. The concept of personal space is abolished and social boundaries dissolve. Your neighbours backpack will find the precise contour of your kidney, and you will become intimately acquainted with their scent, a lottery in which prizes range from tolerable to offensive. The air is not circulated so much as shared and the noise within the tunnels reaches such a pitch that headphones become redundant. One simply sits in the din, contemplating the mistakes that have led to this moment. In this way, the Central Line encourages philosophical reflection.
The Central Line was constructed in an age when discomfort was proof of character, and to this day we endure it with that same sentiment. More than endure it, we queue for it, pay for it and develop a Stockholm Syndrome-esque bond with it. It would be tempting to call the whole experience torture, but some methods of torture occur where the air is fresh. Crucifixion comes to mind. No, the Central Line in summer is something finer, rarer: state-sanctioned masochism.