There is a pedestrian tunnel that runs between Railway Square and Central Station in downtown Sydney.  I walk this tunnel as part of my daily commute, along with hundreds of other people.  All at once.  This has called for me to develop a new commuting skill.  I call it Slipstreaming.

Slipstreaming is where you look for someone motoring through the tunnel at a slightly faster clip than you and then you ease in behind them, careful not to step on their heels but close enough to steal their wallet (though you never would).  Like drafting in a peloton or riding in Mom’s burgundy, 1980s Buick Skyhawk on the annual summer road trip from Seattle to Spokane.  Mom tucking in behind any passing semi to catch the drag and avoid the radar.  Makes Mom sound a bit like an outlaw but in retrospect, I think it was just her way of shortening the long, hot haul across the Eastern Washington wheat fields with two bickering children in the backseat.

There is an art to selecting your Slipstreaming counterpart.  Men generally make a better selection than women, mostly for their increased girth and natural aggressiveness, but also for their more practical shoe sense.  Trying to Slipstream behind a Sydneysider decked out in her stilettos and mini skirt is like running for the NFL end zone with Betty White throwing blocks … futile.  Flip-flop clad feet are also problematic.  They shuffle more than step, creating too much drag.  Beware, also, of Slipstreaming targets with headset cords dangling out their ears – guaranteed Weavers as they pick a new song, place another call, or worst of all, type another text.  Random Weaving is highly inefficient and not conducive to a successful Slipstreaming experience.

It’s also important to hold your line down the center of the tunnel, as close as possible to the oncoming human tide.  Too far over to the left (think opposites here, as we are Down Under) and you run the risk of getting pinned to the wall.  Or worse yet, needing to step over the woman painting and selling her Aboriginal art.  She’s tiny in stature but I’ve heard her yell and I have no plans to be on the receiving end of that.

Sometimes while lost in my Slipstream I’ll notice that the tunnel smells of BO.  Not really so shocking for a public place, but a little surprising given that it’s not yet the sweltering summer that Neighbor Cynthia has promised us.  Most days one can Slipstream to a tune, courtesy of the regular musicians performing in the tunnel.  There is the woman who strums the ukulele, another whose repertoire appears to consist only of Amazing Grace, and my favorite, the folk singer who serenades with a quite pleasing rendition of Cat’s in the Cradle.  He’d be worth stopping for if there weren’t still 500 strides between me and that train that will take me home.