I knew what was ahead of me when there were no screeching sounds on Tuesday morning. The No. 7 subway track looms outside my bedroom, and the trains emit a hair-raising noise when they go around my bend in Long Island City, Queens. It was eerily quiet at 8 a.m., as it would be for the next three days of the transit strike.

I spent roughly four hours a day navigating back and forth on my cold, clumsy commute from Queens to the Bronx. First, I biked to the Queensborough Bridge, crossed the 1.4 mile span, then biked 20 blocks to Grand Central Station. There I waited for a Metro North train, rode it for a half hour to the Williams Bridge station, and finally walked up Gun Hill Road (emphasis on hill) to work.

It was a major disruption of my routine, and part of me loved it.

It was exciting to see so many pedestrians — including an older lady who had no idea where she was — in my typically desolate neighborhood. On the bridge, the crowd was at least three people deep. There were adults on toy scooters, bikers, roller-bladers and runners, and walkers in groups or solitary sorts with their iPods. There were women in fur coats, teens chatting in Asian dialects, and the occasional Santa hat. We marched along with determination despite runny noses and sore calves.

The streets of midtown were overrun with bikers (one survey estimated a 500 percent increase in two-wheel transportation). I was surrounded by packs of delivery men, professionals, and people pedalling their rusty 10-speeds with bent knees and bowed legs. There were smiles, nods and words of encouragement.

I’ve always feared riding during rush hour. I’ve been hit by a car twice, and vehicles careening too close make my heart race. But with so many others riding next to me, I felt relatively safe.

After locking my bike by a high-rise, I dashed off to Metro North at Grand Central. A stoic ticket clerk directed me to a waiting train. Half an hour later I was at my stop, and on that first day, I beat my boss to the office. I felt triumphant.

That elatedness faded with cold night winds, delayed trains, and exhaustion. My days’ sole activities became commuting, working, commuting back, and complaining. Coffee cups piled up on the bridge and people got cranky. Even the anchors on NY1 looked tired.

The strike began with dramatic saber rattling and ended with quiet acquiescence. So too did my commute — the heady vow that I would bike to work thenceforth melted once reunited with the soothing sway of the train. Participating in the communal resolve and pushing my limitations were priceless experiences. So, too, was returning to one of the country’s best public transportation systems.

Heather Haddon is deputy editor of the

Norwood News.