#x-trapolis 100

[s2z]

Riding the rails

The journey starts in Sunshine, crammed into the well-worn bones of an X’Trapolis, Melbourne’s stalwart soldier of the rail. It’s old-school—still does the job, still rocks with the rattle and hum of thousands of passengers every day, and today, every inch of it is packed. You’re shoulder-to-shoulder with workers, students, city-dwellers, all of them swaying in a jumbled rhythm as the train barrels toward the CBD. This isn’t some smooth glide; it’s a raw, communal push forward, the X’Trapolis clanking along, air thick with murmured conversations and the smell of early-morning takeaway coffee. Here, space is a commodity, and every seat and handrail is precious real estate.

The city is a mad scramble, as always. People disembark in waves, pouring out at each stop, only to be replaced by new faces rushing in. It’s chaos, a sort of metallic bloodstream pulsing with life. The X’Trapolis is all utility, no frills—nicks in the seats, squeaky doors, overhead announcements that crackle with half-hearted vigour. It feels lived in, real. And by the time you reach the CBD, the X’Trapolis is heaving, unloading its cargo of commuters, every one of them on a tight timeline.

You make the switch to the HCMT at Flinders Street. Now, this is a different beast. The High Capacity Metro Train was engineered to be the future, but right now, that future is nearly deserted. You step onto it, expecting another packed car, but instead, you’re greeted by a sprawl of empty seats. Maybe a couple of fellow travellers here and there, but mostly it’s quiet, empty. The HCMT is like stepping into an echo chamber, a sleek, minimalist marvel waiting for a crowd that never showed up.

Leaving the CBD, the HCMT slides through the stations and suburbs, its polished metal sheen looking almost out of place in the quieter stretches. The seats sit pristine, untouched, waiting for the full force of rush hour that, out here, never arrives. You can hear the electric hum of the tracks, every automated announcement crystal clear in the emptiness. It’s clinical, like a sterile experiment in high-speed solitude. This train was built for mass transit, but out here, you’re cruising through Melbourne’s edge like it’s some private charter.

Beyond the sprawl of the CBD, the suburbs stretch out under the morning sun, fading into the skeletal outliers on the way to East Pakenham. The HCMT barrels ahead, past stations with pristine platforms and empty benches, past new estates and construction sites, the occasional half-built house standing like a sentinel on the horizon. Inside, the quiet feels heavier by the minute, that futuristic aesthetic almost absurd in its isolation. Every line, every polished edge is all about efficiency and speed, but in this emptiness, it’s surreal, like being chauffeured through an unfinished dream.

By the time you pull into East Pakenham, the HCMT feels like it’s barely broken a sweat. This thing was built to handle Melbourne at full capacity, but right now, it’s overkill—like bringing a spaceship to a go-kart race. You step off, back onto solid ground, watching as the train idles, gleaming, ready for the rush that isn’t here yet. It’s a strange, quiet end to the ride, a taste of a future that’s still waiting for the city to catch up.