Non-reserve trains and grade 11 physics

In the midst of our week long vacation to the Indian northwest, Andrea, Herleen and I were in the Amritsar train station hoping to buy some non-reserve tickets that would get us halfway to our next destination, Dharamshala. After defending our place in the ladies ticket line and partially dodging bombs of pigeon crap (it landed on my backpack, not head—thank God) we secured our 17 Rs. tickets to Pathankot.
Walking onto the platform was not unlike other train station experiences, save and except a much larger than normal congregation of passengers near the end of the platform on the left. I spoke aloud to myself, “I wonder what they’re all doing over there,” but didn’t give it much more thought. One of us set out to purchase our go-to travel food—Parle-G biscuits—while the other two stood waiting. Not more than ten minutes later, a train moved its way into the station. “Great!” I thought, “It’s on time!” It seemed like a positive omen for our next leg of travel.
My optimistic thoughts took a drastic downturn when I noticed how abnormally short the train was, and I immediately realized why those astute Indian travelers all stood near the end, while we naively stood in the middle.
The train was no more than 8 cars long. My brain went back to high school physics and tried to calculate how fast we needed to run to score a seat on that thing as it glided past us with the cool, indifferent composure of Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada. The answer came to me quickly, and it was simple; we needed to sprint. Fast.
There was a chaotic herd—think wildebeest stampede circa the Lion King—of people trying to get onto that train. Grown men were flinging themselves into the open windows, as mothers with children displayed no caution in charging toward any open door.
From behind me, I could hear Andrea and Herleen call out, “Kelly Anne!!!!! We’re not gonna make it!!” as I panted with my luggage in the 45 degree weather, trying to find a car with empty seats. The last car on the train had a locked door and initial attempts to open it from the outside were unsuccessful. I moved on.
I had already caught up to the second last car when I heard my name called again. I turned my head quickly to see my fellow interns floating onto the last car of the train in the front of a current of pushy travelers.
I blurted an expletive and adrenaline propelled me toward that open door. Surprisingly, I made it on and found one seat—one glorious, shining, open seat—waiting for me in the first row. I sat down, and settled in for an otherwise non-eventful 3 hour ride to Pathankot.