In late October of 2012, something strange happened.
A hurricane that was churning in open waters took a hard left and barreled toward the Northeast coast of America.
By the time the storm made landfall on the Jersey Shore, it was considered post-tropical. But that moniker did nothing to dull Superstorm Sandy’s wrath.
Trees toppled in the wind. Low lying areas flooded. And millions of people lost power.
The devastation was especially pronounced in the New York City area. When I visited months later, there were still debris piles in several places around the city. And if you looked at walls and embankments, you could see where the water had risen to during the storm.
Still, the recovery efforts were mostly complete. With one exception.
New York City’s subway system was snarled by the rushing water. And even after the tunnels had dried out, problems persisted.
Signaling systems faltered, tunnel walls were left unstable, and delays piled up.
The Metropolitan Transportation Authority would ultimately spend the better part of a decade refurbishing the worst-hit areas of the system. This process led to more delays, more grumbling, and potshots from the peanut gallery.
Pundits would point to the age of the tunnels, budget cuts from years gone by, and inadequate maintenance when they lampooned the New York City Subway in those days. They likened it to a dinosaur on life support – a relic from the past that wasn’t worthy of such a costly resuscitation.
It was a convenient argument. But a shortsighted one.
When I was young, I was a hardcore transit nerd.
And I was particularly obsessed with the New York City Subway.
Growing up in the area gave me ample opportunity to ride the city’s 250 miles of subway lines. And I was amazed by the entire operation.
Tunnels wound through the city in a complex maze, with a variety of station designs. Several long, elaborate transfer passages connected the platforms of different subway lines as well.
The New York City Subway seemed like its own subterranean ecosystem. Riders were protected from the rain and the wind, from the summer heat and the winter chill.
Other cities had their mass transit systems too. And each of them had their own unique flair.
Boston boasted underground trolley cars on one line. Washington had long escalators that descended from the street into bunker-like stations. Chicago had miles of elevated train lines punctuated by quaint wooden platforms.
But none of these features were as elaborate or imaginative as the New York City Subway system.
Much of this was by design. Three separate companies laid most of the Big Apple’s tracks back in the early 1900s. The companies had to navigate densely populated areas of town while building around each other’s tunnels and stations. It was quite the operation.
I didn’t think much about these details as a kid. I was just happy to ride the trains and stare out the windows.
Still, as an adult, it’s hard not to marvel at what New York created – and when.
You see, these subway tunnels were built in an era before smart machinery, computers, or Artificial Intelligence. Renderings and surveys were done by hand. Most construction required a human touch.
And yet, despite all those restrictions, the system remained structurally sound for decades. It took a black swan weather event for any cracks to show.
That is a testament to the power of engineering. To following the exacting principles of measurement, mathematics, and physics to a T. To committing to the creation of something that lasts.
That rigidity offers us a sense of security – even beyond the subway turnstiles. Adherence to those principles provides the peace of mind that the structures around us won’t fall apart and put our lives at risk.
It’s a powerful benefit that we all enjoy. But at what cost?
Many of those childhood subway rides led me to the Museum of Modern Art in the heart of New York City.
My grandparents served as volunteers in the museum back then. They answered visitor questions on the weekends. And during breaks in their shifts, they show me around the galleries.
I was often perplexed by how different the artwork looked. Piet Mondrian’s work was full of rigid blocks and lines. Andy Worhol’s artistry tended to convey of Campbell’s soup cans. And Jackson Pollock’s creations were mostly paint splatter.
My grandparents explained that each artist saw the world differently, and they put those perspectives on canvas. Art was a form of expression for them, free of rules and inhibitions.
This concept terrified me. Surely, there had to be a right answer, or some guidelines for the artists to follow. How else would they know if their work was viable, let alone successful?
I was too young to recognize it, but I was thinking like an engineer.
The irony of all this isn’t lost on me. For not only was I a poor prospect for engineering back then – as proved by my horrendous math and science grades – but I was also sharing this opinion half a block from the 5th Avenue/53rd Street station.
This was a split-level station located deep under the street. Once you descended the long escalator, you’d find westbound trains on the upper-level platform and eastbound trains on the platform beneath them.
At first glance, this design made sense. 53rd Street was rather narrow, and it was flanked by tall buildings. Stacking the tunnels deep underground seemed like a necessary engineering decision.
Yet, at the next station to the east – at 53rd Street and Lexington Avenue – both tracks were on the same level, with a central platform between them. The street was just as narrow, and the buildings flanking it were just as tall. But the engineers had gone with a different design.
This all makes me wonder if I’d given the engineers who designed the New York City Subway enough credit. Sure, they’d passed the most critical test – creating something precise enough to withstand the test of time. But they’d also mixed in just enough reasoned creativity to make the system interesting – especially to young transit nerds like me.
Perhaps the choice wasn’t between regulations and rebellion. Perhaps there was room for a shade of gray.
And perhaps that silver lining was a necessity.
I am the son of teachers.
My parents are now retired. But they spent the bulk of their working lives in the classroom, teaching an entire generation of children.
I was in grade school myself for the first half of this endeavor. And I was planting a flag for my own career in the second half. So, I rarely talked shop with my parents.
But little morsels of information still made their way to my ears. And one of those morsels – from my father – has stuck with me.
No two students learn the same way, he recounted. It’s best to be adaptable, and cater your lesson to each student, so that the entire class can take the information in.
I think about this often, particularly in the case of engineering. After all, that discipline seems to fly in the face of adaptability.
How have so many generations of engineers earned their stripes without buckling under the weight of rigidity? It’s a question that seems to defy response.
Or does it?
Yes, the clues to unlock the Engineer’s Paradox lie deep beneath the streets of New York City, where only Superstorm Sandy’s floodwaters can reach.
Down there, it’s possible to have built a mass transit marvel – a century-old masterpiece that stood the test of time – while still maintaining just enough creativity to keep things interesting. Down there, the surety of tradition could mesh with the promise of advancement in the best possible way.
Engineering is precise. Humanity is erratic. But against all odds, that pairing manages to sustain itself year after year. And we all get to reap the benefits.
I’m grateful for that.