There was a lot of news about trains over the summer. President Obama announced plans to encourage the development of high-speed rail service in this country, with $8 billion allocated to its development by the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act. Earlier, in November of 2009 (not really the summer, but I didn’t hear about it until then), gazillionaire Warren Buffet bought Burlington Northern Santa Fe, one of the largest railroads in the country.

And why shouldn’t they be pumping billions of dollars into this ancient and environmentally friendly industry? After all, railroads made this country great. Just think of all the Chinese and Irish laborers who were shamelessly exploited to give prominent politicians a photo op and a big payday.

Well, for one: railroads suck.

When you’re on the outside looking in, trains are amazing. I remember being enchanted by them when I was little. Steam, diesel, there was even a proposal for a nuclear-powered train at one time. Whatever the motive power, trains were awesome when I was five. They were big, fast, made great and easily imitated noises and you never had to worry about choking on toy ones if you put them in your mouth.

Well, I’m a lot older now. I’m more knowledgeable, and I like to think I’m wiser. I’m also more cynical, since I made the normal growing-up discovery that the real world does not often live up to our imaginings. I’ve ridden in trains of all kinds: the MBTA in Boston, the WMTA in Washington, the New York subway, the Philadelphia rail service and Amtrak.

One of the first things I discovered was that trains are loud, cramped and rickety; the bathrooms are annoying (when there are any), they’re always behind schedule and (like every form of public transportation) there is always a 3 year-old screaming his or her head off.

When this happens, if you’re lucky, you get to share a sympathetic look with the parent. Most of the time, however, Mom and Dad are completely oblivious. Not only are they used to it, but they have child-rearing “hormones,” rushing through their systems which provide immunity. Some of the things these kids do are absolutely horrendous. The parents have to be on something.

I was on the B43 bus to Target the other day. I swear there was a set of triplets. They did not stop screaming. If I could have astrally projected myself into the driver’s seat of any car with air conditioning it would have made a great commercial for any car anywhere anytime (especially an affordable one).

We can’t ban children from public transportation or require parents to gag their rugrats, or even segregate transportation based on a traveler being with or without children; all we can do is take the hint and buy the clunker Crazy Phil’s Used Car Barn is advertising for $500—the one with no seatbelts and the weird smell coming from the back seat.

There has never been a car in my life where the experience was inferior to that of public transit. Shocks, control, no screaming kids, a radio playing music you actually listen to—or even CD’s or an iPod, or, most blessed of all: silence. Just the gentle “Vrrrrr” of the engine, maybe a little bit of chassis vibration and smooth, gentle acceleration along the way.

Another problem with public transit is that the bathrooms are invariably inoperable. I don’t even know why they bother building trains and buses with toilets when they never work. I’m sure ingenuity and engineering could overcome this technological hurdle that’s preventing American public transit from competing with Europe, but why bother going through the Apollo program all over again? With a car you don’t have to worry about it. Guys can use bushes, and women can use smart phones to find clean gas stations that aren’t run by perverts.

Compared to buses or trains, the automobile is paradise on wheels. With a car you can set your own schedule, go on a Great American Road trip, be free of the wildly unpredictable and overcrowded buses and trains, and in a pinch you can use it as a mobile bachelor pad. Yeah, you have to add on to your debt peonage in order to buy one, but it’s worth it. I find myself at peace just thinking about never having to listen to a little stinker scream for no reason in particular ever again. Well, at least until I become a parent myself. For now, however, my mother has enough nightmares.

Matthew M. Robare is a Collegian columnist. He can be reached at [email protected].