Shortly after boarding the coach bus at 4 a.m., with only the highway lights and the five other passengers aboard in my company, I drifted off, with the Wallflowers’ rendition of “We Could be Heroes” lulling me to sleep. Thus began one Mets fan’s pilgrimage to Pittsburgh.

The last time the New York Mets were division champions in 1988, I was not yet 1 year old. The only ball club I have known to be king of the National League East is the Atlanta Braves, veritable Mets tormentors since moving to the East in 1994, winning the division title every season since.

On Sept. 12, 2006, the Braves’ consecutive divisional title streak was snapped when the Mets downed the Florida Marlins 6-4. Entering this past weekend, the Mets’ magic number was one; all the Mets needed to clinch the division title was one win, or one loss from the second-place Philadelphia Phillies.

You never forget your first division title, and I was going to be sure of it. A week ago I gathered up what little money I had, said “to hell with class!” and to Pittsburgh I went. The Mets were about to open a three-game set against the lowly Pirates, whom, with the second-worst record in the NL, were on their way to their 14th consecutive losing season.

A little under 16 hours after departing Binghamton, after stops and transfers in New York City, Baltimore and a small town in Pennsylvania where I found a Ku Klux Klan business card atop a urinal, I arrived, finally, at PNC Park.

The ballpark, host of this season’s All-Star game back in July, is striking, offering not only a magnificent view of the playing field, but also of the Allegheny River and its bridges, which run right behind center field, and of downtown Pittsburgh, situated across the river.

The scene was set: a beautiful night and ace Pedro Martinez returning from the disabled list.

Problem was, when I got to my seat in the bottom of the third inning, the Mets were already down 2-0, and the deficit would be doubled by the time the frame ended. The Pirates needed no more runs, winning by a final score of 5-3.

On my way out of the ballpark, I received several mocking phone calls and text messages from friends, deriding me for having dropped everything and taken such a journey only to see the Mets lose, but I held my head high; the Mets would reward me tomorrow, I was positive the team with the best record in baseball would never drop two in a row to the Pirates.

The Phillies, as I found out in my Best Western hotel room, had bested Houston 4-3, and thus the division championship had to wait for another day. This was not the worst thing that could have happened; it would be far more fun to clinch the title on the wings of one’s own win than another team’s loss (as the Yankees did on Wednesday).

On Saturday morning, I checked out and headed to the ballpark, where I would wait outside for hours until the gates opened in the afternoon. I stopped in a 7-11 for a Pepsi Slurpee — they serve Pepsi at Shea, too — and a cheap cigar to commemorate the impending victory.

Word came down that the Phillies had beaten Houston again that afternoon, 7-4. It was all on the Mets’ backs.

Walking into the park, “We Could be Heroes” played again.

“Tonight’s the night,” Mets manager Willie Randolph mouthed to the many loud Mets fans who had arrived early to watch batting practice. Players’ names were chanted, signs that read “2006 NL East Champs” were flashed. Indeed, tonight was to be the night.

The Mets jumped on top, 1-0 in the first inning. They then plated one more in the fifth to tie the game at 2 after Jason Bay had scored twice, once on a solo home run, his second in as many nights.

And then came the sixth. And the seventh. And the anxiety coupled with disbelief at even the possibility of the Mets losing this game. And the eighth. Still 2-2.

And then the ninth came around. In the top of the inning, Paul LoDuca stepped to the plate with two on and two out. LoDuca put as much a charge into one as LoDuca can. Or so it appeared; Pirates center-fielder Chris Duffy snagged the deep fly, retiring the side.

Aaron Heilman recorded two painless outs to start the bottom of the inning, but in facing the third batter of the inning, forgot that in general, walking the potential winning run is not prudent. Ronny Paulino then lined one into the left center field gap, and as Carlos Beltran valiantly, albeit hopelessly, tried to make the catch, the Pirates leaped, flailed and gathered at home plate, and the surreal set in.

Sixteen hours of travel, red ink all over my credit card and bank statements, for this? I couldn’t stay another night, and as it happens, it’s good I didn’t: the Mets lost again, and the Phillies won again on Sunday.

After all, excruciating and cruelly ironic losses are what the New York Mets do best; I should have known my efforts would result in disappointment.

I left the ballpark, phone off, head held quite low, only to look up and see Mets play-by-play man Gary Cohen waiting by the press gate.

“Have a good night, Gary,” I said solemnly. If only he knew my tale.

A wink was all I received and was all I needed.

I sat down on the sidewalk, killing the few hours I had before my return voyage began, and pondered. The pilgrimage was not a waste. No, the Mets did not clinch in my presence. But the division had been wrapped up for months anyway, and I did what I could to be a part of the celebration; can anything more be asked of me?

Finally, upon returning to Shea Monday — a trip I could have made, had I not spent all my money and time in Pittsburgh, mind you — the Mets clinched, shutting out the Florida Marlins 4-0. I finally got to smoke my cigar.

At the end of the voyage (which had gone slightly off course), I was broke, taunted and tired, and being the masochist that the job description requires all Mets fans be, content. I fell asleep on the 1 a.m. bus out of Pittsburgh, again listening to “We Could be Heroes,” sardonically humoring myself with what had transpired.

And the 2006 Mets are already heroes as the class of the league, even if they never should have been swept by the Pirates. I may have missed the initial celebration, but the best one still awaits in October — I just hope Greyhound has service to whatever American League town the Mets will be in.