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Faster than a speeding train... well not exactly
My packing for Denver so far has consisted of locating the tickets for the Rockies game and placing them in my purse. I'm planning on leaving everything else until tomorrow, when time crunch will eliminate any tendency to linger over the decision making process.
This morning I hopped on my bike, hoping to get in a long ride before the promised rain arrived. There were showers as I made my way out to Owego, but it wasn't heavy rain, so I just put my jacket on and kept pedaling. At Hickories Park (16 miles from my house), I generously allowed myself a five minute break for water and scarfing down a Nutrigrain bar. Then I got back on the bike and started riding home.
As I left Owego, I heard the sound of a train whistle, which provoked an immediate Pavlovian response. Hear Train=Find Train. Drilled into me growing up, when my Dad's favorite form of entertainment was to take us kids out to look at trains. Not museum trains, nor carefully scheduled passenger excursions, no, we went out to the freight lines, stopping at various crossings, looking at the signals and listening to the tracks, or for the sound of a whistle. Then we'd be off on the hunt, trying to find the best vantage point to watch the train go past.
As kids we knew all the railroad crossings in Hartford and for several towns around. My Dad's knowledge stretched further, to the mysteries of New Haven and exotic Springfield, Massachusetts. If the train beat you to the first crossing, we'd judge the speed then guess if we could catch it at the next crossing, or if we needed to race directly to the third.
I no longer chase trains these days, but if a train is going by, I still look, needing to know which line it is, and what kind of cars it's pulling.
This morning, as I heard the whistle behind me, I glanced over to my right. I could see empty tracks through a gap in the trees, but ahead of me the view was blocked off. My need to see the train warred with my bike training mantra which insists that I not stop.
So I pedaled harder. Faster. And just as I reached the spot where the road runs right along the railroad tracks, with a beautiful view of the river, the train came alongside, and I waved to the engineers. It was two Norfolk Southern engines pulling a long line of containers and truck trailers on stack cars. It was a long train, doing about thirty, and it took a couple of miles for them to pass. Just as the road turned away from the tracks the last car went by, and I said "Thanks Dad."
I don't believe that the spirits of the dead linger, and I haven't spoken to my father since the last time I visited his grave. But at that moment it seemed completely logical to thank him. If he'd wanted to say "Hi!" this was how he would have done it.
This morning I hopped on my bike, hoping to get in a long ride before the promised rain arrived. There were showers as I made my way out to Owego, but it wasn't heavy rain, so I just put my jacket on and kept pedaling. At Hickories Park (16 miles from my house), I generously allowed myself a five minute break for water and scarfing down a Nutrigrain bar. Then I got back on the bike and started riding home.
As I left Owego, I heard the sound of a train whistle, which provoked an immediate Pavlovian response. Hear Train=Find Train. Drilled into me growing up, when my Dad's favorite form of entertainment was to take us kids out to look at trains. Not museum trains, nor carefully scheduled passenger excursions, no, we went out to the freight lines, stopping at various crossings, looking at the signals and listening to the tracks, or for the sound of a whistle. Then we'd be off on the hunt, trying to find the best vantage point to watch the train go past.
As kids we knew all the railroad crossings in Hartford and for several towns around. My Dad's knowledge stretched further, to the mysteries of New Haven and exotic Springfield, Massachusetts. If the train beat you to the first crossing, we'd judge the speed then guess if we could catch it at the next crossing, or if we needed to race directly to the third.
I no longer chase trains these days, but if a train is going by, I still look, needing to know which line it is, and what kind of cars it's pulling.
This morning, as I heard the whistle behind me, I glanced over to my right. I could see empty tracks through a gap in the trees, but ahead of me the view was blocked off. My need to see the train warred with my bike training mantra which insists that I not stop.
So I pedaled harder. Faster. And just as I reached the spot where the road runs right along the railroad tracks, with a beautiful view of the river, the train came alongside, and I waved to the engineers. It was two Norfolk Southern engines pulling a long line of containers and truck trailers on stack cars. It was a long train, doing about thirty, and it took a couple of miles for them to pass. Just as the road turned away from the tracks the last car went by, and I said "Thanks Dad."
I don't believe that the spirits of the dead linger, and I haven't spoken to my father since the last time I visited his grave. But at that moment it seemed completely logical to thank him. If he'd wanted to say "Hi!" this was how he would have done it.
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I'm going to be at World Con, too. Hopefully we'll bump into each other. :)
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