Tomorrow my eldest (and tallest) son will take a walk up on a stage in a hot gymnasium, step up to the superintendent, take the diploma in his hand and at long last, graduate from high school. I'm sure at least a zillion other parents all over the land are feeling the same wonderment and confusion as I am right about now. I can hear myself asking the same questions as every other stunned and confused father...how did he get so big so fast? How did he become such a fine young man all of a sudden? What happened to the kid who played soccer all the time? How did he end up being able to drive? College? Why are we filling out applications for college? Who's this big lug who calls his mother 'Shamu' and his father 'Dirt' and lives through it? Well, maybe not too many other parents have to wonder about that last part but then, none of them have anything like my ever-hungry offspring either.
Yeah...no one has kids like mine do they? I guess all parents that care one whit about their kids think the same. Everybody's kids are the best kids. How could it be otherwise? They're the be-all and end-all for so many years that you can't help but see them through lenses that filter out all but the best in them. You pour your heart and soul into raising them from the day they're born and hope against hope that you're doing it right. You probably aren't but you can only run with what you have. In our case, that wasn't much. As with all new parents, we didn't have a clue.
We found out early that with children, there never was and never will be an instruction manual, most advice is wrong, experts suck and nothing really matters except what you feel. The only thing anybody ever said that was genuinely true was that it wouldn't be easy. Wonderful yes, easy...no. That should be imprinted in the genetics of our species by now but it isn't. Nobody knows one damn thing when they start down the road. You just rolls the dice and takes your chances that somehow, it'll all work out. Sometimes it does...sometimes you end up in the ER. That's just how it is. You wing it daily and screw it up regularly but somehow at the end of it all, if you love those kids enough and believe in them enough, everything comes together with time. With so much of your own life sewed up in those walking, talking hormonal imbalances that they become, you really have no choice but to believe. How can your children not be just a little better than anyone elses?
Of course, ours really are the BEST and I'll go down swinging if you want to argue.
Tomorrow is the day. I guess it's supposed to be one of those so-called 'chapters' in life when things are suddenly vastly different. Not so much, I think. Big events rarely come with so much preparation and anticipation. Except for your wedding and that 9 month joyride before the kids are born, you just don't see it sneaking up on you. Turns in the road come unannounced and jump out at you when you aren't looking. Like the fact that my boy isn't really a boy anymore. Nope, never saw that one coming.
So After Friday night when the cap is gone and the gown returned, I'll still be goggle-eyed wondering how it all came about. And after the shindig on Saturday to make it official with the rest of the inlaws and outlaws, the Graduate will still need gas money. Life in general won't change very much or very fast but in a way...some things will be different.
He'll be one step closer to being his own man. One step closer to heading out on his own way. Those steps up onto the stage are only the next ones on his long walk. The next steps on his way to being not just a tall man, but a good man. Not a beginning or an end, but a change. A change of the heart, a change for the good.
And I'll be one proud and happy father. Proud that he can still call me 'Dirt' and happy that I still know what he means.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Sleepless in the Saddle
How does one operate on a near total lack of rest? I'm doing semi-formal research into the possible outcomes of not actually sleeping for a couple of days in a row...not because it's a particularly smart thing to do but mostly because I've got too much going on to stuff it all into the waking 'real world'. This entry is a product of that decidedly non-scientific study.
My latest experiment in sleep deprivation began last evening when I was departing my away-from-home-terminal (which by the way, the railroad abbreviates in the military/industrial fashion as the AFHT). I can't decide if it should be spelled phonetically to be correct or maybe pronounced AFF-HAT, A-FAT or AH-F**K-THAT but the point is, it's a location where I spend a fair amount of time. Sometimes an unfair amount of time as well but that's another story. It's easiest to think of the one I stay at most frequently as a large, industrial storage shed where the carrier shelves the warm bodies it may use someday to crew a train. It's a great place to see in the rear-view mirror.
Remember, I'm really tired so bear with me while I wander...
The usual pre-trip gyrations of a van ride to the office, assorted phone calls, computer and paperwork etc. eventually led us to a waiting train parked just outside the terminal sometime earlier that afternoon. A relatively small and light piece of work as these things go, it idled quietly in the sun tempting me to think of other days when "run it like ya stole it" actually meant something. The old and tattered lead engine got the evil eye of suspicion from both my conductor and myself but unfortunately you don't get to pick 'em, you just get to run 'em. Nothing seemed obviously wrong except the crummy paint job and a strong scent of hot chemicals from the old toilet down in the nose. It would be dark soon so the paint would look better and open windows at track speed would blow the reek of 'eau-de-blue-stuff' out in a mile or two. Bad feelings aside, up go the grips and within minutes, off we go.
A short while later, a call from our seldom-heard but invariably-breathless dispatcher told of an opposing train out of the north with a crew on short-time in danger of running out of working hours at an inconvenient location. He inquired as to our ability to make "a good run" of about 25 miles to a siding to allow the southbound to pass without slowing it down. Do I hear opportunity knocking? This bodes well for our trip because many dispatchers won't take the chance of letting you out in front of a short-timer. It's easier and safer to just hold you were you sit and let the hot one come to you. The bad side of that is that sitting a little too much can and often does lead to yet another crew (mine) running out of time somewhere ugly later on. The fact that we might die on our hours is irrelevant for the moment however because by the time we do, the current button-pusher will be drinking beer on the deck and we'll be the next guy's problem. C'est la vie.
But back to the story..."A good run" as I learned long ago is railroad vernacular for "haul ass" and the implication is that nobody will say much as long as you don't break anything expensive or do anything that involves lawyers. This feat must be accomplished without speeding at any time of course lest much time be spent mowing the lawn and pestering a union rep. to get your job back. It's really not about going fast anyway, it's more about not going slow. Doing it right requires paying close attention to running 'on the numbers' and not spending any excess time taking in the scenery. I allowed to the voice on the radio that if he lit the lights and lined us up, I'd give it the old college try. Before he finished chatting on the radio, the throttle was all the way back and the amp meter on the way up. Let the good times roll.
When handed a rare chance to run hot, it's almost like a flashback to the way I was originally taught way back when. Some of the old-head engineers from whom learned this craft were veterans of passenger service or mail trains and they wanted you on the dot or above all the time. I learned to slide into speed restrictions on the air brakes and yank back out as the marker crossed the line lest I receive a hide-peeling for sloppy train handling. That speedometer hand was always in the corner of my eye because if the man said 50, he meant 50, not 49 and not 51. It was good training.
I also learned a thing or two about stopping as well as going. I found that a planned stop more than half a car-length from a selected target was grounds for humiliation or outright abuse. To make the conductor step sideways to reach the grab irons was characterized as being cruelly negligent to the offended ground-pounder. One guy was embarrassed enough to actually apologize to the waiting outbound crew when I blew a 'station stop' and the handrails failed to come to rest directly in front of the engineer's shoes. Times have changed but I still have nightmares of those days.
Remembering my upbringing, I got my eyes inside the cab and on the gauges to give it a run for the roses. It was actually kind of fun. The train handled like a string of coaches and we were eating up miles. The fly in the ointment came when I kicked off the brakes and got the throttle all the way back coming out of a curve. I saw the amp meter start climbing as it followed the throttle but suddenly it quivered to a stop at about 300. This is bad. It should be nearly 800 or more at this speed and we're not accelerating one bit. Visions of those grouchy old Erie men flashed before my eyes. A glance in the mirror was even less encouraging. The train behind the first two cars was completely obscured by a wall of greasy looking black smoke drooling out of the exhaust stack where there should only be heat-ripples blasting straight up. It's always something but the timing was exceedingly poor on this occasion.
I begin trying to think of what I'll say to the DS while I run through all the options of what-in-the-hell could be wrong now? When everything runs on software, the options are pretty limited. The rat-trap of a leader has betrayed me when I needed it most and was about to make a liar out of me. My vocabulary across the cab degenerated into that of the legendary drunken sailor or worse, a henpecked trainmaster at his fourth derailment of the week.
Fortunately for the remainder of the trip, I had two units but the second was shut down to save fuel and to start it now would require a complete stop and lost time while I get it fired up. Decisions, decisions. Keep going at what now looks like a slow crawl at best or come to a standstill long enough to boot up the computer and light the fires in engine number two? Either one will blow any currency I had with the Second Trick Dispatcher when his southbound outlaws because I stuck a cork in the bottle right in his face. Bad things may come of this.
In the background, questions are racing. Who's idea was it to build engines you have to go outside to start anyway? Why can't I do this from all the gee-whiz computers these things have? Do pilots climb out on the wing to crank up another engine or check the power output? Nooo...they have switches and meters INSIDE for such things. They don't even risk sending the co-pilot out on such a mission once wheels are turning and engines are burning. But not us...we have to chance sending the left-seater on a wobbly dance down the walkway to the other cab to push the buttons. That's if the guy knows how to set up all the breakers and switches in the first place. Some do, some don't, some do but won't. Or, you just hang out the anchor and stop long enough to crank it over yourself. Like I said, it's always something.
By sheerest dumb luck, just as the last poke at the computer screen behind my seat yielded no results and the radio call that would ruin the afternoon for at least five guys and banish me to sidings for months was taking shape in my head, the choice was made for me. The red-hot coal man got whacked by a defect detector, had to slow to 30 mph and that was all she wrote. His fate now sealed no matter what I did or didn't do, the pressure was off. The dispatcher gave me an atta-boy for the effort (without knowing how close it was to working out somewhat differently) and so all was well. We stumbled to a stop as the loads of soon-to-be-outlawed coal passed into the siding next to us to wait for another crew and another try. The second unit of our train dutifully lit off on my request and after a minor tussle with it's Windows Embedded operating system, announced itself ready for the rest of the evening's labors. Sometimes I miss engines with controls that would respond to a tap with a vice-grip or reset with a little prodding from a flag-stick but then I suppose re-booting is really about the same thing. Somehow though, it's less gratifying even when it occasionally works.
Let's leave this little adventure by saying the ride the rest of the way home was something less than a picnic but then, sometimes that's the way of things. Trains are usually tiring even on a good day and this one was only more so. I arrived at the new Wayward Home about daybreak and loaded the coffee machine. This at least did not require a re-boot to accomplish. I had plans for a Tour de Cure scouting expedition in the morning so what do I do? Stay up and keep on pushing.
Thus my experiment is still in full swing. It's now been a tad over 24 hours and my fingers are starting to have a hard time finding the keys on the laptop. Luckily, I'm not on-call and have a couple of days to recover while I get Son the First graduated from high school. That's the Next Big Thing and I'm looking forward to seeing the big lug do the walk. I'll probably have slept by then and with any luck, will be able to function like a human again. Hope so because my inlaws are coming over.
Until then, let the path of science go forward! Nothing is gained without sacrifice! Blah, blah, blah, etc.
The hell with sleeping...I'm going for a ride.
My latest experiment in sleep deprivation began last evening when I was departing my away-from-home-terminal (which by the way, the railroad abbreviates in the military/industrial fashion as the AFHT). I can't decide if it should be spelled phonetically to be correct or maybe pronounced AFF-HAT, A-FAT or AH-F**K-THAT but the point is, it's a location where I spend a fair amount of time. Sometimes an unfair amount of time as well but that's another story. It's easiest to think of the one I stay at most frequently as a large, industrial storage shed where the carrier shelves the warm bodies it may use someday to crew a train. It's a great place to see in the rear-view mirror.
Remember, I'm really tired so bear with me while I wander...
The usual pre-trip gyrations of a van ride to the office, assorted phone calls, computer and paperwork etc. eventually led us to a waiting train parked just outside the terminal sometime earlier that afternoon. A relatively small and light piece of work as these things go, it idled quietly in the sun tempting me to think of other days when "run it like ya stole it" actually meant something. The old and tattered lead engine got the evil eye of suspicion from both my conductor and myself but unfortunately you don't get to pick 'em, you just get to run 'em. Nothing seemed obviously wrong except the crummy paint job and a strong scent of hot chemicals from the old toilet down in the nose. It would be dark soon so the paint would look better and open windows at track speed would blow the reek of 'eau-de-blue-stuff' out in a mile or two. Bad feelings aside, up go the grips and within minutes, off we go.
A short while later, a call from our seldom-heard but invariably-breathless dispatcher told of an opposing train out of the north with a crew on short-time in danger of running out of working hours at an inconvenient location. He inquired as to our ability to make "a good run" of about 25 miles to a siding to allow the southbound to pass without slowing it down. Do I hear opportunity knocking? This bodes well for our trip because many dispatchers won't take the chance of letting you out in front of a short-timer. It's easier and safer to just hold you were you sit and let the hot one come to you. The bad side of that is that sitting a little too much can and often does lead to yet another crew (mine) running out of time somewhere ugly later on. The fact that we might die on our hours is irrelevant for the moment however because by the time we do, the current button-pusher will be drinking beer on the deck and we'll be the next guy's problem. C'est la vie.
But back to the story..."A good run" as I learned long ago is railroad vernacular for "haul ass" and the implication is that nobody will say much as long as you don't break anything expensive or do anything that involves lawyers. This feat must be accomplished without speeding at any time of course lest much time be spent mowing the lawn and pestering a union rep. to get your job back. It's really not about going fast anyway, it's more about not going slow. Doing it right requires paying close attention to running 'on the numbers' and not spending any excess time taking in the scenery. I allowed to the voice on the radio that if he lit the lights and lined us up, I'd give it the old college try. Before he finished chatting on the radio, the throttle was all the way back and the amp meter on the way up. Let the good times roll.
When handed a rare chance to run hot, it's almost like a flashback to the way I was originally taught way back when. Some of the old-head engineers from whom learned this craft were veterans of passenger service or mail trains and they wanted you on the dot or above all the time. I learned to slide into speed restrictions on the air brakes and yank back out as the marker crossed the line lest I receive a hide-peeling for sloppy train handling. That speedometer hand was always in the corner of my eye because if the man said 50, he meant 50, not 49 and not 51. It was good training.
I also learned a thing or two about stopping as well as going. I found that a planned stop more than half a car-length from a selected target was grounds for humiliation or outright abuse. To make the conductor step sideways to reach the grab irons was characterized as being cruelly negligent to the offended ground-pounder. One guy was embarrassed enough to actually apologize to the waiting outbound crew when I blew a 'station stop' and the handrails failed to come to rest directly in front of the engineer's shoes. Times have changed but I still have nightmares of those days.
Remembering my upbringing, I got my eyes inside the cab and on the gauges to give it a run for the roses. It was actually kind of fun. The train handled like a string of coaches and we were eating up miles. The fly in the ointment came when I kicked off the brakes and got the throttle all the way back coming out of a curve. I saw the amp meter start climbing as it followed the throttle but suddenly it quivered to a stop at about 300. This is bad. It should be nearly 800 or more at this speed and we're not accelerating one bit. Visions of those grouchy old Erie men flashed before my eyes. A glance in the mirror was even less encouraging. The train behind the first two cars was completely obscured by a wall of greasy looking black smoke drooling out of the exhaust stack where there should only be heat-ripples blasting straight up. It's always something but the timing was exceedingly poor on this occasion.
I begin trying to think of what I'll say to the DS while I run through all the options of what-in-the-hell could be wrong now? When everything runs on software, the options are pretty limited. The rat-trap of a leader has betrayed me when I needed it most and was about to make a liar out of me. My vocabulary across the cab degenerated into that of the legendary drunken sailor or worse, a henpecked trainmaster at his fourth derailment of the week.
Fortunately for the remainder of the trip, I had two units but the second was shut down to save fuel and to start it now would require a complete stop and lost time while I get it fired up. Decisions, decisions. Keep going at what now looks like a slow crawl at best or come to a standstill long enough to boot up the computer and light the fires in engine number two? Either one will blow any currency I had with the Second Trick Dispatcher when his southbound outlaws because I stuck a cork in the bottle right in his face. Bad things may come of this.
In the background, questions are racing. Who's idea was it to build engines you have to go outside to start anyway? Why can't I do this from all the gee-whiz computers these things have? Do pilots climb out on the wing to crank up another engine or check the power output? Nooo...they have switches and meters INSIDE for such things. They don't even risk sending the co-pilot out on such a mission once wheels are turning and engines are burning. But not us...we have to chance sending the left-seater on a wobbly dance down the walkway to the other cab to push the buttons. That's if the guy knows how to set up all the breakers and switches in the first place. Some do, some don't, some do but won't. Or, you just hang out the anchor and stop long enough to crank it over yourself. Like I said, it's always something.
By sheerest dumb luck, just as the last poke at the computer screen behind my seat yielded no results and the radio call that would ruin the afternoon for at least five guys and banish me to sidings for months was taking shape in my head, the choice was made for me. The red-hot coal man got whacked by a defect detector, had to slow to 30 mph and that was all she wrote. His fate now sealed no matter what I did or didn't do, the pressure was off. The dispatcher gave me an atta-boy for the effort (without knowing how close it was to working out somewhat differently) and so all was well. We stumbled to a stop as the loads of soon-to-be-outlawed coal passed into the siding next to us to wait for another crew and another try. The second unit of our train dutifully lit off on my request and after a minor tussle with it's Windows Embedded operating system, announced itself ready for the rest of the evening's labors. Sometimes I miss engines with controls that would respond to a tap with a vice-grip or reset with a little prodding from a flag-stick but then I suppose re-booting is really about the same thing. Somehow though, it's less gratifying even when it occasionally works.
Let's leave this little adventure by saying the ride the rest of the way home was something less than a picnic but then, sometimes that's the way of things. Trains are usually tiring even on a good day and this one was only more so. I arrived at the new Wayward Home about daybreak and loaded the coffee machine. This at least did not require a re-boot to accomplish. I had plans for a Tour de Cure scouting expedition in the morning so what do I do? Stay up and keep on pushing.
Thus my experiment is still in full swing. It's now been a tad over 24 hours and my fingers are starting to have a hard time finding the keys on the laptop. Luckily, I'm not on-call and have a couple of days to recover while I get Son the First graduated from high school. That's the Next Big Thing and I'm looking forward to seeing the big lug do the walk. I'll probably have slept by then and with any luck, will be able to function like a human again. Hope so because my inlaws are coming over.
Until then, let the path of science go forward! Nothing is gained without sacrifice! Blah, blah, blah, etc.
The hell with sleeping...I'm going for a ride.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
R&R
I'm in recovery mode. I pulled another 30+ hr. day yesterday between work and home. You'd think I'd learn not to do that...or at least do it less often. Old dog, new tricks...isn't there a saying about that?
The whole thing started when I woke up at my away-from-home terminal Sunday at around 4 pm and packed to come home. This was followed by a twelve hour train ride in the dark with all the normal frustrations and dilemmas of railroading. After my usual hour-long commute, it was full daylight and the second or third wind was kicking in. Also by that time, the real world was up and around so I decided to just roll with it and not bother going to sleep all. I know I'm not on-call Monday night and I've got stuff to do.
It always goes the same way and I know it's going to hurt before it's over but I don't want to be asleep when I'm home all the time either. All work and no play...
That one decision led to a bike ride, assorted comings and goings, my son's jazz concert and a dose of Red Cat. Let's just say the lights went out really, really fast once I hit the sheets.
But anyway, speaking of riding...My faithful road bike is at the shop getting a once-over by people who actually know what they're doing (unlike me). I'm at a loss to determine the cause of a nasty front-end shake that has made an appearance on my Trek a little too frequently of late. I pretend that I have a small amount of bicycle knowledge and I can sometimes baloney my way around the average technical conversation if I'm lucky or if the other person is an idiot but I'm out of my league with this one. I've done all I can (which isn't much) and so I must defer to the experts.
Here's the scenario: For reasons unknown, my 2.1 has decided that somewhere around 38 mph is damn-all fast enough and to remind me of that arbitrary speed limit, it suddenly goes into that above-mentioned wobble. Just as I pedal out and start letting gravity do the work, I can feel it coming now that I'm expecting it. The bars get twitchy, the road feels like greased marbles and my fingers sneak out toward the brake levers without conscious thought.
Then the fun starts. There's a moment of small vibration and then instantly, I can't steer anymore. A few too many instances of practice have taught me that the only way to break the shimmies is to snap on a little rear brake (a trick I learned from a Harley Sportster way back when) and drag off some speed until things settle down. If I'm quick enough, the wheel starts tracking in a straight line just as the adrenaline rush hits but slightly before the full blown panic attack. I might expect it but I'm never really ready for it. The whole thing is more than a little disconcerting.
An uncontrollable shudder that threatens to toss me over the bars at high speed is a bit more thrill than I typically look for these days. Half killing yourself for the fun of it is for younger men. Flinging my fragile self through space toward the inevitable crash landing just doesn't do it for me anymore. Especially when I'm usually clad in nothing but cheap bike shorts with all the padding in the wrong place for this event, a flimsy spandex jersey that will only melt itself into the abrasions from the friction, fingerless gloves that will likewise merely burn into my palms on touchdown and a plastic helmet that won't even save my ears. When I ride the SuperGlide at highway speed, I wear leathers and heavy denim. What does that say about my intelligence while riding a bicycle? Hmmm....
I'm absolutely certain that my half-century-old hide is an extremely poor defence against asphalt zooming by at 40 mph and therefore I make every effort not to land my pink skin on that rapidly moving surface.
Thinking about it, I came up with a formula to quickly deduce the outcome of contact between human and highway:
(Skin area / Highway surface) + (Impact force / Time-of-flight) = (Hours of recovery + Unfinished ride) X (Rehabilitation / Time + Speed).
This can be further abbreviated as
THIS: (S/H)+(I/T)=(H+U)(R/T+S).
Laymen and experts alike, if they've ever ventured off the porch and out on the blacktop, know the product of this equation by it's scientific name:
Road Rash.
Road Rash is an injury that by itself is bad enough since it normally requires scrubbing dirt out of the freshly shredded wound with a stiff brush and much gritting of teeth. Tweezers are sometimes involved for the fine stuff. Hydrogen Peroxide, alcohol or other (very necessary) disinfectants add to the entertainment value. Infection is almost a given unless you take better care of skin leaks than I usually do. Bouts of artistic profanity are the norm during treatment and again later when the bandages stick and the surgical tape rips any remaining body hair out by the roots.
These unpleasant circumstances can be and often are accompanied by concussions, fractures, sutures, a tetanus booster, sizable investments in bike repairs and the occasional hospital stay. It's even less attractive to me now that it takes twice as long to heal and hurts four times as much. There's just never been much to recommend it as far as I can tell.
Even when I had dirt bikes that ran on fossil fuel instead of leg power and contracted the dreaded rash much more often, I never really got used to the raw nerve endings. At one point I, was actually pretty good at removing the gravel, broken glass, dirt and ground-in clothing fibers from whatever was left of the skin but my interest in self-mutilation has faded some over the years. Nope, don't want or need any new scars over the old ones and a wheel-wobble-of-death is a good way to collect some. Hence, a visit to the guys with the fancy tools was in order. I'll probably live longer.
In the interim, I took my mountain bike out for a little romp in the woods and back roads yesterday and quite frankly, got my ass handed to me. Note to self: quit being a roadie wannabe and go back out to play in the mud more often. Everything hurts this morning from horsing around with the heavier bike but I've re-discovered that riding off-pavement is still a ball. The mileage doesn't look like much but my shoulders are screaming discontent and my lungs are burning so it was a good day. Without my old riding pal Doc around, I might bleed less but I still manage to have a good time. Old dog...old tricks.
Which leads me back to recovery...I'm sort of taking it easy today while a line of drizzly showers pass through. Letting the aches subside a little, catching up on the Wayward Home, odds and ends around the house, you know the drill. The crummy weather is supposed to clear out tonight and leave near-perfect conditions tomorrow. Could be a road day to test the 2.1 for shimmies. I'm thinking it'll likely take at least 70 or 80 miles to do a complete evaluation.
You'd think I'd learn...
The whole thing started when I woke up at my away-from-home terminal Sunday at around 4 pm and packed to come home. This was followed by a twelve hour train ride in the dark with all the normal frustrations and dilemmas of railroading. After my usual hour-long commute, it was full daylight and the second or third wind was kicking in. Also by that time, the real world was up and around so I decided to just roll with it and not bother going to sleep all. I know I'm not on-call Monday night and I've got stuff to do.
It always goes the same way and I know it's going to hurt before it's over but I don't want to be asleep when I'm home all the time either. All work and no play...
That one decision led to a bike ride, assorted comings and goings, my son's jazz concert and a dose of Red Cat. Let's just say the lights went out really, really fast once I hit the sheets.
But anyway, speaking of riding...My faithful road bike is at the shop getting a once-over by people who actually know what they're doing (unlike me). I'm at a loss to determine the cause of a nasty front-end shake that has made an appearance on my Trek a little too frequently of late. I pretend that I have a small amount of bicycle knowledge and I can sometimes baloney my way around the average technical conversation if I'm lucky or if the other person is an idiot but I'm out of my league with this one. I've done all I can (which isn't much) and so I must defer to the experts.
Here's the scenario: For reasons unknown, my 2.1 has decided that somewhere around 38 mph is damn-all fast enough and to remind me of that arbitrary speed limit, it suddenly goes into that above-mentioned wobble. Just as I pedal out and start letting gravity do the work, I can feel it coming now that I'm expecting it. The bars get twitchy, the road feels like greased marbles and my fingers sneak out toward the brake levers without conscious thought.
Then the fun starts. There's a moment of small vibration and then instantly, I can't steer anymore. A few too many instances of practice have taught me that the only way to break the shimmies is to snap on a little rear brake (a trick I learned from a Harley Sportster way back when) and drag off some speed until things settle down. If I'm quick enough, the wheel starts tracking in a straight line just as the adrenaline rush hits but slightly before the full blown panic attack. I might expect it but I'm never really ready for it. The whole thing is more than a little disconcerting.
An uncontrollable shudder that threatens to toss me over the bars at high speed is a bit more thrill than I typically look for these days. Half killing yourself for the fun of it is for younger men. Flinging my fragile self through space toward the inevitable crash landing just doesn't do it for me anymore. Especially when I'm usually clad in nothing but cheap bike shorts with all the padding in the wrong place for this event, a flimsy spandex jersey that will only melt itself into the abrasions from the friction, fingerless gloves that will likewise merely burn into my palms on touchdown and a plastic helmet that won't even save my ears. When I ride the SuperGlide at highway speed, I wear leathers and heavy denim. What does that say about my intelligence while riding a bicycle? Hmmm....
I'm absolutely certain that my half-century-old hide is an extremely poor defence against asphalt zooming by at 40 mph and therefore I make every effort not to land my pink skin on that rapidly moving surface.
Thinking about it, I came up with a formula to quickly deduce the outcome of contact between human and highway:
(Skin area / Highway surface) + (Impact force / Time-of-flight) = (Hours of recovery + Unfinished ride) X (Rehabilitation / Time + Speed).
This can be further abbreviated as
THIS: (S/H)+(I/T)=(H+U)(R/T+S).
Laymen and experts alike, if they've ever ventured off the porch and out on the blacktop, know the product of this equation by it's scientific name:
Road Rash.
Road Rash is an injury that by itself is bad enough since it normally requires scrubbing dirt out of the freshly shredded wound with a stiff brush and much gritting of teeth. Tweezers are sometimes involved for the fine stuff. Hydrogen Peroxide, alcohol or other (very necessary) disinfectants add to the entertainment value. Infection is almost a given unless you take better care of skin leaks than I usually do. Bouts of artistic profanity are the norm during treatment and again later when the bandages stick and the surgical tape rips any remaining body hair out by the roots.
These unpleasant circumstances can be and often are accompanied by concussions, fractures, sutures, a tetanus booster, sizable investments in bike repairs and the occasional hospital stay. It's even less attractive to me now that it takes twice as long to heal and hurts four times as much. There's just never been much to recommend it as far as I can tell.
Even when I had dirt bikes that ran on fossil fuel instead of leg power and contracted the dreaded rash much more often, I never really got used to the raw nerve endings. At one point I, was actually pretty good at removing the gravel, broken glass, dirt and ground-in clothing fibers from whatever was left of the skin but my interest in self-mutilation has faded some over the years. Nope, don't want or need any new scars over the old ones and a wheel-wobble-of-death is a good way to collect some. Hence, a visit to the guys with the fancy tools was in order. I'll probably live longer.
In the interim, I took my mountain bike out for a little romp in the woods and back roads yesterday and quite frankly, got my ass handed to me. Note to self: quit being a roadie wannabe and go back out to play in the mud more often. Everything hurts this morning from horsing around with the heavier bike but I've re-discovered that riding off-pavement is still a ball. The mileage doesn't look like much but my shoulders are screaming discontent and my lungs are burning so it was a good day. Without my old riding pal Doc around, I might bleed less but I still manage to have a good time. Old dog...old tricks.
Which leads me back to recovery...I'm sort of taking it easy today while a line of drizzly showers pass through. Letting the aches subside a little, catching up on the Wayward Home, odds and ends around the house, you know the drill. The crummy weather is supposed to clear out tonight and leave near-perfect conditions tomorrow. Could be a road day to test the 2.1 for shimmies. I'm thinking it'll likely take at least 70 or 80 miles to do a complete evaluation.
You'd think I'd learn...
Sunday, June 5, 2011
The Lost Day
Waiting for the phone again. Sunday is always my 'lost day' on the job I'm holding right now. I usually get home sometime Saturday and my call window starts again at midnight so I can't get too far from the flagpole or I run the risk of getting caught short on sleep. The train line-up on the computer is about as reliable as a horoscope or reading tea leaves so I gave up trying to out-fox the crew callers years ago. The safest plan to avoid eyelids-of-steel is to just figure on going to bed early and hope for the best. It's much like the NY Lottery; "Hey, you never know..."
I conked pretty early anyway. I managed to grab a couple hours of sleep after I got home Saturday morning then scooted out to run a vendor booth for our Tour de Cure team at a home-town 5K run. Got it set up next to the local lake/pond/waterfowl LZ and all was well until, in typical fashion for this spring, the sky opened up. Traffic by the booth dropped pretty substantially to say the least once the rain settled in. Eventually, even the goose patrol holding forth on the pond couldn't take it and formed up in line astern to make for shore.
All was not completely lost as we got some folks interested and sold some raffle tickets before the deluge got serious and the wind started driving water sideways under the pop-up. Wet and cold, we finally surrendered to the elements, folded the tents and vowed to fight again another day. That led to an early crash into bed and a fitful rest wondering if and when I'll get called.
My younger son's birthday is today and as usual, I'll probably miss most of it. As is so often the way, I'll just get settled into the day and the phone will go off with the a train to run. My brood says they're used to it and it's all OK but I'm not and it's not. I try to roll with the fable they tell me because it's the only way to get through it but it doesn't make me miss them less. I was gone for my wife's birthday again this year and that one too is a hurt. It comes down to the choices we make and these are awful hard. Nobody ever said it would be an easy go when I signed up for this gig but knowing about it and living it are oftentimes different things.
I conked pretty early anyway. I managed to grab a couple hours of sleep after I got home Saturday morning then scooted out to run a vendor booth for our Tour de Cure team at a home-town 5K run. Got it set up next to the local lake/pond/waterfowl LZ and all was well until, in typical fashion for this spring, the sky opened up. Traffic by the booth dropped pretty substantially to say the least once the rain settled in. Eventually, even the goose patrol holding forth on the pond couldn't take it and formed up in line astern to make for shore.
But back to this morning...
My younger son's birthday is today and as usual, I'll probably miss most of it. As is so often the way, I'll just get settled into the day and the phone will go off with the a train to run. My brood says they're used to it and it's all OK but I'm not and it's not. I try to roll with the fable they tell me because it's the only way to get through it but it doesn't make me miss them less. I was gone for my wife's birthday again this year and that one too is a hurt. It comes down to the choices we make and these are awful hard. Nobody ever said it would be an easy go when I signed up for this gig but knowing about it and living it are oftentimes different things.
There'll be better days I know but in the meantime...I'll make the best of what we have and hope it's all worth it at the end of the line.
Friday, May 27, 2011
The Summer of Storms
Once again the railroad threw me a curve and like always, it was strike three and I'm out. I was supposed to go to work on my regular run last night but due to that ever-invisible (to me anyway) "Big Picture", there was no train to be had. No deadhead either so here I sit. They do this stuff occasionally and it's always annoying.
I have a 24 hour call 'window' during which I have to be available at any time to go to work. That's sometimes a problem in itself in that anywhere from midnight to midnight, the phone can ring and off we go. Ever tried to be awake and rested for 24 hours straight? It's great if the call comes in the morning or even mid-afternoon but when it drags on into the late evening, it gets a little more challenging. Usually I've slept all night like a real human, got up with the brood, fooled around most of the day waiting and watching the train lineup, then about the time a normal person is thinking about slowing down and settling in...that evil electronic voice rings my cell and it's time to go. Now I've been up all day and even if I had tried to take a snooze in the afternoon, that's usually a complete waste. I can't unwind the old biological clock so true to my evolution, I'm awake during the day. It's always a dance trying to stay one step ahead of the call office and I'm certainly no Fred Astaire.
It all worked out in the end though. After I'd pretty much determined for sure that there wasn't going to be anything outbound for me, I settled down with a sandwich and watched the sky get dark and ugly off in the west. The TV started flashing thunderstorm warnings about six o'clock and kept it up every five minutes for the next two hours. I looked at the weather site and sure enough...tornado warnings to go along with the t-storms. Tornados, hail, dangerous lightning. For crying out loud, this is New York, not Kansas. We aren't supposed to be the northeast extension of Tornado Alley. I started thinking maybe it wasn't such a bad thing that I'd be home this night.
Along about eight, I decided there was nothing doing so I'd read a while and try to sleep on the odd chance that something would pop up and I'd get a call after midnight. I took one more look out the window and realized it was a lot darker out there than it should have been. I hadn't heard any thunder yet but our chubby-chicken of a dog was cowering under the table and and shivering so I knew something was going on. I decided I'd stay up a little longer and see what was coming over the hill.
In short order, the sky to the south and west started looking like it was falling in on top of us. There was a perfectly straight line between dirty white and pitch black above the southern hills, lit with lightning. A few tatters in the cloud layers almost reached the ground and were moving east faster than I thought possible. The whole sky in the south was one continuous chain of brilliant flashes and I knew that somewhere off in that direction, somebody was getting a pounding.
Odd thing was, there was almost no thunder. A few distant rumbles and bangs but not the explosions I would have expected out of such a display. That dividing line tore off out of sight but I could see a blank wall of gray rain following right behind. Before I could pull down the glass, a waterfall materialized in my lawn and instantly soaked the carpet. Through the downpour, I could see the trees whipping and bending in the suddenly violent wind. I scooted around to make sure all the windows were closed and was halfway out of my son's room when the power went off. This is not a good sign.
We scrounged up flashlights and made the rounds to be sure the house was battened down. Somewhere in there, our ever-watchful escape-artist of a cat saw a chance for a clean break when elder son went out the breezeway door to check the car windows. Opportunity knocked so the furball made a run for it. The blue-eyed feline shot down the steps and made his usual beeline to get around the corner or under a vehicle before anyone can catch him. He almost made it when he realized he'd run into a solid wall of water and wind that would either drown him, blow him into the next county or both. Suddenly the house didn't look that bad after all. It's the only time I've ever seen him rocket back in as fast as he went out. He'd probably say he meant to do that but I know he got suckered.
With no juice and no light, I perched next to a window to watch the storm. The wind was still fierce but eventually the rain slowed down and I could see beyond the end of the driveway. It was an awesome show. The entire southern horizon was lit from end to end with constant chains of lightning. It looked like strings of burning lace high up in the night. The bolts jumped from one anvil-top to another in intricate, white hot patterns and at times it looked like the whole sky was on fire. Webs of light chased back and forth from unkown origins to mysterious destinations. It might have been road maps to heaven flashing among the mountains of clouds if anyone was quick enough to read them. I've rarely seen anything like it.
Even so, it was still strangely quiet. Except for a few strikes relatively nearby, there was only distant rumbling. The heart of the storm must have been many, many miles away to be so muffled but the power of the thing to be felt and heard from so far must have been unbelievable. When nature decides to really bring it on, she doesn't fool around. After our serving of humble pie at the hands of a thunderhead, the line of storms marched off to the east and left only the peepers singing in the dark and a few encore booms of thunder to remind us who's really in charge. The electricity finally came back sometime in the early morning after we sweated all night without a fan and through the whole affair, the railroad never called. All in all, a wild and strange night.
I tend to think of the seasons in terms of the way they behave and if this is any indication...this will go down at the Wayward Home as the Summer of Storms. I think I'll keep my eye on the sky.
I have a 24 hour call 'window' during which I have to be available at any time to go to work. That's sometimes a problem in itself in that anywhere from midnight to midnight, the phone can ring and off we go. Ever tried to be awake and rested for 24 hours straight? It's great if the call comes in the morning or even mid-afternoon but when it drags on into the late evening, it gets a little more challenging. Usually I've slept all night like a real human, got up with the brood, fooled around most of the day waiting and watching the train lineup, then about the time a normal person is thinking about slowing down and settling in...that evil electronic voice rings my cell and it's time to go. Now I've been up all day and even if I had tried to take a snooze in the afternoon, that's usually a complete waste. I can't unwind the old biological clock so true to my evolution, I'm awake during the day. It's always a dance trying to stay one step ahead of the call office and I'm certainly no Fred Astaire.
It all worked out in the end though. After I'd pretty much determined for sure that there wasn't going to be anything outbound for me, I settled down with a sandwich and watched the sky get dark and ugly off in the west. The TV started flashing thunderstorm warnings about six o'clock and kept it up every five minutes for the next two hours. I looked at the weather site and sure enough...tornado warnings to go along with the t-storms. Tornados, hail, dangerous lightning. For crying out loud, this is New York, not Kansas. We aren't supposed to be the northeast extension of Tornado Alley. I started thinking maybe it wasn't such a bad thing that I'd be home this night.
Along about eight, I decided there was nothing doing so I'd read a while and try to sleep on the odd chance that something would pop up and I'd get a call after midnight. I took one more look out the window and realized it was a lot darker out there than it should have been. I hadn't heard any thunder yet but our chubby-chicken of a dog was cowering under the table and and shivering so I knew something was going on. I decided I'd stay up a little longer and see what was coming over the hill.
In short order, the sky to the south and west started looking like it was falling in on top of us. There was a perfectly straight line between dirty white and pitch black above the southern hills, lit with lightning. A few tatters in the cloud layers almost reached the ground and were moving east faster than I thought possible. The whole sky in the south was one continuous chain of brilliant flashes and I knew that somewhere off in that direction, somebody was getting a pounding.
Odd thing was, there was almost no thunder. A few distant rumbles and bangs but not the explosions I would have expected out of such a display. That dividing line tore off out of sight but I could see a blank wall of gray rain following right behind. Before I could pull down the glass, a waterfall materialized in my lawn and instantly soaked the carpet. Through the downpour, I could see the trees whipping and bending in the suddenly violent wind. I scooted around to make sure all the windows were closed and was halfway out of my son's room when the power went off. This is not a good sign.
We scrounged up flashlights and made the rounds to be sure the house was battened down. Somewhere in there, our ever-watchful escape-artist of a cat saw a chance for a clean break when elder son went out the breezeway door to check the car windows. Opportunity knocked so the furball made a run for it. The blue-eyed feline shot down the steps and made his usual beeline to get around the corner or under a vehicle before anyone can catch him. He almost made it when he realized he'd run into a solid wall of water and wind that would either drown him, blow him into the next county or both. Suddenly the house didn't look that bad after all. It's the only time I've ever seen him rocket back in as fast as he went out. He'd probably say he meant to do that but I know he got suckered.
With no juice and no light, I perched next to a window to watch the storm. The wind was still fierce but eventually the rain slowed down and I could see beyond the end of the driveway. It was an awesome show. The entire southern horizon was lit from end to end with constant chains of lightning. It looked like strings of burning lace high up in the night. The bolts jumped from one anvil-top to another in intricate, white hot patterns and at times it looked like the whole sky was on fire. Webs of light chased back and forth from unkown origins to mysterious destinations. It might have been road maps to heaven flashing among the mountains of clouds if anyone was quick enough to read them. I've rarely seen anything like it.
Even so, it was still strangely quiet. Except for a few strikes relatively nearby, there was only distant rumbling. The heart of the storm must have been many, many miles away to be so muffled but the power of the thing to be felt and heard from so far must have been unbelievable. When nature decides to really bring it on, she doesn't fool around. After our serving of humble pie at the hands of a thunderhead, the line of storms marched off to the east and left only the peepers singing in the dark and a few encore booms of thunder to remind us who's really in charge. The electricity finally came back sometime in the early morning after we sweated all night without a fan and through the whole affair, the railroad never called. All in all, a wild and strange night.
I tend to think of the seasons in terms of the way they behave and if this is any indication...this will go down at the Wayward Home as the Summer of Storms. I think I'll keep my eye on the sky.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
The Saddle Tramp
I admit it...I'm a bicycle mileage hound. I don't care much about going fast but going far makes me want to hit the road again. Nothing too complicated. A few hours on the blacktop or chewing up fire roads gives me about the easiest de-stress I can find. Planning ahead makes it too complicated so the only thing I ever look at much is the weather. If only to find out how soon it's going to rain again and which way the wind is going to blow so I can tailwind for home.
I guess I'm sort of simple-minded because I can't comprehend all the nutrition planning, workout strategies, power meters etc. that 'real' roadies are supposed to be thinking about. For me, my forethought consists of get on, click in and see where the next turn leads.
Having said that...in truth, there really is one other main reason I spend so much time pounding the pedals around the countryside. Sometimes when the rain stops and the sun finally peeks out, it's worth the price of admission.
I've seen more of my own little corner of the world since I took up biking than I ever thought existed. It's always right around the next curve or over the next hill. And you never know when the next rest stop will lead to something amazing...
I guess I'm sort of simple-minded because I can't comprehend all the nutrition planning, workout strategies, power meters etc. that 'real' roadies are supposed to be thinking about. For me, my forethought consists of get on, click in and see where the next turn leads.
Having said that...in truth, there really is one other main reason I spend so much time pounding the pedals around the countryside. Sometimes when the rain stops and the sun finally peeks out, it's worth the price of admission.
I've seen more of my own little corner of the world since I took up biking than I ever thought existed. It's always right around the next curve or over the next hill. And you never know when the next rest stop will lead to something amazing...
I've missed a goodly chunk of what's right in my own backyard zooming by it at 55 behind the wheel or twisting the wrist. Maybe it's my ever-advancing status as 'middle-aged' that slows me down to around 20...or maybe it's just the view.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Winter (Story) in Spring
In keeping with my semi-serious commitment to tickle the keyboard with tales of railroading on occasion, I bring you a winter night/day/night. Names and train symbols changed to protect anybody who might still get fired over it:
(Trailer Park...are you listening? )
(Trailer Park...are you listening? )
The weather turned to near-blizzard on the way out of the old home terminal one wintry Friday. The whole world seemed to be shutting down as the snow piled up and the wind turned from howling to out-and-out screaming but we eventually made it to our temporary home and settled in. We were figuring on being trapped up north for the weekend but lo and behold...the phone rings at 2:45 am with a call to deadhead home by train (no long-haul crew taxis allowed in bad weather...not safe you know). The caller said we'd be riding on a foreign carrier train instead of our own which is unusual but not unheard of so I didn't think much of it. She gave us a symbol of 270 and I know I heard it right because the conductor asked her to repeat it twice to him. A local taxi was supposed to pick us up at 4:15 am to take us to the yard by 4:45 and then out to the train. Well, the cab was late because of the horrible weather so we wound up getting to the yard a little past 5. I see a train (170) pulling out but didn't know at the time that that was supposed to be our ride. The yardmaster knows nothing about us deadheading on one of his trains but says that the 270 originates at another yard considerably further south so we have to taxi another hour south to catch the thing...oh and by the way...the crew's not on duty till 7:40 am. Off we go in the cab (remember, we're deadheading by train because it's not safe to be on the road in taxis) to parts unknown
After about an hour, we left town with 2 engines running light and us perched aboard the second unit watching a lot of unfamiliar scenery go by. I pretty much knew we were in for it when the dispatcher called and told the head-end crew that their connection would be late so it'd be OK to stop and grab a coffee. UH-OH. The late connection went from 10 to 11 to noon to highball the whole thing and come on down after AMTRAK goes by for Plan B.
The new twist is that we're going to wait for an empty unit train to come in with a nearly outlawed crew, tie our 2 units to his 3 and run south with the whole 99 empty salt hoppers he's got plus the 5 units. Unfortunately, he's still 35 miles away, AMTRAK is in between him and us, there's a broken joint bar behind AMTRAK, the signals are out part of the way, and the marker on the unit train is dead. These and a couple of other little complications with north bounds needing to get by and track men fixing the rail led to it being 4:10 pm before we ever left. The switches were frozen, they had to arm and hang a new marker, tie the engines together etc. and now it's looking like it's gonna be impossible for the only crew with time left to ever make it home. The 270 crew will go dead at 7:40 and us poor slobs are still only about 15 miles from where this whole fiasco started. Oops, I forgot, there was not one, but two crews on the salt train so now there's 8 men riding this freight/passenger train hoping to make port sometime before we all retire.
At long last the whole shebang launches and all's well for about 25 miles...right up until we hit the snowmobile stuck on the track. I was riding on the second unit with my semi-awake conductor when I heard the horn going non-stop and then I heard the brakes come on. I couldn't see anything because of the snow dust and the way we were bending around a curve but sure enough, the head end crew tones up the dispatcher to tell him the news. Luckily, the sled's rider had the smarts to bail off before we vaporized his machine but the ensuing interviews with the police, fire depts. etc. led to another hour delay before they released us to head south again.
Now we KNOW we're not making it in
The train master called me the next day wanting to know how we ever got a deadhead like that and asking all kinds of questions. I think he thought we made the whole thing up and just hung around stealing time. Sorry, but I couldn't lie enough to make up something like this. I guess we made the morning conference call. I sometimes wonder if somebody got their lower regions chewed for coming up with an idea like this but I doubt it. Just another day in paradise.
I keep telling myself that it's not just a job....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
