I Raced a Train
I still don't know why
I sped west out of Snohomish along the Lowell River Road in my blue Infiniti G35. As I picked up speed on the long straight—80, 90—I could see the locomotive at the head of the long line of freight cars on the BNSF train that was churning along on the tracks to my left, so close I could hear it and feel it. It was a long train. But I was gaining on it.
We ran parallel for now, but I knew that two miles ahead I’d either cross ahead of him ... or I’d wait. It was a long train; I didn’t like to wait. So I pressed a little harder.
I don’t remember “deciding” that I could beat the train to the crossing. I didn’t deliberate or weigh my chances. I didn’t consider the consequences. All I knew was that I was gaining ground, I was nearly even with the locomotive now, and there was a chance I’d make it, so I pushed harder.
The road took a wiggle or two before the crossing, preparing drivers to cross the tracks at a perpendicular. I held as much speed as I could. As our paths converged I could see the train’s lights, could hear its horn, could see the lights on crossing bars start to flash to announce the coming of the train. But I was ahead now. As I took the last swing to the left, there were no cars in front of me and so I straightened my wheel and punched it, shooting over the hump of the tracks as the crossing bars came down behind me and the train whistle roared.
And then, only then, did I think. Sitting at the stop sign at the top of the short, sharp hill that rose up after the train tracks, I breathed hard, in, out. What the hell was I thinking? Was I out of my mind?
Sara reminds me that I used to tell this story in a way that accentuated how daring I was, how swashbuckling. In that version, I decided I’d beat the train a mile back and I used my bravery and driving skill to make it happen. I was the hero in that story.
But that was bullshit. I knew it then and I know it today, 20 years later: I didn’t think, I just acted. Had I made a choice? It didn’t feel like a choice. There was no weighing of options, no pros and cons. I acted on impulse, in a way that could well have maimed or killed me. And I’m damned lucky it turned out the way it did.
Moments like this trip me up. They make me question the way I narrate my decisions to myself. In my preferred narrative I’m a smart, rational guy who thinks long term and makes good choices, a faithful husband and a good father, but also a guy who is brave and adventurous and willing to take chances. And sure, I’m that, sometimes.
Other times I’m a fucking idiot.
Moments like this train incident have derailed my thinking about how I write personal essays. How do you tell an interesting story about your life when you don’t even fully understand why you’ve made decisions at critical points in your life? When the only way to craft a story about your choices and your motivations is to make something up because you don’t know why you’ve done what you’ve done?
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that this is where I find myself. The very act of naming this writing project “Out Over My Skis” speaks to my inclination to take things too far.
There was a time when Nick and John and I took a wrong turn on our way up Sperry Peak. We should have seen a climber’s path to our left, but we kept on to the right, making one small, bad decision after the next until we could no longer deny we were off route. Finally, we sat on a rock ledge, looked out over the scary way we’d come, and assessed our situation. We could see no way up, and the way back down looked worse. We considered our options—and talked about what we’d tell our families if things went awry. And then, because we had to do something, John pulled this climbing move, a kind of layback, where he held on to one side of a narrow crevice with his hands while pushing against the other side with his feet, and in that way scaled the rock wall ... and by god he made it. “It’s pretty straightforward,” he called down. And we believed him and we made it too. What choice did we have? My heart still races when I think of it.
When it comes to my personal essays, I’m out on that ledge. So I think I’ll pause for a bit, consider my options, and try to look at the world a little differently. Perhaps I’ll see a different route forward.
I find myself on a similar ledge when it comes to my personal essays. So I think I’ll pause for a bit, at least with my efforts to extract meaning from my own stories, and try to look at the world a little differently. Perhaps I’ll see a different route forward.
Photo note: I hoped to go out and take photos of west-bound trains from exactly the locations I describe in the story. Surely, I thought, there’s a website that tracks trains by their location and I’ll be able to track these and go take photos. Well, it doesn’t quite work that way. While the Amtrak passenger trains run on a fairly predictable schedule, it seems that freight trains have a rhythm of their own, one I have just begun to understand after spending several hours across several days watching the live webcam run by Virtual Railfan for a crossing about 40 miles east of me in Skykomish, WA. I learned a lot talking to the helpful folks on the discussion there, and hope to take cues from them to get some of my own shots soon.
I don't think I have a single story where I could classify myself the hero or truly courageous, as in, storm the beaches of Normandy courageous. Even impulsive decisions were usually the simple act of deciding to do something for the mere pleasure of it, but nothing all that significant or dangerous. Not many of us are provided those sorts of opportunities. You're an adventurous guy as I see it, and every adventure worth remembering has some level of stupidity.
As far as how our experiences shape us, especially those we communicate with others, I also struggle to understand if I learned what I think I learned, or I'm only sharing what I think I *should* have learned. Occasionally, it's just fun to share that I accomplished something or had a (mis)adventure someone might find entertaining. That's okay, too.
And now I feel like I need to go do something.
Here's the way I see it, Tom. I think your gung ho description was hilarious, all the more so given your realisation that you were indeed an effing idiot. We all tell stories about ourselves. Your train one reminded me of something in one of Stephen Potter's one upmanship books. Someone was telling a group of people about his dangerous escapades during World War 2. This person had been nowhere near the front. "I managed to stamp the flaming stuff out with my foot just in time". Potter says: Only I happened to know that an ember from a firework had blown into his garden, and that's what he was talking about. Chortle. Please don't become TOO down to earth in your old age!