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The Illinois Train Caper (Fiction) I've thought a lot about the train experience, having wanted it so badly for so long. As a child I was fascinated with trains, and of course always wondered what it would be like to ride one. For years I had to satisfy myself by photographing trains, reading about trains, and building an HO scale model railroad. In high school, myself and a few other train lovers jumped a freight to Alexandria Louisiana. It was pretty cold, and long night out but it was fun, riding in an open top junk car filled about half full. You would think that I would welcome the daily train commute into Chicago, riding the Chicago & North Western, and at first I did. However as the years began to drag by, I slowly came to resent the steel box that imprisoned me for more than two hours every day. Slowly, a plan began to form in the back of my mind, a devilish scheme so foul, and so serious, that it would strike fear in every man, woman, and child in the city. Through years of careful observation I had come to know exactly the train engineer's routine. In Chicago, trains into the city back up, with the locomotives pushing the train. The engineer controls the train from a special cab-forward compartment located on the end train car. The passenger service for my line consisted of a run from the city to Sammy Davis, a town 45 miles west of Chicago. At the end of the line, the engineer transfers control from the engine to the cab-forward, a process I have memorized having seen the act completed so many times before- there is a particular engineer who always preformed these steps before shutting the cab-forward door. I often sit upstairs in the first car, giving me a great view of the entire affair. At any rate, my extreme study of the subject, combined with keen observation and a small twinge of luck, allowed me to convince myself with confidence that I knew how to operate the train. I also noted with interest a particular flaw in the routine of the 7:40 A.M. engineer, one that was to provide me with my chance. After walking from the engine to the last car, and preparing the preparing the cab-forward for motion, he would exit the compartment, lock it, set the keys on the luggage rack near the door, and pop into the pantry at the train station for an orange juice and a roll of some sort. He was always gone about two minutes for act, and I slowly became aware of the fact that the train, which had always exerted control over my life, could itself be controlled by a wild act of passion. I planned my actions for over a year. I studied locomotive control, block control, CTC (Centralized Traffic Control) and train operations. I studied the manual on the F7 locomotive unit, and probably knew it better than the engineers. At last the big day arrived. As soon as the engineer was out of site, I closed the air operated coach doors for the entire train and then quickly went upstairs, grabbed the keys, and let myself into the compartment, locking the door securely behind me. I disengaged the primary air brake and dialed in run position 9, the highest possible setting. It seemed an eternity we began moving so slowly. Damn that bell! It's going to give me away. The engineer came out of the store fast enough to get in front of the train, and cross the tracks, to the side of the train the coach doors were on. But I had already shut them on my way to the cab forward. He is screaming something, and he sees me at the controls. He won't be able to get the doors open, and the tail locomotive will pass him by to quickly for him to hop on. What a wild ride it was! I opened throttle to what is known to engineers as RUN 11, essentially delivering the the full amperage from the diesel driven generators to the axel mounted electric motors, accelerating the locomotive as fast as possible. I knew the engine was geared for a top speed to 84 milers per hour, and it didn't take us long to reach it. As head madman for this diversion, my first and most immediate concern was the first cross-over. Sometimes is was set to switch the train to the parallel track, and sometimes it wasn't- one never knew and I had no idea how to read the trackside indicators. If the train were set to crossover, regulations called for a maximum speed through the cross of 25 MPH. But we were going three times that now, the powerful engine rocking back and forth down the silvery rails like an angry beast out of control. How many of the people on the train knew of what was happening, I cannot be sure. I suspect that most had no idea of the events that unfolded, events that would govern who would live and who would die. As we rapidly approached the cross-over, I could see that the rails were indeed aligned for a track switch. It was pointless, futile in fact, but I engaged the brakes for the consist, hard. We began slow after an agonizing 2-3 seconds, but when the lead car struck the switch point, it struck with enough force to knock me out of the seat and onto the floor. Yet we somehow had managed to remain on the rails. Unfortunately the track, which takes the brunt of blow, wasn't doing so well. When the last car came through the cross, the trackwork failed, causing the last car to swing out like a jack-knifed Peterbuilt. The coupler connecting the last car failed, and I watched in horror as the last car began to roll onto it's side. I disengaged the brakes and again we began to accelerate. There was no stopping us now. We were primed to be the biggest rocket sled that ever crashed. The tracks dead end into Chicago Northwestern Station, as they butt up to the Orgivlle Transportation Center. With a little luck, the entire office complex may collapse as we torpedo into the concourse. With sweaty hands I gripped throttle, holding steady at Run Position 11. I said a quiet prayer as we rounded the final braking curve and straightened out for our final moment of glory. When we struck the track stopper we barely even slowed- the momentum of the train sheered it off like as if it were a child's toy. We slammed hard into glass wall and through the ticketing area and down onto the first level below. The noise was amazing. The weight of the cars behind the engine continued to push the engine forward, through magazine stands, a book store, and an escalator complex. When we stopped, we were in the middle of Madison Street and everyone on the street was staring in shock at the collosal wreck that lay before them. "Yeeeehaaaaa!!!" I yelled as loud as I could. I jumped down from the engine, bruised but in one piece, and ran into the street laughing like a mad man the whole time. |