RIDING THE RAILS

Agatha Christie wrote about a murder on a famous one of these. They have fanciful names which evoke romance and history. They have been the subject of songs and poetry. They carry goods to market and family and friends to their loved ones. They delivered thousands of soldiers to the front. They’ve been the venue of many movies. Some think they are dying relics of a time gone by in a world searching Mapquest for ‘the fastest route’. We’re talking trains here. And I’m on one this moment.

I am traveling to Kansas City from Tucson to visit family. I could have flown from Tucson-perhaps not directly but certainly within five hours or so. That's how long it took me just to drive to Flagstaff to get on Amtrak's Southwest Chief at the ungodly hour of 6am. So why choose a slow-moving train instead of fast-moving jet?

Once, on another visit to Kansas City, I was blessed to see a herd of antelope prancing alongside the train. Can’t see that from the air. On that same trip, somewhere in Kansas in the middle of the night, I awoke at a small town depot sparkling in the light of streetlamps from recent snow fall. Very picturesque. Can’t see that by air. When I arrived at Union Station in Kansas City, a beautifully decorated and massive hall greeted me with elegant Holiday decorations and music from a grand piano. Don’t see that much in airports.

In train dining cars, it is custom for the host or hostess to seat complete strangers with each other at the same table with instructions to 'get to know one another'. Yesterday I had a delightful breakfast with two other women, mother and daughter, traveling from LA to Albuquerque to visit a son and brother.  They had nice egg, potato and muffin breakfasts and I had the tasty French toast with real butter and syrup. All served with real silverware, plates (albeit plastic) and lots of coffee refills. We chatted about our kids and jobs and retirement.

I don’t think I have EVER had such a nice breakfast on an airplane, even before they switched to the cold, tasteless, boxed meals you have the privilege of buying now. The closest thing to this kind of indulgence was on a on the late night maiden flight for British Airways from Osaka Japan to Hong Kong. The attendants treated my ex-husband and me, along with all the other passengers, to an open bar – all night. Good thing we sobered up a bit before we reached Kai Tak Airport in Hong Kong.

You could say I am a fan of trains. Yes, they have their limitations. In addition to the 5-hour drive to Flagstaff and the several hours I napped wrapped in my sub-zero sleeping bag in order to snag one of the rare and free parking spots for Flagstaff’s Amtrak station, I had to commit an entire 24 hours to riding the rails to my destination. Maybe I’m odd. I see that as a plus.

I find I sleep better on trains than on jets. First, the seats on Amtrak are generous and comfortable. The liberal leg room allows nearly all 5’4” of me to spread out a little, even when slumped into the cushy seat in sleep. Most of the time when I travel Amtrak alone I have two seats all to myself. Each seat is equipped with a hideaway footrest which, when pulled up parallel to the floor, provides sufficient space for a sound, sound sleep. And then there is that lovely rumble that encourages slumber, the constant drone of metal on metal as the giant wheels roll down the track. The vibration reminds me why parents place their fussy babies on the dryer to be lulled to sleep.  A vibration in a plane just makes me worry.

Every once in a while, another train will pass – quite close - and you can hear the ‘conversation’ of the engines as they signal their presence to each other. This rail route, which starts in LA and goes all the way to Chicago, carries a lot of consumer goods, fuel, food and other freight. A lot of trains pass by.

Right now, as we pull into Albuquerque, I can hear that very unique and lonely hoot of the train whistle, letting the tiny towns and villages on our way know that Amtrak is passing. I am watching high chaparral fly by on the north side of the train. To the south, a wide golden plain in its winter dress is bordered by mesas and mountain ranges.

Soon, we will pull into the historic but modernized Albuquerque train station which includes its version of fast train and is part of a greater transportation hub of the metropolitan area. Navajo and Pueblo craftsmen and women will undoubtedly have spread out blankets on which all kinds of jewelry and other items are laid out in tidy displays. Can’t EVER remember anything like that in an airport.

Let’s face it. The history of train travel in the United States is just plain sexy. Our country would not have been so easily developed if the railroad barons (and barons they were – refer to my blog post Of Pasties, Prostitutes and Politicians) hadn’t invested millions of dollars to build the rail system that would eventually carry miners to Montana, wheat from Kansas to the coasts, and legions of soldiers to the European and Pacific theaters.
Pullman cars, the first really comfortable ‘sleeping cars’, became popular after Pullman loaned one of his uber luxurious cars to the government in order to carry the body of Abraham Lincoln across a grieving nation to his final resting place.

In 1869, Union Pacific and the Central Pacific railroads met at Promontory Summit Utah, forming the very first intercontinental rail route. It could be argued that this one historic event is one of the best analogies of the development of the US West. The story of this joining includes blood, sweat and tears of the workers working by hand to build it; lives and fortunes won and lost; the necessity of collaboration between two corporate and distrustful railroad giants; and literally several acts of Congress. In a very real way, the railroad was a cooperative effort that included every socio-economic segment of society. Its completion opened up markets and provided workers and material for the development of the West. The route I am riding was established by the Sante Fe Railroad and named the Super Chief, bringing stars and the possibilities of adventure in the Wild West to the city folk as far east as Chicago.

Back East, railroads built beautiful stations with grand architecture, including New York’s and my own hometown’s Union Stations. In the West, railroads got involved in the development of the National Parks as they built quality hotels to lure Easterners to visit the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone on their rail lines. Those beautiful hotels, like the El Tovar in the Grand Canyon, remain some of our most visited and popular historic hotels.

Railroad history intersects with the history of the labor movement as the railroad workers struck for not only better wages but higher safety standards in the early 20^th Century. My father’s father, a switchman, was struck down in the huge Kansas City Kansas railway yards. The railroad called it a ‘stroke’ and my mother’s father, a co-worker, claimed it was an industrial accident. The railroad refused to accept any responsibility or pay out any survival benefits forcing my grandmother, since welfare programs were still far in the future, had to provide for her seven children through church and charity.

My father worked briefly for the railroad as did many of my uncles. And some of my fondest childhood memories include laying in the steamy hot and tiny guest bedroom at my grandparents’ house up from the rail yards where Grandpa worked, counting not sheep but the number of cars being bumped together to form a long snakey line that would wend its through the country bringing needed goods to both coasts. I could legitimately claim that my family history has been deeply shaped by the railroads.

As I watch the pueblos of Northern New Mexico fly by, I can’t help but feel nostalgic about the grand days of the railroads.  Honestly, I’m really more of a journey than a destination person. Planes are ALL about the destination. Trains are about the journey – enjoying the changing scenery, chatting with your neighbor. So when I have time and I’m not taking my trusty truck YiHa along, I choose to ride the rails. Then from beginning to end I can honestly say my trip has been an adventure.

I DID IT!!!

I did it. I got off the bench and entered the game. I’d been sidelined by injury but even though the event was slightly premature to have healed completely, I just had to do it. But right up to the start, maybe especially as I was standing with over a thousand other riders at the 40-mile start line, I found myself reconsidering my decision.

A few months ago, somehow I managed to reinjure a ligament and develop tendonitis in my left knee. I’ve been resting, icing, using compressions sleeves and elevating as much as I could given my busy life.  I’d downed anti-inflammatories and gave up dancing. For me, these things are a big inconvenience. I’m an active adult who needs to stay active or it’s whine time.

Often when I am recovering from an injury, I have a focus for my healing – a backpack or in this case, a bike race. It was the ninth year I was scheduled to ride in El Tour de Tucson and the race was not an event I was prepared to give up – even just this once.

The El Tour is special. Cyclist of all levels, including semi-professionals and complete novices ride together along one route with four different starting points. Although each route’s riders start separately, at some point each new group of starters merge with other riders who have already been riding for hours to the colorful, noisy finish line in downtown Tucson.

And there I was, at the 40-mile start. I had signed up for the 55-mile route but in a rare moment of sanity, I decided to downgrade my expectations for a knee that still twisted at odd times bringing ringing pain. The 40 might still be a stretch. Wearing my bike shorts and jersey, a black copper compression sleeve over my knee, I slung my leg over my bike and tucked my foot into the pedal cage.

BANG! And we were off. The 40 attracts a lot of first-time riders and it often shows in the number of accidents, both major and minor, that occur in the first two miles. The ride starts up in Oro Valley, a comfortably posh townlet in the northern suburbs of Tucson. Haven ridden the route before, I knew the first several miles is the hardest part of the race, proceeding up a long hill before dipping back down into a wash and then repeating the effort another mile or so for another wash.

The first 10 miles or so of the race basically traverses the end of a bajada created by the Tortolita Mountains, a lushly rolling and washy desert with many water courses, significant (Honeybee Wash) and insignificant. This means the route, after leaving the excessively well-groomed Rancho Vistoso master-planned community, tends to gently rolling terrain over Moore Road, made bumpy by heavy vehicles, horse trailers and lack of maintenance.  I like this part of the race. Mountains are all around and few houses can be seen. But I especially like what comes next, the long 7-mile glide down Tangerine to the Interstate.

My bike, a pretty ivory-colored racing bike I creatively named Ivory Pearl, loves hitting speeds in excess of 25 miles per hour down this stretch. I have been known to let out a few yeehaws here. Sometimes, Ivory is going so fast I no longer can peddle, having no gear wheel big enough for that size revolution. Gotta fix that. I’m sure Ivory can hit 30 mph with bigger gear wheels.

Seventeen miles into the race, a line of portapotties and an entire platoon of colorful riders and their bikes announce the first really big ‘rest stop’. Here you can fuel up on bananas, oranges and maybe some cookies or other sugary treat. You can also drink orange juice or fill up your water bottles. And you can take advantage of the portapotties. I stopped to check out the portapotties and my knee.

Portapotties were as I expected them to be; the floor was suspiciously sticky.  Portapotties need bull’s eyes in the urinals on the walls. At least it didn’t smell too bad. I was reminded why I often prefer finding the nearest bush. My knee? Doing good I thought. But just to make sure, I downed some more anti-inflammatories and rubbed my ear in the spot my acupuncturist assured me was the pressure point for that pesky knee.

Then off again, this time going under the Interstate and onto the frontage road from Marana, the northernmost suburb of Tucson, all the way to Downtown. Eight miles from the finish line, for as many years as I can remember, the last rest stop has offered richly chocolate brownies with enough carbs and sugar to get the weariest rider those last few miles to the finish. My knee, really hurting by then, needed tending and, after grabbing a handful of brownie (I have my priorities), I limped over to a folding chair with a footrest. I spent several valuable minutes massaging my knee, rubbing my ear, and pressing the pressure points for my knee in rapid staccato before getting up to finish the race, hoping for the best.

Virtually a few blocks from the finish, the route turned west, away from the Downtown area, leading us riders down through Rio Nuevo (Tucson’s somewhat deservedly maligned redevelopment project), circumnavigating the eastern base of ‘A’ Mountain (named so for the University of Arizona) and then on to 22^nd Street for the short incline up to 6^th Avenue. My knee, more than a little sore by then, was signaling me it was time to quit. My brain was having a pointed discussion with my knee – something about it being a wussy - all while my reason was trying out various combinations of gears – low/low, high/high, low/mid, etc. trying to find the combination that would cause the least pain with each revolution of the bike gears.

Finally! That blessed gold spire of Santa Cruz Catholic Church, a landmark that screams just a few BLOCKS to go! I was peddling slowly, trying to figure out whether peddling slowly just prolongs pain or eases it overall. But when I turned onto 6^th Avenue and adrenaline took over, somewhat blunting the pain, I adjusted to high/high gear to get more road per revolution and rode to the finish line like a champ.

I’m not the least bit competitive. I don’t golf or play competitive sports. I don’t ride, or hike, or climb mountains in order to best someone else. I do it strictly for myself – to remind myself of the physical limits of my body and my will. Sometimes, as in this ride, it is my will that takes over and my body must do its bidding. I suspect that’s true of most athletes, whether in competitive sports or sports like mine in which the journey is often the prize.

I am left wondering which is best – mind over matter or matter over mind? I suspect that mind is what really defines champions and heroes. But does it really matter as long as that precious journey has been worth it?

LET'S MOVE ON

My neighbor is a kind and compassionate senior. He used to travel regularly to Agua Prieta, just south of the border, to help build small block houses with concrete floors and roughed-in plumbing for impoverished families who needed warm shelter. He rescued a Chihuahua from a puppy mill. Just the other day, I asked him his opinion of a ballot measure which would allow terminally ill persons access to unproven meds and appliances. I counted on him to give me a considered answer.

One of my brother-in-laws is probably the best father I have ever known. He is generous with his time, has coached basketball and volleyball teams for his kids and has done his fair share of staying at home with his sick kids so my sister could go to work.

Another brother-in-law is a thoughtful and generous partner to my sister who suffers from arthritis. He makes sure things are done so my sister doesn’t have to. He married her many years ago, becoming more of a father to her two boys than their ‘real’ father. The boys, men now, look to him for the model of who they want to be. He was unbelievably loving to my mother as she suffered her last years with a horrible form of dementia that finally claimed her life. That last year, when Mother was barely able to move by herself, he nightly lifted her wasting body out of her wheelchair and tucked her in for the night. It was ‘their’ ritual.

I used to work with an organization dedicated to relieving the suffering from malnutrition, TB and malaria in Africa. I knew I could count on one of my US Representatives here in Arizona to introduce and follow through on appropriations to fund health and food measures for Africa. I knew he was aware of his privilege and deeply cared about those who had less than he had. I voted for him term after term.

One of my best friends grew up in the military. She was born abroad and spent most of her young life in or around military bases. She’s the type that shares food with the homeless, sitting right down beside them to hear their stories while they eat together. She stresses about the removal of music from schools. She compassionately assists her real estate clients as they make the very difficult decisions to leave their homes and move into assisted living. Once, we had a serious disagreement about a US military action and nearly ‘broke up’ before we realized our friendship was way more important than our disparate personal views on what patriotism is.

When I grew up, my parents always voted for Howard, our neighbor, as our state house representative. They knew him to be caring, and thoughtful, and true to his sense of morality. Howard simply couldn’t be bought by special interests. When I was in college, Howard invited me to intern with his office, giving me some juicy assignments that really opened up my eyes to the world. Once he sent me to the local prison to research and write up my thoughts about the prison system.

All these people are Republicans. I am a Democrat – born and bred. But I have never believed, nor has there been evidence in my life that would cause me to believe, that Republicans are ‘the enemy’. I have admired the grit and the honesty of my Republican friends and family members. I have relied on them for their take on the economy, health care, education. Obviously, we often disagreed but I felt better talking to them just to get the alternative point of view. I hope they felt the same.

There is a lot of news out there this morning that might prompt my friends on the left to think of the Republicans as ‘the other’. I’m even guilty of hoping they fail in order to prove the Democrats right that they are the party of ‘no’. But that ‘little voice’ in my head reminded that my Republican friends and family, who I absolutely trust in my heart are good, kind and generous people, simply have a different perspective on what’s best for America.

On this new day, instead of hoping they fail, I choose to hope they can use their considerable intelligence and insight to come up with alternatives to Democratic policies that have provided results, but not results that have come quickly enough. A friend called me early this morning to ask me why I thought so many people voted Republican in this election. My words were “People are tired, very tired, of being poor. They are tired of not having enough money to buy their children decent clothes; they are tired of worrying about paying the mortgage or the rent. They are looking for change.”

I, too, want change. I want better education, health care for all, higher paying jobs, an economy that does more than struggle along. I want my gay friends to have the right to marry and I want to make my own decisions about what to do with my body. I have always felt these things are best handled by the Democrats but I’m willing to give Republicans the field and not obstruct their good ideas. Ultimately this is a democracy, thank God (or Allah or Yahweh or Great Spirit or…..), and that means we are all in this together. All of us. The rich and the poor, the well and the unwell, the 1% and the 99%, for better or worse. Let’s get on with this.