Heavy on the Starlight

When it comes to speed, some would give the Coast Starlight a black mark. I maintain, it's the black eye you have to watch out for, the train's speed being so, well, complex. One could say the speed carries considerable baggage, but metaphorical and literal reality get so badly jumbled en route to Seattle from San Jose, that one should probably say something else. Such as, speed is relative. So bring your relatives, at least three. And hang on tight.

The first time I took the overnight train to Seattle, it was 1996, I was younger and more desperate and more foolish. All of which conspired to create a marvelous adventure. The train's 9 PM departure was delayed for unstated reasons until 3 AM, which made the approach of the rotating headlight and the arrival of the tireless Amtrak crew all the more dramatic, even inexplicable.

Time passes. Things happen. Every cell in the body gets renewed every seven years, someone told me. Which means that mine have gone through recycling, or renewing, twice since my virgin Amtrak trip. Which says something, and I'm not sure what.

I don't know what Victor thought of last week's trip. Victor is 13 years old, indefatigably active and apparently cheerful, if somewhat over-the-top when it comes to persistence. He had a rough childhood until lucking out in the form of my cousin David and wife Terri who adopted him several years ago. I have adopted him myself, in a manner of speaking. For his intensity seems natural to me, as do his childhood problems. So what better thing to do then take him aboard the train? David and I seemed to be in perfect agreement on this point. My brother had never seen the Upper Willamette River Gorge by rail, making him deeply spiritually in need of the journey. As I say, bring your relatives.

What's relative about the speed of the Coast Starlight is too relative for words. In fact, you need to study and re-study physics to get the hang of it. For every meter that the train travels north, it also feints several centimeters west and east, while catapulting a few skywards. Some would say this is because the Amtrak trains follow in the wake of the freight variety. That rail cars carrying goods and those carrying people cannot wisely share the same track. Because tons of bauxite, iron ore, new Toyotas, and old rubbish destined for the landfill have a way of pounding the hell out of the roadbed. Which gives the once-a-day Coast Starlight quite a drubbing, north and southbound.

Whatever. I am a big boy. Or a tough old guy. Or some combination of the two. And it's hard for me to take anything but delight in watching the Siskiyou Range lose control of itself, tumble away, and open its geological maw to a couple of hundred tourists. There was plenty of snow, the fir trees were flocked with white as though directed by Macy's and the single Union Pacific track hung off the canyon edge as it always had. I spent my entire day sitting in the Parlor Car, enjoying the views.

Victor, I should have predicted, wasn't much for views. In truth, most kids aren't. His father had prepared for this reality with games and distractions. But it takes an awful lot to distract and occupy Victor. I was conscious of him passing behind me every few minutes. That is to say, conscious when I was conscious. The train's jolting never does much for a night's sleep, so in between scenic high points in the lounge car, I propped my foot against the wall and slept.

'That man is mean,' Victor told me in midafternoon. He was pointing at a man in a hard cap. I told him that man was the conductor. Victor could have cared less. He wasn't doing anything, he told me. Just walking. Back and forth, the entire length of the train, doubtless talking to people in his gregarious way, until the conductor suggested he hang out in the Parlor Car. Hanging out is simply not Victor's thing. Fortunately, there were meals at regular intervals. And David and Victor called an early halt to the trip at Olympia, Washington, their destination. We said goodbye. And my brother and I set out for our compartment.

I hadn't been there since the a.m.  Might as well make the journey as I had done in the morning, all in one go. Of course, there had been a major difference. The morning's trip took place while the train made a protracted stop in Klamath Falls, Oregon. The Coast Starlight has been so bullied into lateness by freight trains for so long that Amtrak has given up and built considerable padding into the schedule. Which explains why we had pulled into Klamath Falls almost one hour early.

But nothing explains the difference between walking the Starlight's corridors and climbing its stairs when the train is stopped, versus when it is moving. Although a good dose of LSD might approximate the latter. When the Starlight is on the move, it is on the move in all directions. Things jolt up and down, tilt left, lurch right, careen around corners, thud and shake. For a quadriplegic who can barely get his neuromuscular bearings at the best of times, the train's motions come like enemy artillery. They are uncertain, threatening and unnerving.

Which made the end-of-day trip through the bouncing cars doubly exhausting. Actually, I was tired by the time I got to the end of the Parlor Car. The car coupling, where metal plates shift and jump, required some extraordinary fancy footwork, not to mention a leap of faith. Then it was down one sleeping car hallway, through the center vestibule and down the next. To another coupling. I was breathing heavily and wondering why the train had gotten so hot.

It was that anarchic part of the journey when sleeping compartments have mostly emptied out and are there for the taking. I could've stretched out in any number of empty rooms. But I have my pride, if that is the word for it. I couldn't quite give up. So I pressed on, even though my paralyzed right leg was showing signs of stress. The usual neuromuscular reflexes, the ones I rely on for walking, weren't happening. Everything was stiffening. Even when I had made it through another entire sleeping car. And there was still another ahead of me. And there was a set of stairs leading down to my compartment. I was leaning on my brother and the car attendant, by the time I made it to the lower level.

And days later at my brother's house in Seattle, I was still leaning on people. I had strained my muscles considerably on the death march through the train. Had I over done it? Probably. But I had to admit I was still moving. And muscle strain or not, I was painfully aware of the alternative.