Track Switch - Double Traction

by Celefin

Gefco Automotive

The locomotive is already running. The deep humming rumble reverberates from the SNCF machine shop buildings on the far side. My ears splay back on their own accord at the rhythmic grinding whine of the friction clutch turning the idle turbocharger.

Shrring. Rumble. Shrring.

“Like it or not, you’ll have to wait for me to check the brakes,” I mutter to the engine and try to ignore the one hundred and thirty ton hunk of diesel-electric animal. Checking the brakes is going to take a while, considering the extent of the line of stand-in deck coach carriers hooked up to it.

Stretching all the way to the other end of the shunting yard, the wagons are all loaded with new Peugeots. There is plenty of weight and time for the locomtive to let off some steam tonight. Heh.

Shrring. Rumble. Shrring. Rumble. Shrring. Rumble. Shrring.

I sigh. And for me to get a headache. Better get going.

They say you either love it or hate it. After several years I am still not sure, but the EMD Class 77 is growing on me the longer I know it. Well, the machine. Not the cabin, that is for sure.

It really was not designed for a pony. I have to rear up to turn around in here. Getting in is also a pain, there just is not enough space to do my fly and slide boarding like I do with Trax. It's a good thing I always do this at night. A pony clambering up a narrow ladder and cursing all the way. Fun.

On the other hoof, the engine itself is great. It has this no-nonsense big machine aesthetic. It feels alive. Not like a person as I can imagine my girl, wherever she is right now. But still alive in a way.

Shrring. Rumble. Shrring.

Alive and as annoying as a diamond dog.

I check the gauges and displays again. Everything is nominal. I busy myself with putting on my gear and double checking my reach with the different implements. Secure Velcro locks. Clip-on angles. Wing tool positions. It is very different from Trax in here after all.

The radio crackles to life with the traffic controller’s voice. “Good evening Madame Nightline. The schedule seems to hold tonight. Are you all set?”

“As ready as I’ll get,” I answer with a smile and look out over the track field.

“Alright. Line should be clear in five minutes.”

“Thanks,” I say and hang up. Now to wait for go. I switch off the cabin lighting.

Shrring. Rumble. Shrring.

It is about three hundred kilometres from here to ECR’s main cargo hub at Gevrey-Chambertin in central France. If everything works out, I will be there in a little more than four hours, just before my mandatory break.

The headlights of a commuter train on the mainline glisten on the rails. I tap the throttle with my left hoof. The ‘volume control’ as some of my colleagues call it.

I sigh and brush a few mane hairs out of my face with the back of my fetlock. Not looking forward to Gevrey. I have to drive a train from there to Frankfurt tomorrow night and I am almost at my fortnightly driving limit. Means stop in Gevrey after half a normal shift. The most boring place on Earth. On a Wednesday night.

The shunting signal on the ground before me switches from violet to white. Finally.

I move the throttle a tiny bit until I can feel the locomotive take the weight on the hook with an impatient growl. Then I push a little more. The frame shudders as the giant two-stroke diesel powers up and the electric traction motors haul the load forward. Volume control indeed. 

Metal clinks and rattles as we proceed over the well worn siding, punctuated by the deep, slow rhythm of the rails. The many bands of steel are braided together and split up again in a meandering river of cold neon illumination and signal lights reflected on the rails.

I spot movement in a thicket to my left, a little island in tracks, cabling and railway ballast. A fox. It disappears at the metallic grinding and clank-clank of steel wheels on a curved switch.

Vibrations translate quite well to the driver. The slow grind of the friction clutch from before has turned into a quick and high-pitched shing-shing-shing. The engine is just below the necessary rotations per minute for it to stop. I grit my teeth.

Another track field, another set of points. A shallow bridge for one set of tracks over the mainline, the tracks to be merged on the other side again when level. We are finally off the shunting area.

A yellow and a red light on a circular disk glow in the dark. One last set of points up ahead. The tracks become smoother and the frequent whine of pained metal subsides.

I reach the final group of switches and bring the train to a halt again. I notify the traffic controller of my position and put my hoof on the throttle.

“All clear. Have a nice night,” comes the reply a moment later.

Nudging the locomotive forward, I proceed over the last switches at a crawl. Out onto the mainline.

Up ahead, three yellow lights flash on a signal the shape of an inverted L.

I take a deep breath, flatten my ears against my head and feed the engine.

The beast roars. Twelve cylinders, each twice the width of my hoof, draw a stream of diesel into their maws. As the exhaust gas flow explodes, the friction clutch releases its grip. The massive turbocharger revs up, sounding like a jet turbine.

As the pounding two-stroke heartbeat resounds in my chest, a memory of the Red Wing of Manehattan flashes through my mind. The shutter panels on the locomotive’s sides creak open to increase the airflow. Almost like a valve.

I can pick up the rush of air. Almost like the hiss of steam. I know there is a plume of smoke over the roof. Almost like on my steam engine. Not as thick or tall, with no ash and a different smell. Still just as intoxicating.

Up ahead, two vertical yellow lights flash on a main signal. I rein in the charging creature at sixty kilometres an hour, very much against its will. There is a station with diverging switches up ahead.

Seventeen hundred tons of automotive logistics rumble past the tired people waiting for their faceless trains. Someone on the platform takes a picture, the flash briefly creating a purple spot in my vision.

Another stretch of vegetation which gives way to the view over the dark waters of the Seine. The lights of the Paris suburbs glitter on the surface as we cross the bridge.

More yellow. The switches send us off to the right, up onto a low overpass and across the mainline. Swerving back and heading northeast, past an endless expanse of residential areas that all look the same.

My ears are getting used to the low growl of the engine, resigned to half the speed it is capable of. I have driven its predecessor once, the EMD Class 66. Euro Cargo Rail still has them, mainly hauling heavy bulk freight.

They are the original US model, from before the manufacturer realised that a modified version would sell better in Europe. The 66 has no sound suppressor, no sound insulation for the cabin, no air conditioning and no amenities for the driver.

Another level crossing glides by, the warning chime shifting with the doppler effect. There is a man on a bicycle, holding his hands over his ears. The sound of the 77 is already plenty impressive. My contract has been amended. I am not supposed to drive the 66.

At the northernmost point of my route, I pass the Paris inland harbour on the banks of the Seine. Floodlights illuminate the loading bays and cargo facilities. There are headlights on the other track. It is another ECR train, similar to mine, albeit with empty wagons. Bound for Achères.

We both refrain from using the horn. Instead we signal a greeting to each other with a flashlight. I do not really need one except for this, but it is good for my colleagues to have. Its reach is far greater than that of the headlights.

The engine has now settled into a droning monotone and I am beginning to ignore it. Maybe it is also because I am partway deaf by now.

We reach another switching yard, the expanse of tracks stretching several hundred metres to the north. It looks deserted, the freight wagons and shunting engines frozen in time. A SNCF maintenance complex sits at the end of a dozen tracks to the east. Cold white light illuminates some of the blind windows.

A little later we cross the Marne river, the wagons thundering over the bridge. Two yellow lights glow steady in the dark and the turbocharger whines as I throttle down to thirty.

The tracks turn west again, past logistics hubs of car retailers and haulage companies. Endless rows of trucks and automobiles line the railway. Yellow lighting from a forest of high masts tints the scene in an otherworldly glow.

We reach another switching yard, an enormous sea of overlapping trackfields. Crawling over the dozens of switches, we finally turn south, then southeast, towards the outskirts of greater Paris.

Another level crossing. Tired drivers in their dark cabins, waiting for the endless lumbering train to pass. More tracks into industrial estates.

The rhythm of the rails, the girder masts of the overhead lines swishing by. Interchangeable residentials, cheap and run down close to the mainline and freight yards. A roadbridge, briefly illuminated by the headlights from below, darkening again as we pass.

Another anonymous passenger train from nowhere to nowhere.
   
Disused sidings and dilapidated administration buildings. Decaying freight wagons on overgrown tracks, their shadows moving across crumbling concrete structures. Noise protection walls full of graffiti.

Another flashing yellow signal. Another intermodal freight train. The heavy diesel heartbeat. It all turns into a blur. My dream of steel.

***

After what feels like forever and no time at all, the last commuter rail station drifts past in a staccato of fluorescent lamps.

There is a single green light up ahead. Block free.

I flatten my ears against my head again, but this time with a smirk. The engine snarls as I push the throttle forward, the raw might of 3200 horsepower reverberating in my bones.

At a little more than one hundred kilometres an hour, the 77 reaches its limit and settles into a steady pace. The engine noise becomes a steady hammering growl while the turbocharger’s screeching hiss turns into a feral chant that only I can hear.