The early hours of dawn in Ponyville were normally quiet. One could wander through the streets and hear his or her own thinking without being interrupted by anything except the occasional squeaking of a door that hadn’t been closed properly. It was only when one walked by the roundhouse a quarter mile away from the Ponyville depot that audible commotion could be heard. In those early hours of the morning in Ponyville, there were always two noticeable characters shuffling about or making noise within the confines of the roundhouse. One was a Pegasus colt, and the other was his faithful iron steed.
Ironside was shuffling about the roundhouse in an irritated manner. The young colt wore a white button-down shirt which was his standard attire for his job as Equestria’s top express train driver. After all, he would say to himself, a prestigious job requires a formal appearance on the part of the staff. He brushed a few strands of his messy black hair out of his eyes as he searched high and low for his oil can. His alarm clock had gone off ten minutes after it was supposed to, and he was now in a rush to hostel his engine before the day’s journey.
Engine 2398 sat patiently as his engineer galloped around in search of the elusive oil can. The locomotive was the pride of the Equestrian Railways’ fleet. He was a high-drivered 4-4-2 Atlantic with compound cylinders. He was a special type of compound whose high-pressure cylinders were stacked on top of their larger low-pressure companions, with one pair on each side. Their rods connected to the top and bottom of each crosshead, stroking back and forth in tandem. The rationale behind this was that 2398 was simpler to operate than a four-cylinder compound that had four drive rods, four sets of valve gear, and cranked axles. Because his cylinders were paired up, he only needed two drive rods, two sets of valve gear (and two valves for that matter), and no cranked axles.
Despite this, 2398 was a fussy engine mechanically speaking, just like all compound locos. His running gear needed special care in order to run properly. That was why Ironside was fussing over where the can of cylinder oil had gone to. Without it, 2398 would wear down his pistons and cause his compounding system to run amok. Any unbalance in the cylinder pairs’ steam flow could break either one of his crossheads, with disastrous consequences. Ironside loved his engine like a brother, and the engine reciprocated his feelings. It was why he was the only driver allowed to operate 2398. He had read many journals and books on locomotives like his, so he knew how to best handle 2398.
After about seven minutes or so, Ironside finally found the can lying in one of the inspection pits. Holding it in his teeth, he craned his neck in a rather awkward position in an effort to pour the oil into the cylinder casing. He only filled the top cylinder, since the oil would flow with the steam into the lower cylinder once the engine got moving. He had been up for an hour now, letting his engine steam up. But it was only ten minutes ago that he had realized he needed to oil his engine and discovered that the can was MIA. In any case, he hauled himself into the cab and sat down in his chair, exhausted. While he loved running the express, Ironside still couldn’t come to grips with the little rest he could afford.
He heated the set pot in his cab over the firebox for his morning coffee. It was almost vital that he down as much caffeine as medically permissible, since falling asleep behind the throttle was nothing if not a fatal mistake. Ironside knew this would not at all help his sleep deprivation problem, but he really had no choice. His primary concern was always the speedy and safe travel of his passengers, and he was willing to sacrifice his physical health for the good of the people and the railway. He just loved his job (and his engine) that much.
Once 2398 had popped his safety valve, Ironside eased his engine out of the stall and out onto the turntable. The operator spun the table round until the engine faced toward the yard. Ironside cracked the throttle, easing his massive steed off the table. Instead of heading towards the yard, however, he took the track that led toward the depot. There, 2398 would wait while the yard goat shunted the express coaches into place. As the goat assembled the morning express, Ironside chugged his coffee. Now jolted out of his drowsiness, he sat fidgeting in his seat, waiting for the coaches.
Once the coaches were attached to 2398’s tender, all that was left was to admit the passengers to the platform. Not many showed up, but that was no surprise. This was the first train of the day, and many ponies were still fast asleep. It was the 10:30 express that would be packed to the brim. Ironside welcomed the light load, however. It was less stressful getting the passengers on board when the number of them was small. It also meant the train would be ready to depart sooner, and be more likely to depart on time. The coaches were only half-full by the time the doors were banged shut. No other passengers were on the platform. The station clock struck 6:00. The guard blew his whistle, which 2398 responded to with two blasts of his own. Ironside pushed the Johnson bar all the way forward, spun the brake lever into the full release position, and eased back the throttle.
Jets of steam shot out from under the engine’s lower cylinders as the train slowly edged forward. As the engine gathered speed, Ironside pulled back on the drain cock lever, shutting off the steam jets, and activating his engine’s compound system. The loud hisses were now replaced with the sound of rhythmic chuffing from the loco’s slender stack. Ironside smiled whenever he heard that sound. He was in his element now, and life was good. About a half-mile away, however, someone’s life had taken a serious turn for the worse. And as fate would have it, Ironside would become that poor little filly’s light at the end of the tunnel.