´Railroad bulls drag hobos like you out long past lookin´ blue!’ a Grand Junction, Co. brakeman cautions gesturing grandly along the transcontinental rail toward the 6.2 mile Moffat tunnel that pierces the west flank of the Rockies. But I´m green and eager to chew up and spit out challenges, if need be, and climb aboard the only available flatcar ten stock behind six locomotives that rumble like beasts at the bit of a mile long freight.

The jiggling platform I hold down is a piggyback van mounted on a flatcar, leaning against the fat wheel, 330-degree view of life, sunshine smack in the face, thinkin´ how far, how long, and the number of ways to skin a road cat. Suddenly a mountain opens a dark mouth and swallows the piggyback at 25mph. The bore engulfs the tail of a smoke whip and reflects sparks everywhere. I yank a bandana to mask the face, choking.

Mile one into the tunnel: Smoke and noise ricochet along the shaft. Air burns. Dizzy. Mile
two: Flashbacks!- A road partner Iron Horse and I ride a boxcar into St. Louis as a white Bronco with a CB antenna keeps pace with a pistol pointing at my heart and a bull behind it yelling, ´If you have a weapon I will shoot you!´ Mile two: I slip to the rolling platform for cooler breaths but inhale only rank gas, and another memory takes hold- On a Christmas Southern Pacific from California to Texas I reach to catch a moving ladder in a rainstorm outside Yuma. The rung slips and I crash against the grain car, ricochet to the cinders and watch the cookie cutter wheels roll by my nose. Mile four: Beside myself with suffocation, I must remember or pass out. A bull tangle leads to a court date in Salt Lake City. Gizmo Kid, the founder of Linux-Care, and Colorado Casey, a gold speculator, face time in the cross-bar hotel for breaking into an automobile carrier that we didn’t enter. Gizmo, having once caught the Encyclopedia Britannica in his head, eyes the judge with his gray pate, leftover smile and a Freemason ring with a raised gavel. He flashes his honor the secret fraternal sign, and the judge pounds the gavel, ´Dismissed with Prejudice!´. Five miles: I’m a poisoned bug on a mechanical worm. Smoke balls the stomach and limbs twitch until, with the Sixth mile to go, I pass out.

The light at the end of the tunnel hold´s a sharp blast of sweet air in sunlight. I made it!