How The Trains MoveWhen the Western train first starts, it is imperceptible. Motion takes over smoothly. There is a brief moment where the mind is caught with the notion that the whole world has been spun backwards (Mach would raise his glass to that) but none to soon more common sense takes over (Mach shakes his head and smiles) and one knows one is moving.
At speed, the Western train develops a gentle Brownian motion in its own space. Slight jostles tremor the cup of water upon the tray, and occasionally papers spill from the adjoining seat. Under braking, the Western train sets up a subtle shudder along its length, the only motion of perceptible violence.
(I am on the Eastern train, now, clawing its way up the poor, battled track of the northeast corridor. We shake and jitter, the rails sing, we bounce along. Through the window in the door ahead of me, I can see a small part of the next car, leaping like an angry puppet.)
At low speed and high speed, the Western train sets up in a smooth rhythm of rocking, a multi-ton cradle swinging back and for by small slow arcs to put us to sleep. I imagine the sway as a wiggle that creeps down the train, turning our silver cars into the segments of a great snake, twisting through the pre-dawn, shaking a knowing tail at the surrendering darkness.
The traveler next to me is War Railing: hello, Bill.
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