Tale Of A Badass Photographer

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A train has been on my imaginary list of things to photograph (not to be confused with my list of imaginary things to photograph—anyone seen a unicorn?).

Today on my way home from work, I drove over a train. On a bridge. The end was just passing below me. I missed my railroad photo-op. Or did I...

*Que James Bond Music*

I gunned my beastly four-cylinder Nissan, freshly turbo charged. Downshifting from fiftth to fourth, black smoke poured from under my hood. Feel the power. Tires squealing, I hooked the wheel onto Rt. 9 and raced the mile to the next overpass down the tracks, sending women and children diving off the road with my heroic driving. Slamming my brakes, I parked sideways across the road. Out the door, dive-rolling over the guardrail, tumbling down the snowy embankment, gun camera in hand, just as the train arrived with its whistle brailing. 

Damn it! Wrong side of the tracks. Too much cover. Shade. The boxcars were speeding by. Bad light. I was going to miss my chance! 

The ground shaking, I only had only seconds to act. What's a badass photographer to do?

*Suspenseful Pause*

*Flashbacks of my life*

I dove under the train to the other side, just missing being cut in half by tons of steel, wheel and rail. 

Snap. Perfect photo. Hero! Roll the credits. 

Okay, fine. The train was hardly moving. I drove slowly to Rt. 9 and the next overpass. My truck had been turbocharged—with 5 quarts of oil since I had run it dry. The black smoke was because I left the oil cap off and it was spewing out under the hood. I got stuck in an icy driveway turning around to park, then waited 15 minutes in the freezing cold. My hands went numb. I ended up on the shady side of the embankment and couldn't get to the other side because the slow moving train was in my way.

But I got a decent photo. I'm happy.