THE MIGHTY CURVE

THE MIGHTY CURVE

The Keed.

On-train down past the mighty Curve.

So here we are at the mighty Curve; it’s Sunday, July 8, 2007.
Linda had to work at the post-office yesterday morning, so we couldn’t even set out until she returned about 12:30.
After that, we had to load up the Bucktooth-Bathtub, so we didn’t actually set out until 1:25.
Meanwhile, a torrent of noisy serenading was hitting our various phones.
The first onslaught apparently arrived while I was taking the dog to the slammer about 10:45.
And I had forgotten to take along my cellphone, so everything went onto answering-services, both cellphone and landline.
One cellphone message seemed to be Bill, but he kept cutting out, so what it seemed like was intermittent screaming.
The other messages were Jack, loudly trumpeting the usual tiresomely-boring posturings about “I beat,” interspersed with locomotive air-horns, and “hup-hup!”
There were frequent blusterings about “Where are you, dewd? Hairman? Nappy-poo?”
Here it is 11 a.m. and them guys are already at the Curve.
This contradicts previous notifications:
-1) Jack wanted to know if he should ride his GeezerGlide to the mighty Curve, so we indicated Linda had to work and said we would not be able to set out until 1 p.m. or later; and that getting there would take 4-5 hours.
“Fine,” he said. “If I leave that morning, I would get to the mighty Curve about the same time as you.” (Do yaz remember that, Bubby? What you said was “I thought both you guys were retired.”)
But apparently all that was forgotten about, so Jack set out the day before, so he could arrive at the Curve before I even left.
-2) Bill-a-Sue (and Tom) left us with the impression they weren’t coming to the mighty Curve at all (“not us”). Yet here they were; although Bill split hairs saying their response was to whether they’d ride the train.
(Railroaders’ Memorial Museum is running excursions up-and-down the Hill in conjunction with their “RailFest” festival, and we are reserved.)
Linda came home and declared “Here we got this fantabulous Famblee-Site, yet getting any useful information is utterly beyond-the-pale.”
“All we get is fevered blustering about the spelling of Faulk (Foulk) ‘Rode.’”

The Keed.

The gorgeous E8s.

So finally we set out, and every time I unholstered my cellphone there was another message on it: always Jack blustering noisily about “Where are ya, dewd?” and “Turn your phone on!”
No matter my phone was on the entire trip down, but there’s a fair likelihood we’re out where there’s no cellphone service — plus why answer, when all it is is the usual tiresomely-boring blustering?
Finally about 6:15 p.m. we arrived at the Econo-Lodge in Altoony, checked in, so I called Jack from the parking-lot, thereby frightening the clerk inside with all the yelling and screaming.
My import was that I couldn’t get to far-away places in 30-seconds-or-less — that the Bucktooth-Bathtub wasn’t capable of warp-speed.
So finally we arrived at the Curve parking-lot about 6:45 p.m.; which meant Jack-a-Bill had been there all day waiting for me. (Jack was noisily bellowing from up top.)
Not my fault (foult) when 1) Jack seems to have forgotten our original time of arrival, and 2) I was of-the-impression Bill-a-Sue weren’t even supposed to be there at all.
We get noisily held-to-account for foul-ups that ain’t even us; plus there is the apparent impossibility of getting any useful information from those pursuing a fevered-agenda.
Of course, supposedly the whole reason for Jack’s showing up was the much-ballyhooed race up the Curve steps (194).
Sue allowed to Linda she had never actually seen Jack do the steps; although he loudly claimed he did — first two times, then three times, then four times. The number of times he climbed the steps kept increasing with each retelling.
So I ascended the steps, marching up without drama as I always do, taking 2:15 according to my stopwatch (this got loudly exaggerated to 3:20 later).
Finally we descended to go to supper, but then Jack wanted to stage the great race.
He immediately leapt ahead, doing his best hare-imitation, two steps at a time, starting before I did.
As before, I just marched up the steps as I always do, in full regalia, camera, rail-scanner, jacket, hat.
Jack slowed about half-way up — no more double-steps — and I’m told I was catching up.
But of course he got to the top first — he beat me by about 23 steps. It wasn’t enough of a climb for me to overtake his initial lunge.
“All your conditioning at the YMCA, and I still beatcha,” he crowed; but he was clearly winded, too much to bellow his triumph to those below.
I started back down, but Jack had to keep stopping. He’d stop at the landings to catch his breath.
“All that conditioning means the Old Man can climb and descend the steps without histrionics,” Linda observed. When I got to the bottom I was at least 75 steps ahead of Jack.
When he finally got to the bottom he was still huffing-and-puffing like a locomotive. With me there was hardly any impact at all.
In fact, I would say I am better on the steps than I was last year.
And at least we weren’t taking Jack to Bon Secours. Linda-a-Sue (and me somewhat) were worried.
A noisy triumph of insane stubbornness over at least 150 extra pounds.

The Keed.

Es up at the mighty Curve.

That completed, we set out for dinner, but via the famous Brickyard grade-crossing in Altoony which apparently no one else had been to.
—A frenzied conga-line of me leading Jack on his blatting GeezerGlide, and Bill doing 152 mph while glomming 14 hard-boiled eggs.
We took back streets I hadn’t traveled often, so Jack was noisily complaining about indecisiveness.
Uh, sure; ride decisively into a dead-end, or miss Brickyard altogether.
“Brickyard” because there’s an abandoned brick-kiln adjacent. But I think the street is actually Pine St., a twisting serpent of climbing hairpins.
89 bazilyun railfans were at the crossing, and Jack was upset the onliest parking was on stone railroad ballast.
The railroad-crossing is the old Pennsy main west (north, east, south; WHATEVER) out of Altoony and up the Hill.
First an eastbound descended, and then a westbound came, and then another eastbound descended — a loaded coal-train.
Only three tracks remain at Brickyard (years ago there were four), yet here we had three trains as the same time — i.e. all tracks occupied.
Railfan overload. Jack pronounced it “worth it,” which I guess means parking his motorbike on two-inch rock ballast was okay.
After that, we proceeded to the infamous spaghetti-joint (Lena’s), which was closed prompting Jack to wisecrack about all the people lining up in the empty parking-lot to patronize it.
Seems they have some deal where they close in July for a week or two. We’ve had it happen before.
So we went to Olive-Garden (“I ain’t eatin’ at no Arbys!”), where Jack got into an animated discussion with the staff about his family never charging him for a meal.
“I thought you guys always say ‘at Olive-Garden we treat you like family’ in your ads, which means a free meal; right?”
Of course, it was Linda and I who planted the seed, but we had enough class to not say anything.
Jack, of course, ran with it.
Mindless-management-minions were trotted out. They were taking him seriously.
Also, it may be a touch of Italy, but it sure sounded a lot like south-Philly — heavy on the Delaware Valley accent.
Tom was trying to tell a story. I’m left thinking he has potential — he kept referring to pre-1957 spellings of words; e.g. before 1957, “blog” was spelled with an “A.”
But to successfully compete a story in this famblee you have to bellow. It’s the onliest way to override the interrupters.

The Keed.

Es up at Gallitzin.

Our next adventure was the excursion, the whole reason we were here — not some great race.
Jack, who could only find a motel out-of-town, was planning to ride home to West Bridgewater; and Bill could only find accommodations in far-away Johnstown, an hour away from Altoony.
RailFest had sold out all the motels, and in fact, the only reason we were at Econo-Lodge was it was the first place we could find room. Tunnel Inn and the old Daze Inn (now Holiday-Inn Express) were both filled. And that was making reservations months ago.
So Jack-a-Bill weren’t planning to ride the excursion, although Bill was kicking it around.
Doing so would have meant setting his alarm, and the availability of excursion-seats.
I called Bill from our coach-seat: “Are you guys on this thing?”
“No. It woulda meant setting an alarm, and I went on their web-site last night, and it said the 10:20 excursion was sold out.”
“We’re sitting in an empty car,” I said. It was only 10 a.m., but the car never filled, and when we left it was still only about one-fifth occupied.
The Railroaders’ Memorial Museum in Altoony has held RailFest every year for some time, but previously it was in October.
RailFest always has excursions up around the Curve, and we “road” it once a few years ago, but it was raining, and the coach-windows were so fogged we couldn’t see anything.
At that time they were renting Maryland Rail-Transit (MARC) equipment, which included locomotives (Geeps) at each end of the train.
This was so they didn’t have to turn or flip anything — the train just yo-yoed.
Up and around and down, and then up-and-down again with the other engine leading. All the train does is loop at the top — a connector-track for looping helpers (Pennsy called ‘em “kickers”).

The Keed.

At the Altoony station.

This time the Museum rented two privately-owned restored E8 locomotives (pictured) painted in Pennsy tuscan-red with gold. It ain’t the original cat-whisker scheme, but the single-stripe scheme of the ‘60s. (Pennsy was merged into Penn-Central in 1968.)
They looked gorgeous, as did a couple restored ex-Pennsy club-cars the Museum was also using.
The coach-seats were a bunch of SEPTA (Southeast Pennsylvania Transportation Authority) coaches — what we were in.
Up and around the mighty Curve we went — up our view of the viewing-area was obscured by an eastbound (down) train.
At the top of the Hill (Allegheny Ridge) we dove into the Allegheny Tunnel and came out the other side in Gallitzin, within sight of Tunnel Inn.
Then around the loop-track we went, and then back down the Hill, first through New Portage Tunnel, and then down The Slide. (It’s called “The Slide” because its much steeper than the other grade; 2.36% as opposed to 1.75% — New Portage wasn’t originally Pennsy; the railroad had to build up to it.)
The whole trip was at about 35 mph, which I think is the passenger speed-limit on The Hill. 12 miles up and then 12 miles down — about 45 minutes.
Bill-a-Sue-a-Tom were apparently on the bridge just beyond the Allegheny-tunnel mouth, but we didn’t see them until the bridge over the New Portage approach, also in Gallitzin. We were in the first SEPTA-car.
Back in Altoony we saw Bill-a-Sue after our train had unloaded — they were driving into the station parking-garage. They saw us.
We met them again in the station-lobby; and Tom played back 89 bazilyun pictures of our E-units coming through Gallitzin.
It was like watching a movie — what I woulda called “motor-drive” with Mother-Dear.
But things are different. The coming of digital-photography makes this all possible. No longer are you limited to filling a 36-exposure roll (“role?”) of film. With digital photography you can process your piks without a darkroom — just take out the flash-card, and put it into your ‘pyooter.
I still live under the film-induced requirements: that I have to be spare in what I shoot. Yet a flash-drive can accommodate 89 bazilyun piks, which you can process immediately.
So I still wait until the Es are filling-the-frame before I shoot; whereas Tom is shooting both before-and-after.

The Keed.

Eastbound at Cassandra Railfan Overlook.

A number of things are memorable:
-A) Here we are at the mighty Curve and Tom says “Hey look; a gondola-car full of toothpicks. My great-uncle Ethelbert built the entire Ben Franklin Bridge single-handed with only one toothpick.” —Potential, Tom; but ya gotta get in touch with your Connor-genes.
-B) “See that there bug splattered across that windshield?” Jack said. “In Massachusetts I would have to do up a written report!”
-C) Bill was relating his trip from Gallitzin down to Altoony, on the giant Route 22 Expressway, much like an Interstate. It’s parallel to Pennsy’s grade, although of course quite a bit steeper. All-of-a-sudden Tom is yelling “Lemme out. Lemme out. I don’t care where ya stop; just lemme out.” The excursion could be seen descending the grade across the valley, and Tom wanted to get a picture.
Makes sense to me. Years ago we are quietly eating breakfast at our old house on Winton “Rode,” it’s 9 a.m., and I note that Amtrak’s “Niagara Rainbow” should be in the Rochester station, and in about 15 minutes would be passing the Cut-Out.
All-of-a-sudden DROP EVERYTHING and go out and get in Bill’s Volvo. We zoom to the Cut-Out, and I scream “Get out, get out; the lights are on. It’s in-the-block.” It blew it’s horn as it passed; I had Tom wave.
-D) We’re at the mighty Curve. Conrail Historical Society has set up a tent, selling trinkets, baubles, and other Conrail paraphernalia. A member has set up a tiny video-cam atop a tripod, and has it aimed at the north part of the Curve, awaiting the next train.
A train is coming up The Hill. It heaves into view, so member starts shooting, but a big burly Harley-guy strides right in front of him.
“Aw, man; you’re blocking my shot.” So much for that. 275-pound greaseball Harley-dude ain’t movin’. Hee-yuhh; hee-yuhh — Mr. macho-man. “Make me, wuss-boy.”
-E) Sunday morning, the day of the excursion, it was suggested I should check in with the almighty Bluster-King, to make sure he had been actually able to set out for home.
I’m not that worried about him, but others are: blood-pressure, cholesterol, excessive blood-sugar.
“If anything happens, the cleaning-ladies will find him.” —And it wasn’t Linda that said that, dear bluster-boy.
So that afternoon I called.
Bluster-boy answered, supposedly on-the-road.
Obviously he has his GeezerGlide and helmet wired for answering cellphones.
“Just checking in, “ I said. “Just checking to make sure you set out.”
“Well of course,” he blustered.
It’s all right Jack. If I have to be a punching-bag to get the old points-scorer in better shape, I’ll be it.
-F) My railroad-scanner was essentially kaput, mainly because the antenna was broken.
The telescoping antenna has a threaded nylon fitting, and it had stripped, making mounting the antenna impossible.
So it goes; a trip to Radio-Shack for a new antenna.
The scanner ain’t what it could be. It receives fairly well, but a lot of what it gets -1) cuts out, -2) is indecipherable gibberish, or -3) is incomprehensible jargon.
Were it not for -1) talking defect detectors, and -2) enginemen calling out signals, it would be a “waist.”
With the telescoping antenna it would even get faraway Brickyard from the mighty Curve. Brickyard has a detector and a signal-bridge.
If it sounds like a train is climbing Track-3 at Brickyard, I ain’t leavin’ the Curve.
-G) Our reward Sunday-night was that our keycard wouldn’t open the door to our room at Econo-Lodge.
So we trudged over to the faraway office and began a long wait for a clerk.
At least 15 minutes passed. “Anybody home?” Linda said.
By now the almighty Bluster-King woulda started pounding the counter, and I was sorely tempted, but sat down instead.
I did that long ago at Sears — started ringing the desk-bell willy-nilly.
“Ya didn’t hafta do that,” the clerk said angrily.
“Got your attention, didn’t I.”
I also succeeded in getting abysmal service.
Sometimes it pays to not be a Connor.
When the clerk finally showed up he was greatly embarrassed.
After the excursion we a) went to Gallitzin, b) went to the mighty Curve, and c) went to the Cassandra Railfan Overlook; where I concluded it was near-impossible to shoot a 300-mm telephoto hand-held. The picture loaded is hand-held, but a lucky shot. 300-mm needs to be done with a tripod (which scotches the point of 35mm photography), or on a rifle-mount, which I still have.

“The mighty Curve” is Horseshoe Curve west of Altoona (“Altoony”), Pennsylvania, by far the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to.

“The Bucktooth-Bathtub” is our 2005 Toyota Sienna van; called that because it’s white and like sitting in a bathtub, and appears to have a bucktooth on the grill.

Jack (lives in West Bridgewater, Mass., south of Boston) and Bill are my remaining younger brothers. Sue is Bill’s wife, and Tom his only child. “Linda” is my wife.

“Hairman” is my hairdresser.

“Railroaders’ Memorial Museum” is a railroad-themed museum in Altoona (“Altoony”), Pa., once the major mechanical shop fortress of the Pennsylvania Railroad (“Pennsy”). It once employed thousands, making Altoona a railroad-town. The museum also operates the Horseshoe Curve national historical site.

“The Hill” is the Pennsylvania Railroad’s assault on Allegheny Ridge. Horseshoe Curve is part of it. It’s now operated by Norfolk Southern Railroad.

“Famblee-Site” is our family’s web-site.

When we moved to northern Delaware in 1957, “Foulk” Road was spelled on the signs with an “A.”

“Bon Secours” is the hospital in Altoona.

“GeezerGlide” is my brother Jack’s Harley-Davidson motorcycle; called that because it’s a very laid-back cruiser-bike, and he’s 50 years old.

My brother Bill from Delaware once claimed his turbocharged Volvo station-wagon would do 152 mph; and that he eats two hard-boiled eggs while driving to work, and apparently boils them 14 at a time.

“Geeps” are Electromotive-Division (GM) four-motor road-switcher units: e.g. GP7, GP9, GP35, GP38, GP40, etc.

RE: “helpers........” Additional road-power has to be added to a train to surmount “The Hill.” Altoona keeps “helpers” on-hand for adding to trains.

“The cat-whisker scheme” was the first painting-application on Pennsy’s passenger-locomotives; five gold pin-stripes on a tuscan-red body (or brunswick-green). The original design was by Raymond Loewy.

“1.75%” is 1.75 feet of climb every hundred feet. “2.36%” is 2.36 feet for every hundred feet — fairly steep.

RE: “Bill-a-Sue-a-Tom.......” I had a mentally-retarded (Down Syndrome) kid-brother who always pronounced “and” as “uh.”

RE: “roll (‘role?’) and “waist.” My brother-in-Boston misspells words, and then noisily claims he’s entitled.

The Ben Franklin Bridge is a giant suspension-bridge over the Delaware-River between Philadelphia and Camden, N.J. It opened in 1926. I had an uncle Ethelbert (“Bill”); who claimed to be “the world’s biggest leprechaun,” and was a civil-engineer and blowhard.

“The Cut-Out” is a prime railroad viewing-spot in Rochester.

RE: “It’s in-the-block.” The train was in the section of tracks before the signal-bridge. Each block is a mile-or-more long, which means the train would soon be coming — and it was pushing 79 mph.

“The almighty Bluster-King” is my brother Jack.

My mother’s (“Mother-Dear”) maiden-name was Connor. We surmise it’s why we have a tendency to have no class whatsoever.

“Cassandra Railfan Overlook” is a You-Tube link, which will play.