I recently made mention of the fact that I nearly had my legs amputated by a train. (See “Two birds with one stone” #13 below) Having received curious inquiries as to the nature of the said incident, I will now enlighten the public with a story. Be fore-warned: there are no graphic or disturbing images. No dramatic or intense scenes unfold and no one is seen screaming or running for help. To the contrary, the whole account is, unfortunately, rather un-entertaining. Nevertheless, my story:
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It happened in a far-away place. (Actually, that much is true. Unless you call south-east Ukraine your home. Which I’m sure most of you do not.) I would love to tell you the name of the Ukrainian village where I was, but, as I have yet to discover how to pronounce the name of that village in plain English, it shall here-after be referred to as the Un-named Village. (Or U-V.)
U-V is a small village. And when I say small, I mean very small. It’s so small it doesn’t show up on a map – even a Ukrainian map. I looked. U-V consists basically of a single paved road (perhaps 3/4 of a mile long – but I’m terrible with distances) with houses, a church, and a few other buildings along either side. At one end, this paved road turns into a dirt two-track that winds through some fields, ending up at a main highway. At the other end, the paved road turns into a short stretch of gravel road that comes near to some rail-road tracks running nearly perpendicular to the road. And at the near-center of the paved road there connects another paved road, U-V’s main connection to Ukrainian civilization.
I mean to cast U-V in no bad light. It’s obscurity is half it’s charm. The peace and quiet to be found there are unrivaled by most places I’ve found in my life. And to walk down that road on a summer afternoon, past simple Ukrainian dwellings with goats and chickens milling about…. It’s a wonderful place to be sure.
But U-V’s obscurity also lends itself to a good deal of boredom for the foreigner. And today I was bored. So, for want of something to do, I decided that the railroad tracks would be a good place to look for entertainment.
I don’t suppose one would consider the traffic necessarily heavy on those tracks, but trains do pass through there with some regularity. And when a freight train would come rumbling by, I would warily approach to within 10 or 15 feet and stand there watching as the wheels flew by. I was ever conscious of the drastic results that would follow should I be struck, but I ignored the warnings. (I think it would have been cool to have stuck out my hand and actually touched the train. Don’t tell my mother.)
One game I played to amuse myself was to see how far I could walk on one of the rails without falling off. On one particular attempt I proceeded to balance for about 200 feet down the tracks (it could have been 100 – I’m terrible with distances), but I soon tired of this game. So I decided to sit.
Two platforms, perhaps 60 or 70 feet long, ran along either side of the tracks for loading and unloading passengers. Although it was a warm afternoon, it was pleasant enough to just sit and observe the countryside. As I sat on the platform with my feet over the edge, I was able to look up and down the tracks and observe trains coming from both directions. (There were two sets of tracks.)
As I sat there, I saw a passenger train approaching on the near-side tracks. As the train got closer I heard it’s whistle blow. Although I knew it was uncommon for trains to blow their whistles over that particular stretch of track, I thought that perhaps it was blown to indicate a friendly “hello;” or perhaps I was being warned of the train’s approach as a simple precaution. Seeing no particular need to take action I continued to watch as the train approached. Yet the closer the train got, the more frantic the whistling became.
Perhaps the boredom was affecting my brain. Or perhaps it was my inability to judge distances that was about to cost me life and/or limb. Whatever the case, it never occurred to me that my current position was a very dangerous one. For it seemed to me that there existed quite a satisfactory distance between me and the nearest rail. What never occurred to me was the fact that trains are wider than their tracks. And the fact that I was sitting on a loading platform didn’t register in my mind either.
As I sat there with the train bearing down on me, it’s whistle blasting repeatedly, the thought came to me that perhaps the conductor was the overly cautious type who didn’t appreciate the fact that my legs were hanging over the edge of the platform. So, obligingly, I slowly pulled my legs up onto the platform seconds before the train flew by.
I don’t suppose I need to describe much about what I felt next. I think the feeling could best be described as a startling realization. As I stared at the train cars blurring by (inches away rather than feet), I realized that I could be watching the spectacle minus two legs. I must say that I suddenly had much less interest in seeing how close I could get to the trains. In fact, I had much less interest in being near the train tracks at all.
After milling about a bit more (all the while thinking about how close I had come to a very unpleasant ending – for my lower appendages anyway) I finally lost interest in the train tracks altogether and wandered away.
As I have said before, it isn’t exactly a thrilling account. Nevertheless, the reaction I get when I tell people I nearly had my legs cut off by a train is somewhat amusing. Now I think I need to go work on that whole distance thing….
