Free Two Wheels on my Wagon by Paul Howard

postcard material.
    My cheerless reverie was disturbed as I rounded the next bend to find the way blocked by a train, parked rather inconsiderately across the road. Actually, to describe the obstacle ahead of me as simply a train would be misleading. I now realised that I had been cycling past the train’s coal trucks, partially obscured by some desultory trees at the roadside, for the past couple of minutes. Further ahead I could count another 25 wagons before they disappeared from view around a bend. I had come to the Rockies prepared for all manner of obstacles, but this was something new.
    I began to consider my options. They seemed strictly limited. The map revealed no alternative route, leaving the equally unappealing prospects of waiting for the train to clear the road or finding a way through it. I couldn’t help but think of Molly, Benjamin, Thomas and Freddie’s likely delight at such an obstacle. Freddie, in particular, was a considerable fan of the ‘troublesome trucks’ that frequently wrought mischief and mayhem in the Thomas the Tank Engine stories.
    Had I been a mere pedestrian, crawling under the trucks would have been an option, but there was insufficient headroom for a bike. I shuddered at what would happen if it or I became stuck. Negotiating the gap between two wagons seemed the best bet. I approached cautiously. The area below my shoulders was made impassable by the mass of couplings, hoses and chains that connected the two wagons together. Above that, however, the back of each wagon had a narrow metal walkway that provided a potential route to the other side. The difficult part would be lifting the bike that high in the first place and ensuring it remained there while I climbed up to join it. Cyclists may be blessed with strong legs and enviable lung capacity, but upper body strength is often most noticeable by its absence.
    I was just about to test the extent to which my arms had become as useless as those of Tyrannosaurus Rex (relative to the rest of its impressive physical attributes – I didn’t imagine a T-Rex would have had too much trouble picking up my bike) when Rick arrived, accompanied almost immediately by a crescendo of clanking. The flippant suggestion that it might have been his bike making such a terrible noise was instantly dismissed from my lips when the train – on which I was still leaning – started to move. The din was tremendous. It sounded like an iron leviathan being woken from the sleep of ages. Great, metallic booming noises shot up and down the valley as it began its slow, lurching progress. I was glad I wasn’t balanced on a wagon walkway.
    After five minutes of grinding and groaning, our vexation had become considerable. An early start was being squandered, and we still had the best part of 90 miles ahead of us if we were to avoid an impromptu night in the wild, all because of a train on the road. Then, the monster before us ground to a halt. In less time than it took to say ‘now’s your chance’, 63-year-old Rick had rolled back the years and leapt onto the couplings.
    â€˜Pass me a bike,’ he instructed.
    I tried, and failed, to pass him his own bike. It was a good deal heavier than mine. At my second attempt I was more successful. It wedged nicely onto one of the walkways. Rick kept it steady while I clambered between the pair of them, jumped down the other side and lifted it off. One down, one to go.
    Even motionless, the train shuddered and juddered alarmingly. I reached my bike and fortuitously managed to wedge it, unmoving, in the same spot, jumped up and over and then retrieved it. Rick clambered down and we endeavoured to regain our composure. Instead, we descended into a fit of giggles of which my boys would have been proud. In the freshness of the early morning we exhaled plumes of spent breath that could have been smoke from a steam engine.
    â€˜That was fun,’ said Rick. ‘Mind you make sure to