The Road Not Taken

My wife and I were bicycling the KATY trail over spring break, as part of a little get-away from our children. We rode the area around Rocheport, Missouri, heading southeast, under Interstate 70, along the Missouri River. This particular trek hugs the bluffs of the river to the east, and the river itself to the west. An absolutely fantastic section of a worthwhile ride it was.

We were in no hurry, and we marveled at the incoming storms, with their low-slung clouds, and the occasional clap of thunder and drop of rain. This allowed both of us time to think, and to enjoy the wildlife. Who wouldn?t want to see a Bald Eagle? Certainly not a Science Teacher!

We stopped at a place called Torbett Springs, an area where a spring came out from a cave under the bluffs. Home not only to the endangered Indiana Bat, but also an old meeting place for Native Americans of the area, and a stop on the Lewis and Clark "tour." Pictographs were still visible, and the ever-ubiquitous interpretive sign told us of the "history."

What does this have to do with anything? A lot, because the KATY is a "rail trail," a railroad right-of-way that has fallen out of use and been converted to a cycling and hiking path.

About 27 years ago, my now-deceased father implored my siblings and myself to write every available Congressional person we could in regards to the absolute necessity of keeping the US rail system as the mode for transporting goods across the country. You see, the railroad was my father?s lifeblood. A Civil Engineer extraordinaire, he saw how Europe used the system to its advantage. He noted that goods were transported in the most efficient manner, from town to town and country to country, with minimal effort and high efficiency of cost, by railroad. He also understood how Australia considered rail a vital part of their economy, especially considering the distances across the country.

He knew this because he saw firsthand what railroads meant to a society. He helped keep railroading alive by participating in projects as varied as building the rail line across Australia (longest single stretch of straight rail in the world--478 kms, from kilometer post 797 west of Ooldea to kilometer post 1275 west of Loongana; see WikPedia), and providing quarter-mile long welded rail "ribbons" for coal mines in Wyoming. He traveled across the country, working on the Fort Bragg/Pope Air Force base to change all rail crossings. He traveled to France to see the concrete crosstie system developed by his best friend Roger P. Sonneville (U.S. Pat. No. 4,066,212 granted Jan. 3, 1978 and U.S. Pat. No. 4,111,361 granted Sept. 5, 1978, Low Vibration Track (LVT) and the STL rail fastenings). Dad noticed how the rest of the world understood the value of a viable rail system.

He understood that this was not only an efficient means of transporting goods; it was also imperative to keeping our society together. He knew that when you keep fathers close to home, as opposed to on the road like over-the-road truck drivers, they were more involved in their community, and especially their family (See this discussion of truck drivers and hazards). A stable two-parent household was more often the result. Instead of the father being on the road, he was there to coach soccer, or attend plays that the children were in, or simply to do the dishes, help wash the clothes, and get groceries.

My father understood that the railroad was the lifeblood that held the country together. The veins and arteries that provided the input not only to our economy, but also to our life, what we know as family--our way of life. He talked often of traveling to Europe, to visit his friends, one of which, as mentioned, patented the damping system for high-speed Concrete Cross-Tie systems, which is now the basis for most high-speed rail-travel in the world. My father knew what the rail meant to the world, and desperately wanted that to continue here. He knew what was happening before it happened, and saw what was coming "down the road," which is where we are today with $4.25+/gallon gasoline.

Jane Jacobs, in her seminal book from 1961 ,The Death and Life of Great American Cities, knew this too. She understood that when back porches became more important than front sidewalks and porches, we were no longer on the streets to greet our neighbor, as they passed. We isolated ourselves in the backyard, away from street noise, even if we were outside.

I went to Europe as a junior in high school, with the number and address of another of my father?s best friends, Henri Girard Amory, who lived in Uzes, France. I desperately wanted to go see this man. In particular I wanted to talk to him regarding rail travel. He also owned and operated one of the best model rail museums, in France, with four floors of rail going all day, everyday. I even went so far as almost to convince our tour guides that we must go see this place, and this man. It was not on our agenda, they said.

I thought about all this, as my wife and I finished our bike ride. As we rolled quietly under I-70, pea-gravel crunching under tires like leaves in fall on a walk with your love, while the trucks thundered overhead, at 70+mph, along with thousands of cars going even faster. I thought about how far forward-thinking my wise father was. I thought about how I let him down, and only wrote our two Kansas Congressmen. I thought about what more I could have done, to help prevent the downward spiral of rail travel as the US lurched into automobile dependency. I thought about these things and much more, and I shed a tear for my father.

As we all know, what my father foresaw happened. The rail system in our country is so dysfunctional now, that it will take over 4 billion dollars to fix, or more, I do not know, and the Teamsters now rule the road. People spend hundreds of hours a year trapped alone in their cars and trucks in traffic jams, while their families wait at home, also alone. Think about that, the next time you ride your bicycle on a trail that used to be a railroad, or cross an abandoned, overgrown railroad crossing. I do. I think about my father and what he would think.

Lynn Miller

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