Letting off some steam

Sunday: a day off from everything in order to have some 'me' time. A day where I potted about in my shed, tinkering with nothing in particular. This followed on from yesterday's lustful rampage in a book warehouse and some cussing at traffic to get some photographs down Williamstown way. I just wanted some peace and quiet - though I did attend to the domestic fussiness from the previous day I postponed. I mean, how many socks, handkerchiefs and other smalls can you be reasonably expected to peg up to dry in July?

The shed at my home was built by my Grandparents in the late 1940s and together with my Mother and her Sister they lived in this shed whilst the home I currently occupy was slowly erected. There is so much of both Grandparents in the large shed that even to this day I always feel a sense of reverence when I step inside. Little, deliberately, has changed over near 70 years. Grandad's work benches are still there, rarely disturbed since his death in the late 1960s. There are scribbled notes in pencil on the walls, such as measurements of wood (in imperial units), prices for Budgerigars (small Australian birds which he bred and sold) and the diameters of drill bits. There are the stains from the old wood stove where my Grandmother would bake their meals and underfoot is parts of the old lino they had placed to alleviate the chill rising from the concrete floor. All the aged light switches remain and quite a few original 40 watt light globes have survived (see my blip of 18th June 2010). By modern standards it would have been a cheek-by-jowl existence, cold in winter, sweltering in the summer. Though, in the Shed lately I have been 'tinkering' a bit by making a 'makeshift studio'. Mind you, it is very el-cheapo as I have used what materials I can find around the place and some 'lights' acquired from a local Hardware store that were on 'special'. I am very mindful not to disturb the memories here by imposing radical structural changes. Perhaps, I am being too sentimental? Too, I am not out to be a Magnum photographer as I am snapping away for the sheer enjoyment of photography. Though, I have dreams of doing a swishy fashion shoot of course, but I do not think the shed is quite a Paris salon and I think Miranda Kerr or Beyonce have better things to do with their time.

Duly, I found myself engrossed in a book - 'A Thousand Country Roads' by the American Novelist, Robert James Waller. Apparently this book is the successor to 'The Bridges of Madison County'. Both novellas have suckered me with their gentle words appealing to my softer side not quite yet ruined by cynicism. I adored the film with Clint Eastwood and Meryl Streep too - oh that Meryl Streep makes the Plod's heart a flutter and blood pressure rise. I should hasten add, to be true to my personal ethos, I am not a novel reader as a rule. You will not find more than half a dozen such tomes in my library and I smile politely when I receive such a book as a present. Give me facts: give me history and economics, give me biography and religions, politics and philosophy too, and always give me poetry is my reading mantra. Nonetheless, it was a novella that was claiming my leaden eyes as I slunk contently in my old rocking chair (which occupies a small corner of the shed). As I was about to doze off into a rare afternoon's siesta, I heard the unmistakable sound of a steam locomotive whistle. I sat bolt upright, creaking most of my bones in the process! A steam engine, what is going on here? Then I heard it again and again and few more after. It certainly was not the blare of truck horns or the fire siren from the nearby chemical factory that normally punctuate my ordinary day. Have to see what this is about, of course. So, I slung on the backpack, tossed in a few chocolate bars, slipped on my 'Joe Cool' sunglasses - the Sun was out and about making merry with benign mischief intent of wintry glare - off I plodded.

It is not very far to the nearest train station hereabouts from my home, roughly 15 minutes at old bones-pace. I was hoping this would be worth putting down the Robert James Waller novella - one day someone will explain to me why my American brethren have this obsession with using middle names or having Jr. inscribed to a son when so named after his father. By the way, I have never seen a daughter with the Jr. used and what would a daughter in this instance adopt if named after her mother? I recall the late Johnny Cash and his song, 'A boy named Sue', but this has not the slightest relevance to an iota of anything.

Soon enough, I reached the western suburb of Melbourne railway station, normally a place to be avoided as its surrounds harbour a nest of drug pushers, drunks, politicians seeking re-election and taxis. Occasionally, the police visit but they soon realise the folly of being there and go to back to doing paperwork and watching the Footy on TV. The station's reputation is sadly well deserved. It can be a very violent place at times, as I have discovered and have the scars as proof. However, today there was a gaggle of people mulling about, even some reasonably dressed types from the eastern suburbs of Melbourne. You can tell them apart from the crowd as they usually wear berets in winter and are cobbled with shiny, pointy toe shoes. Some speak as if they have a plum in their mouth, though more as often it is the swill from the previous night's caviar wedged under their tongue. Whenever they venture into the western suburbs you can see them twitch with anxiety expecting Dickensian era pickpockets to assail them en-masse, instead of Bank ATM fees.

I soon learned that the erstwhile volunteers at Steamrail Victoria were running a locomotive hauled shuttle service between two stations. Steamrail Victoria is a not-for-profit organisation run by volunteers who restore and operate historic locomotives and rolling stock. They have been going since 1965 and regularly conduct special train excursions on the Melbourne suburban and Country train network using stock ranging from steam locomotives to diesels through to electric trains with attendant historic carriages. They do a fantastic, unheralded task with the aim of preserving this link with the past. I have nothing but the highest of admiration for their ethos and certainly their unbridled enthusiasm and labour.

On this day they had in service two engines of the Victorian 'K' class steam locomotives- numbers K153 & K190 (one at each end) with 4 carriages and a Guard's Van between. This class of locomotive saw service on Victorian Railways from 1922 until 1979. A total of 53 were built locally at the Railway workshops at Newport. Twenty-one have survived into preservation either as a static display or under restoration. Four of these: K153, K190, K163 and K160 are still in regular or limited service on heritage Railways in Victoria or as with K153 & K190, used by Steamrail Victoria. I scribbled down in my notebook, courtesy of one of the friendly volunteers bubbling with joy, some facts that sounded like train gunzel speak to me. I have stuck with the imperial measurements as metric was something those unmanageable French were trying to impose on the British Empire and its train builders of the time.

Power: Steam (are you surprised - it would be just a little suspicious if there were nuclear warning signs on the engine, do you not think?)
Builder: Victorian Railways, Newport Workshops
Configuration: 2-8-0 (something to do with axles/wheels etc. Impressive technical glibber)
Length: 60 feet 3 ¼ inches (as long as my credit card statement)
Axle load: 13 tons and a bit
Weight (approx): Engine-62 tons, Tender-42 tons, Total-104 tons (you'd want to have a very sturdy jack if you had to change one of the wheels on the rails, which do go flat occasionally. Flat in a sense of the steel instead of being 'curved' can get a bit flat in use for a host of reasons)
Coal bunker capacity: 5 tons
Boiler: 4,200 gallons water
Boiler pressure: 175 psi
Cylinders: 2
Cylinder size: 20 x 26 inches (try fitting that into your average car)
Tractive effort: 28,650 pounds at 85% boiler capacity (I have no idea what this means but I dropped it in as it sounded very impressive)

Apparently these locomotives could reach a speed up to 50 miles per hour/80 kilometres per hour. Almost as fast as I plod when fleeing the sounds coming from a Barry Manilow CD.

Yet, there is one fact I found most interesting and amusing:
Loco driver size: 55 inches.

Presumably, this means the height of the driver not necessarily his girth. Then again, if you see what some of these blokes do to meat pies, a few per gulp, it would send Government Health Departments into despair and Life Insurance companies to insert special 'meat pie consumption' exclusions. No wonder most loco drivers seemed to smoke plenty of cigarettes. I gather they did this to stunt their growth, just so as they could fit into the loco cabin.

All told, it is quite impressive statistics. For me they simply translate into a remarkable pair of locomotives from a by-gone era that have been devotedly preserved and still operating. In the photo you see K153 leading with K190 bringing up the rear passing under a ramshackle railway footbridge. Note the photographers atop the bridge. They were out and about in alarming numbers throughout the length of the train's journey. At times they would bob up in all sorts of places, half the time out of breath (or is that steam) as they clambered for the best vantage spots talking in a language that sounded as if it had Neolithic origins. I simply stood beside the railway line and waited to snare my photo. Normally, doing so I would be arrested for loitering but I did notice a few of the good-force taking some photographs of the train themselves! They were not from special branch either spying on those not so well known, harmless steam train subversives, who you can spot pouring over train timetables in excited, though hushed tones.

Hearing the sounds of yesteryear made for an unexpected delight across a July afternoon, where under the sunlight I could sense a faint hint of the season turning. Though, it may have been my 'Joe Cool' sunglasses tricking my careworn eyes.