I drove a locomotive. Not as in “I drove the Buick” or “I called Ralph on the Big White Phone,” euphemisms for the gastric violence visited upon those who’ve imbibed to excess. No, I mean I actually operated a steam locomotive. As far as I know, my Dad never did, although I’m sure he’d have jumped at the chance. He modeled trains mostly in HO Scale (scale defines a model’s size in comparison to a real train) which is 87 times smaller than the real thing; pretty tiny in comparison. Having spent the last six months tinkering with these miniatures got me wondering how real steam locomotives (the ones 87 times larger) actually work. So I decided I’d either have to make myself smaller or find something bigger, the latter being the only feasible choice.
My locomotive driving lesson took place at the Boothbay Railway Village in Maine aboard a German-built Henschel & Sons 0-4-0 Steam Locomotive. (Check it out here) Brian Fanslau, Chief Engineer of the Railway, was my instructor. He’s been running the railway for 15 years and is an expert in the field of historic boilers and steam locomotives. In terms of supply and demand, Brian must be very popular. Not only in charge of maintaining the railway, he runs the on-premises mechanical shop, and also repairs and builds locomotives for other historic railroads. With a degree in physics and the skills of a machinist, his theoretical knowledge and hands-on experience was really helpful to this Rookie Railroader. Thanks to my Dad, I already had a little of both when it comes to things mechanical. When we were done with my two hour locomotive driving lesson, Brian confessed, “You took me off guard a bit because you knew way more than I expected.” You cannot imagine how much I loved hearing this.
It’s very Willy-Wonka-esque inside the cab of a locomotive. An Umpa-Lumpa would need a step-stool to see out the forward cab window. The firebox door is mounted in the center, surrounded by valves and gauges, tubes and rods, along with a pile of anthracite coal and a set of oddly shaped oil cans. Blobs of oil blurped upwards through a water-filled glass tube like an intravenous line into who-knows-where. The cab hissed, thumped and cranked as I stood there, sweating from the heat while taking in this mad science scene. Nothing is labeled. Even if things were marked, a wet blanket of dust and grease would render all illegible. So don’t even think about stealing a steam locomotive. There are no on-board instructions to follow. You can’t just hop in and drive it away. If you could, where would you go with it? Take it for a joy ride around a loop of track and you’ll be found out. That is, if you’re found.
The most important thing to know about operating a steam locomotive is this: You can blow yourself up. Spectacularly. If maintained poorly or operated wantonly, a locomotive can quickly transform itself from a darling little puff-puff into an angry, hot tank-load of TNT. As recently as 1995, the firebox failed on a scenic railroad steam locomotive in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, owing to a low water level inside the boiler, leaving the engineer with 3rd degree burns over 65% of his body, and two firemen seriously burned.
A steam locomotive is essentially a boiler on wheels. The heated water inside a boiler remains in a liquid state only because of the pressure it’s built to withstand. If a boiler ruptures suddenly, the water inside churns instantly and violently into steam, expanding to 1,600 times its volume. The superheated steam creates a huge pressure wave that explodes the boiler. I’m not only talking about the boiler on a locomotive; this can happen to your basement hot water heater. In such cases, you might hear the “KA”, but you won’t hear the “BOOM”.
Steam locomotives have redundant systems to prevent your sweet lil’ Thomas the Train from mutating into the Terror Train Express. Disasters can be avoided if the locomotive is properly maintained at all times, and if the engineer ensures that the water level remains high enough to maintain the boiler’s integrity. If any part of the boiler weakens under pressure, as Brian said, “You’ll never know what happened.”
To avoid being nominated for a Darwin Award, named in honor of Charles Darwin to “commemorate those who improve our gene pool by removing themselves from it”, you must keep your eye on the water glass, a vertical gauge that shows the level of water inside the boiler. The guys operating Gettysburg Locomotive 1278 kept their eyes on it too, which unfortunately for them displayed a false reading throughout their excursion. To learn about how ignorance and neglect led to this calamity, see the accident report here: NTSB Report
After Brian made sure we reviewed the locomotive’s safety mechanisms in detail (like I said earlier, he’s in demand), we ran through the process of blowing down the water glass and opening the gage cocks to make sure we’d have sufficient and free-flowing water during our numerous passes around the village. Here is a sampling of recommendations from his handout on safety from IDC Online :
- Never allow sediment to accumulate in gage-glass or water-column connections. A false water level may fool you and make you sorry.
- Always blow out each gage-glass and water-column connection at least once each day. Forming good habits may mean longer life for you.
- Never tighten a nut, bolt, or pipe thread under steam or air pressure. Many have died doing this.
- Never strike any object under steam or air pressure. This is a sure path to the undertaker’s.
- Never allow major repairs to a boiler without authorization. If you don’t break a law, you may break your neck.
Operating a steam locomotive requires quite a bit of muscle, so I was forced to deploy the Chris Evert “two-handed” approach to driving. Without two hands on the brake, I’d have hurtled myself clean out the side door of the cab while releasing it. Same with the Johnson Bar (don’t know why it’s called this…a mystery), which controls the timing of steam sent into the locomotive pistons. Think of it as the locomotive’s transmission. And then there’s the Throttle, which is the “gas pedal” of the locomotive; this took two hands and my body weight to turn off.
The absolute best thing about driving a steam locomotive is the sound. I love the slow, rhythmic PRUFFT, PRUFFT, PRUFFT of the engine as it sluggishly climbs a grade; it’s as soothing as the tick-took of a grandfather clock. When you push the throttle forward, allowing steam into the cylinder, the steam pushes the piston inside to the valve end, where it expels…PRUFFT!
So, there. I drove a steam locomotive. This means I know how to drive one—the Henschel 0-4-0 at the Boothbay Railway Village. Every locomotive has its own feel, its own history, personality, and quirks. To be able to safely and competently operate any locomotive means you must spend hours in the cab to become become familiar with its uniqueness. Just because I took a small steam locomotive around the block doesn’t mean I can operate all of them, or even one of them safely.
Before my final trip around the village, several museum visitors boarded the train. Alone in the cab, I turned around and looked back, noticing that all of them were sitting in the back of first the passenger car. I leaned over and yelled, “What’s the matter? Are you all afraid of my driving?” They laughed. But only one guy moved up—three rows.