Bayard
West Virginia
June 2011 & May 2014
Ordinarily, on the way to Spruce Knob, the highest point in West Virginia, we would drive right past the “Smallest Church in the Lower 48″ and the Maryland high point trailhead. This is the route we took three years ago on our first summit trip to West Virginia. Today however, there is a road closure forcing a detour, so we miss getting wistful as we drive by, because we don’t.
Instead, along West Virginia Route 90, we must stop as a train crosses the highway. When a train is in front of me on the road, I often yield.
Behold a quick and unnecessary explanation of this strategy. Roughly speaking, a train with an average number of cars bearing an average load weighs in at 6200 tons. My vehicle weighs 2897 pounds, not including a few quarters for the parking meter and the emergency ping pong ball I always keep handy.
| my car | 2897 pounds |
| average train | 12 400 000 pounds |
Do you get my logic? In case you need more…
| my car | 161 horsepower |
| average locomotive | 3300 horsepower |
| Superman | more than 3300 horsepower |
Obviously, I yield to the train. Also to Superman.
Why do I mention Superman? Because he’s faster than a speeding locomotive. Everyone knows that.
While watching this enormous tonnage of railroad vehicles lumber by, we turn off the car engine. I get out to stretch my legs, which in my case really means to stretch my back.
As I stand by the car, I notice commotion in the sport utility vehicle in front of us. The passenger door opens and a rump emerges. The rump is, I’m guessing, not usually the lead part of this person, but today it is. She retrieves something from the floor of the passenger side, stands up and, with a bag in her hand, approaches us.
“I’ll bet you think I’m from West Virginia.” I had noticed the Virginia license plate.
“Do you mean because of your accent?” I ask.
She says, “Here. Have some candy.” Her bag is full of treats, Hershey bars, peppermint patties, sugar suckers. Here is where I learn that my current traveling companions, Lisa and Marty, both love peppermint patties.
Given the amount of candy she is carrying, and dropping, I ask, “Are you traveling with kids?”
She says, “We’re all kids. And we’re all over 60!” The rest of her group are still up in the car ahead, heads bobbing, giggling away.
That’s when we think we hear thunder. It isn’t. It’s the motorcycles. A couple dozen of them pulling up behind us, ensconced in leather, one rider with the enormous horns of a bull on his helmet. I go back and offer them some of the dried fruit I’ve been munching but the train caboose goes by and it is time to move on.
