To go with the new house I'm on the lookout for a small, preferably old, tractor. So when my stepfather mailed me a rural newspaper with an intriguing ad for "Vintage farm machinery swapmeet", two and a bit hours up the road, I just had to make plans.

Alack, alas, 'twas not to be. Rural types get up early. I had to go to work on Saturday morning, and by the time I'd got back home and picked up the kids and packed the car and headed north and stopped for lunch and got everyone back on board and headed north again we arrived around three o'clock, quite coincidentally the time the last few stragglers were leaving with trailerloads of unidentified and unidentifiable rusty bits of old tat. No Riches and Watts here, but I did see a bicycle frame and a bonnet and mudguard off a Toyota Land Cruiser.

On the way back down we zipped past Steam Incorporated at Paekakariki. A crudely handpainted sign advertised "Drive a steam loco $25 Sunday." (NZD$25 = USD$12.75 = GBP#8)

Sunday morning it was cloudy and drizzling and the wind was blowing a near gale. I stayed in bed, rationalising the deal. For a start, you wouldn't get much drive for your money. It would be on the smallest loco available. There would be a wait of at least an hour - possibly two - with all the people who would jump at the chance to have a go. It would take an hour to drive there with no guarantee that I'd get on the footplate. If there were too many people, I couldn't ask Ashleigh to hang around. Five-year-olds aren't equipped to deal with waits of longer than a standard television programme.

But I couldn't get back to sleep, so I got out the overalls and safety shoes and got Ashleigh dressed in her overalls and old shoes. After all we know how filthy steam locos are, and I might get a chance to sneak her aboard. We headed out in the grotty weather.

An hour later we come up to Steam Inc's place, and my heart dropped. Not only was the carpark full, with cars lined up on the gravel outside the goods shed, but we had arrived just as a tour bus was disgorging an entire load of elderly passengers who made a mockery of advancing years by scuttling across the yard to the waiting train.

Well, we hadn't come all this way for nothing, so I found out where they were selling tickets and Ashleigh and I went for a look. I couldn't see the loco they were doing rides on, just Ja1271, the recently restored NZGR 4-8-2.

I asked how long the queue was for driving the loco. "Depends how many they're getting through. You shouldn't wait long though." So I paid for driver's ticket No. 10 for me and a cab pass for Ashleigh, who, like all five-year-olds, was immensely proud to say she was old enough for Daddy to pay. "Where's the loco for driving?"

This brought a snort from behind the counter. "It's the big black thing just that way, go out the door, you can't miss it!"

I kind of floated out towards the train, not quite believing that they would let anyone drive a main line express loco. A Steam Inc member pointed me towards the cab, where the driver was leaning out. "You coming up?" You bet!

Ashleigh climbed up the steps into the cab with only a minimum of help from me and a final haul up by the driver. I followed and immediately moved to the middle of the cab to make room. Whoosh! Singe! Ja's have air operated butterfly firedoors, and of course I'd plonked my size ten straight onto the operating treadle. "That's OK, everyone does it once," said the fireman as he helped Ashleigh into his seat on the left hand side.

Two more guys came up for the ride, both from New Jersey and in their late sixties. They were on a train and bus tour of New Zealand and had "lucked out" by arriving at the same time as the open day.

"Driven one before?" asked the driver as he clipped my ticket. "Only 480 at Glenbrook, once, many years ago. Nothing this size!" He pointed out the reverser - lever operated, on quite a small quadrant, due to the steam reverser doing the donkey work - and regulator. A small bronze tap next to the reverser controlled the drain cocks, above the regulator were the lubricators, and below the two Westinghouse brake stands. I asked if I should use the train brake or the indie - he said use whichever I liked, the independent was quicker. With a hundred and ten tons of loco and maybe thirty tons of train, the question was a bit academic I suppose.

A bloke with a clipboard came up into the cab and spoke to the driver. "Take it easy on the whistle, good neighbour policy and all that." Off he went.

I was just getting used to the driver's seat and view from the window when the radio announced it was time to go. I moved the reverser to full reverse, a one-handed steady pull. Not much effort at all. It might have been imagination but I thought I felt the movement of the Baker gear through the lever. Certainly it would be a different story without the steam servo! The driver had already opened the drains, so two short toots on the whistle and we were away.

I cracked the regulator and brought it up to where it just got stiff and hard to move the main valve. The pilot opening was enough to cause a small cloud of steam out of the drains and the loco started gliding slowly backwards at a sedate walking pace. I closed the drains and tugged the regulator open an inch more. Just a gentle chuff chuff chuff from the exhaust and we were rolling.

"How fast should I go?" "Fast as you like mate, whatever you're comfortable with." "I'll just take it easy, thanks, until I'm used to this!" I couldn't see past the end of the passenger car, and somewhere back there were a couple of sets of points.

The driver was getting a little impatient and told me to give her some more steam, there was plenty of room. I opened her out to maybe quarter throttle and the gentle chuff immediately turned to a deeper whoof-whoof-whoof. We accelerated to fifteen mph or so and I closed the regulator to let her coast. The safeties popped off with a roar. "I guess I'm not using enough steam!"

Coming up to the points I made a partial application of the engine brake and as soon as I heard the shoes start to bite I released the air. We were back to a fast walking pace and following the carriage and tender through the points. As soon as the eight drivers hit the turnout we slowed right down with a huge graunching noise and a lot of vibration.

Oh no! I've put the loco on the ground! It was a rather heart-stressing couple of seconds before I realised it was just the flanges getting stuck on the curved road and if I didn't do something quickly we'd stall. A short sharp open and shut on the regulator gave us the oomph to sail through and start rolling down the backshunt.

"Where do we stop?" "You'll see a white post by the side of the track, just stop there." "OK, at the carriage or at the loco?" "Line it up with the cab."

We had a hundred yards or so to go so I gave her a little throttle and shut off. We coasted back and when the post was halfway along the carriage I gently applied the brake. A couple of seconds later it started to bite so I released it and we stopped with the post level with the tender cab steps.

Whew! I took a few seconds to get my breath back and open the drain cocks while I put the reverser in mid gear. We'd be going foward this time and life would be a lot easier. Waited for the OK on the radio, one toot on the whistle. Full forward gear, more throttle this time. Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh through the drains and a big cloud of steam enveloped the front of the loco. I closed the drains and we punched through the cloud, drifting towards the points.

I kept up a little more speed this time and the loco hardly checked at all as we went through onto the loop road back towards the shed. Once the carriage was through the driver again urged me to give her more regulator, this time with his hand on mine. He opened it to maybe half throttle and with a huge deep tuff-tuff-tuff-tuff we took off, smoke and steam billowing up from the funnel. Awesome acceleration from such a large machine - no wonder the Ja's were regarded as the thoroughbreds of the NZGR stable.

The train got to maybe, oh, twenty-five mph or so in only a handful of seconds and so I shut off for the coast to the shed. With quite some regret I realised that was the last time I'd use the regulator to control this magnificent loco. The driver gave a good long crow on the whistle (oy! That's MY job!) and I asked him where to stop. "Stop on the points by the turntable." "OK."

We coasted in, my left hand on the brake. When I felt the time was right I gave a slight application and again released as soon as the brake shoes bit. We stopped with the bogie just on the points, I put the reverser back into mid gear and stood up.

I helped Ashleigh off the fireman's seat and she stood unerringly on the firedoor treadle. Whoosh, singe! Well, we all do it once.

That was it. I had just driven a main line express locomotive, the NZ equivalent of a Britannia or Duchess or Castle or A3. And as quickly as it had come, my moment of triumph was over. I thanked the fireman and shook the driver's hand, climbed down and picked up Ashleigh straight off the footplate and hoisted her high in the air. I'd done it. And now it was finished, the next guy climbing up into the cab, ready for his turn.

Ashleigh and I stood next to the loco, looking at the wheels and frames and rods. 1271 didn't seem anywhere near as big as she did before, maybe because I was eight feet tall. We wandered up past the front of the loco and waited. Pretty soon the whistle went and the throttle was pulled wide open. Huge clouds of steam roared out of the drains and 1271 did a disappearing act down the track. Ashleigh had darted behind me and was peering out from around my leg.

We went and sat down, and with a bit of a shock I realised that for five minutes, she had ceased to exist. I had parked her on the fireman's seat and asked if she was comfortable and showed her where to hold on, and the next time I remember looking across to her was when we had stopped and it was time to get down. I'd been so intensely concentrating on safely driving the train and drinking in every second of the experience that I had not once checked to see if she was enjoying herself or even if she could see me past the four other adults on the footplate. She was very quiet and I knew that I'd let her down badly. We talked about it and while she'd enjoyed the ride, she was still intimidated by the size of the engine and the roar from the drains and the sight of steam clouds rushing towards us had frightened her.

We waited for the train to come back, going a bit slowly and with fifty yards to go she was opened up. With a roar and a rush the drivers slipped in a show of power before being shut off again and graunching to a halt. The apprentice driver climbed down, face split with an ear to ear grin. "I've dreamed about doing that ever since I was a boy," he said as he walked past. I just grinned back.

It was getting a bit cold in the wind and light drizzle and we only waited for one more trip. This time the apprentice driver put the brakes on too hard - no doubt panicking at the delay between moving the handle and the brakes coming on. The drivers locked up and the loco gracefully slid straight past and through the points, the tender brakes doing all the work.

Someone else came up and asked if we worked for Steam Inc. I explained no, we were dressed in overalls because I knew how filthy steam locos were. In fact I felt considerably overdressed as 1271 was in concours condition. You could eat your dinner off it, provided you cleaned up afterward! In fact, I could have driven her in my suit and with only a little bit of care wouldn't have even got my shirt cuffs dirty. A truly magnificent locomotive in absolutely pristine shape.

You can see 1271 at the URL below. Ignore the "turntable" picture, it's missing.

http://www.geocities.com/TheTropics/Cabana/2304/SteamInc/ja1271info.htm

Postscript:

It didn't sink in until later on Sunday that nobody else would know about the Steam Inc deal, and that most of my fellow model engineers would jump at the chance. By that time it was too late for a ring-around, but I certainly know for next time.

In retrospect, I should have left Ashleigh at home and taken $100. Once around the loop was just way too short to give more than a fleeting impression and a jumble of feelings. It's taken me three hours to type this account, trying to sort out everything that happened in a very short space of time.

On the drive home I mused a bit about model engineering and full size preservation. I'd spent some years as a teenager having my enthusiasm exploited (I've got my cynical hat on here, bear with me) by the full size guys and that had provided a lot of the impetus to my taking up the model side of things. Yet pulling that regulator and feeling the loco respond to my command filled me with a sense that no matter how great a model I make, it will never compare to the real thing. At least not to a Rolls-Royce locomotive like 1271. Maybe I would be better off trying the preservation scene again.

By coincidence, I also went to the Silverstream Railway yesterday afternoon with my son Samuel. It was a Friends of Thomas day, with three locos in steam and a diesel going, all with painted faces on the front. I got to chatting with the driver of a tiny C class 0-4-2 saddle tank, and a couple of other Silverstream boys came over. We got on the subject of driving and I casually mentioned that I'd driven 1271 that morning. I saw three faces mirror disbelief until I said again that I'd driven her. Incredulity as one remarked, "You must be well in" and another said I must have done something pretty amazing to have been given the chance. Then resentment as I said I'd simply handed over $25 and been shown into the cab.

Then I realised my musings had not factored in the truth that in any preservation scheme there are an awful lot of people who turn out every weekend to wash and clean and paint and brush and shovel shit, rain or shine, for years before being considered fit to join the elite inner circle privileged enough to have anything to do with an engine in steam. It took me four years of slaving at Glenbrook before I was allowed to shovel coal into a firebox instead of into a bucket hoist. It took months of helping out in the workshop and on the footplate before my one holy of holies turn on the regulator as I was very unofficially allowed to drive the tank engine around the loop at the workshop end of the line. In an instant I both completely understood why these guys were uncomfortable and why I could never go back into the grunt end of steam preservation. Even the bloke driving the C class can only stand and wipe his hands on an oily rag and watch enviously as the kings chuff past on the footplate of the main line racehorse. I couldn't take that. Not now.

But maybe I'm reacting to shadows and life in a society is a lot different for someone twenty years older. I probably am. I'm getting good at standing on treadles and exposing my rear end to flames...

Regards

Charlie Lear, Wellington, New Zealand
 
 
 

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