"Where are you going?" asked the bald young porter as I climbed aboard.

"Chicago," I said, on my way to buy another eBay automobile.

"Turn right," he said and directed his attention to the person boarding behind me.

I went right, walked into the tall car. Like a bus, there were rows of two seats on either side of the aisle. The car was less than half full, a few people reading, some talking on cell phones, others perusing the newcomers. I took the first empty couplet of seats, plopped down by the window, put my bag on the seat by the aisle.

Within a few minutes, we eased out of the station, heading west where the sun had gone not long ago. The engineer accelerated and so did the chatter from the tracks until finally it was an almost comfortable hum.

Here and there where the rails were out of line, the train lurched left and right. If you were sitting, this was mere jostling, but if you were walking to the club car or bathroom, you might end up in someone’s lap.

Near Syracuse, I was gazing out the window when an eastbound train thundered by, just a few feet away. I stared at the blur of cars, which seemed to be going a hundred miles an hour, until my stomach told me to look away. A minute later, the apparition vanished into the night.

We stopped in Syracuse and Rochester, where people with backpacks and wheeled suitcases got on and off. I was tired and reclined the seat as far as it would go. The porter gave me a small pillow, and I propped it against the window. This was fine for a few minutes, but I felt a stiff neck coming on, so I shifted the other way.

That was worse. I kept worming around, trying to find the magic combination of angles to fit a 6-foot body into a 4-foot space.

I put my feet on the footrest, then under the seat in front of me. I reclined one of the two seats, kept the other up and leaned back into the crevice. No way. It was too bright here, too loud, and mostly too upright, as well as a little cold, especially at the belt-line where my shirt wouldn’t stay tucked because I was twisted like a corkscrew.

By 1 a.m., I’d stuffed tissues into my ears, pulled a hooded windbreaker over my eyes. The trunk of my body was sprawled across two seats. I don’t know where my legs went, but no one complained as I caught a few catnaps.

It was light out before I gave up trying to sleep. We were slowing down again. I put on my glasses, read the station sign: "Toledo." I checked my watch: 8:02. We were supposed to be in Chicago in two hours.

Foggy though I was, that seemed impossible, and when the conductor came by, I asked him about it

"We’re about three hours behind." He shook his head ruefully.

I asked why, and he explained that Amtrak doesn’t own much track and has to pull over for every corporate freight train. We’d spent hours on sidings, idling, wasting time and fuel, and our new ETA was sometime in the early afternoon.

"Afternoon?" My voice squeaked, for I was supposed to be at the International Auto Mart of Des Plains by midmorning.

"If we’re lucky," he cautioned, "and there’s no reason to think we will be."

We weren’t, lost another hour before we crawled into the Windy City four hours late. A woman who’d gotten on in Buffalo let me use her cell phone, and I made new arrangements with the auto dealer. I called home, too, and Uncle Chet answered.

"She’s out back mowing, and Alice and I are watching the kids," he said. "How’s the car? Are on your way back yet?"

"No; just got here," I said. "This Dam-trak moves only when the other railroads let it, so mostly we’ve been watching freight trains go by."

"Government’s set that railroad up to fail; I’ve read about that," Uncle Chet said. "Bush keeps trying to cut their budget even more, to get people on the highways, burning gas, and off mass transit."

"Well, it’s working on me," I said. "I can hardly wait to hit the road."

"He’s not even a good fascist, like Mussolini, who made the trains run on time," he noted.

I wasn’t about to mention Mussolini where I was sitting, so Itold him I’d be home Sunday, then handed the phone back to the woman in the seat behind me.

Nearly 24 hours later, I pulled down the driveway at the wheel of a Chevy Prizm, which ran like a top and averaged 40 miles per gallon.

———

Cooperstown News Bureau Reporter Tom Grace is traveling with his Uncle Chet, who he says is imaginary. Grace’s column appears twice monthly.