Prologue: Riding the Rainbow

December 31st, 1976, 8:20 AM, Grand Central Terminal, New York City, NY

Through the howling wind and squalling snow raced John, the biting cold not deterring him from thrusting his hand out into the elements to rip open the heavy, ornate door of the last remaining monument to the ego of railroad pioneer Cornelius Vanderbilt.

Frequently rated among the most beautiful buildings in the entire world, John entered Grand Central Terminal. The stunning edifice, formerly of New York Central Railroad, was a tour-de-force of early 20th century Beaux Arts architecture. In keeping with that, it was wrought in solid marble, resplendent with the gilding that gave its age its name.

Given the unique business John was in, he couldn’t help but admire the ornate architecture of this, New York City’s grandest of buildings. It was stunning, massive, and abustle with the movements of thousands of people, all on their way in or out of the City that never sleeps. It was from an era where egos ruled, and public spaces were built to show the public just how powerful the builder was. It was a relic, a stunningly beautiful relic.

But John couldn’t admire this beauty for very long, for he was here not for its beauty, but for the purpose for which it had been built. He was here to catch a train. John rushed with a sort of expedited smoothness down to the grand bank of gilded marble ticket windows along the Great Hall’s south wall. As he rushed, he took note that the ever-passing time was already 8:20- a mere 20 minutes from the departure of his train.

For all the beauty, the great terminal was in a sad state.

Once an art object, a masterwork, the celestial ceiling was a gunky, mottled, and tarry black, its beauty obscured. It was a travesty, and society often speculated it was from the emissions of Penn Central’s locomotives, blaming it on the owners themselves. In truth, it was society itself who was to blame, since it was really from the emissions of the cigarettes of Penn Central’s customers.

Diesel smoke was not a factor, as Penn Central had inherited the once futuristic infrastructure of both the New York Central, and the New York, New Haven, and Hartford Rail Road’s electrification. All trains running into and out of Grand Central Terminal draw power from either third-rail or overhead catenary electrification. The trains had been fast and efficient, powerful, clean, and relatively silent.

Now, the grand station, once a leading flagship of the modern era, a lighted beacon for the wonders that lay ahead, was just another piece of what people liked to call urban decay. It was the nature of the reality of that future. People fled the cities to the sprawl of the suburbs, trading the modern and efficient transit system for the allure of being a member of the landed gentry, a house on too much land, picket fences, and the relatively dirty and inefficient automobile.

The station, in its decay, was a reminder, a sad reminder, of what had been a better future. A future where everyone could travel between cities, and get around them with ease. Without the requirements of owning an automobile, or its substantial disadvantages. A future that would be provided to 100% of American adults- not just the 80% who were physically able to operate personal transportation.

In the spirit of forcefully forgetting all that, the station was filthy, with cracked masonry, dirt, and grime of millions who passed through over the years. It was a sad state of affairs, similar to that much of the great city itself was experiencing, awaiting a time where society would wake up, and begin rebuilding her, in the spirit it had been intended. The apathetic neglect of management was more than obvious; it was egregious.

But then, it was the management of Penn Central who were, at that time, forced to run a money-losing business whether they liked it or not, even as they floundered in bankruptcy. Their apathy was predictable. Soon it would change, the operations of the passenger railroads turned over to their local jurisdictions, and the freight operation nationalized and rationalized as Conrail- but that was still in the future.

In her filth, the grand dame of the rails somehow retained her inherent dignity. Raped, burned, beaten, and spat upon, she failed to let her spirit break, her pride ebb, or her dreams fade. The King, Pennsylvania Station, her counterpart across town, destroyed, the Queen stood on her throne, holding her court of thousands, her army of trains in the largest train shed in the world ready to battle for the right to take her subjects home.

This wasn’t some alternate reality, some post apocalyptic vision of New York. This was how things stood in 1976. The city itself was still mired in a financial crisis in which it had almost declared bankruptcy. Its massive public transportation system had to be managed by the state and funded partially by users who now lived in suburbs outside of the city herself. New York had reached, perhaps, its lowest ebb.

Against this backdrop, John approached a window. He wasn’t concerning himself with the urban decay; it was beyond his control. Instead he smiled on more proof of that contradiction of apathy and pride; the ticket window.

“Where?” The gruff ticket agent greeted him without pretense of a smile. This wasn’t just a railroad terminal, this was New York City. No warmth. No salutation. Just that obnoxious and brusque affectation so many New Yorker’s wore as if it was a badge of honor. But John had been to “The City”, as locals called it, many times, and knew this was par for the course here; he was not offended. Indeed, he was amused.

“Detroit. Parlour car service?” John asked, knowing that to show warmth in this situation would merely confuse the ticket agent, and show him out to not fit in. In this society, at this time, rudeness was the stock in trade. Politeness was a foreign concept, best left to the depths of Middle America, an unwanted invader from the simpler world of the heartland. John had been expecting this. What he hadn’t been expecting was what came next.

“Dis is yaw lucky day,” the agent smiled, visibly perking up when he realized John was not just a commuter riding one of Penn Central’s commuter trains up to Poughkeepsie, “Dey are sellin’ some cars tuh de Canucks and dey’re live-headin’ a sleepuh on dis train. Yuh got me so fahr? And de equipment on dis train, Fuhgeddaboudit!” The agent beamed.

John smiled and laughed. “You sound like a railfan!”

“Sure am. Right? Rail fare is $46.00, and if yuh wanna upgrade tuh de roomette as a day compartment, thats a $43 up-charge. Okay? Also, dere is a real parlour goin’ on in Albany, a real treat,” the agent shined.

“What makes it such a treat? And yeah, I’ll go with the up-charge,” John said, handing over the $89.00. The extra money was worth it for the privacy and space on the train. Particularly having his own toilet, and not having to use communal toilets. Most passengers onboard the trains were nice and considerate, but some were ... well they weren’t.

“Wait fawh de announcement, pally! Okay?” the agent said, handing him the tickets and smiling. As was said, its an affectation of rudeness and gruffness. Once a connection is made, the general warmth of New Yorkers can be quite palpable.

As John walked over through the splendor of the Great Hall, towards the ornate gates. an announcement came over the public address system. As was par for the course, John had to strain to hear it. Like all older stations, Grand Central Terminal was not built with acoustics in mind, or a public address system; in the old days, a man would walk up and down the waiting room announcing the train. As a result of this, the station’s public address system was old, poorly maintained, retrofitted, and therefore woefully inadequate for the purpose at hand.

“Amtrak proudly announces boarding of it’s train number 63, the Niagara Rainbow with Vista-Dome, dining, and parlour service making limited stops to Detroit.”

Vista-Dome!? John thought. So that’s the surprise. Wow.

“The train will take on a parlour car and vista-domes at Albany-Rensselaer. Train to Albany, Buffalo, Windsor, Ontario; and Detroit, Michigan. All intermediate stops: Croton-Harmon, Poughkeepsie, Rhinecliff-Kingston, Hudson, Albany-Rensselaer, Schenectady, Amsterdam, Utica, Rome, Syracuse, Rochester, Buffalo, and Black Rock, New York; Ft. Erie, St. Thomas, and Windsor, Ontario; and Detroit, Michigan. Now boarding track 28 on the upper level.”

John went through the boarding gate for track 28 to look at the train. It stood there, looking both rather motley, yet somehow proud. While it was a mishmash of equipment from different railroads, and looked it, it was also shiningly clean and presented, each heritage scheme clean and obvious. This was the tail-end of Amtrak’s rainbow era, but some trains still went out adorned in the colorful cornucopia of it’s heritage.

The train was being led by an EMD FL-9 engine. The FL-9 was built for the New Haven as a hybrid to allow abandoning their electrification east of Stamford. It was capable of either running on diesel fuel, or being powered by electricity drawn from a third-rail. This particular engine still wore its New Haven livery. It was a “bulldog” unit, with a fully cowled engine, and an attractive streamline design from the era where aesthetics were an important part of passenger railroading.

The train was carrying an Amtrak liveried baggage car built by Edward G. Budd Company of Philadelphia. However, it was also carrying an ex-Seaboard Air Line Pullman Solarium Lounge, five Budd 44-seat coaches of various heritages, a Budd dining car with no markings, and a Union Pacific liveried 10-6 sleeper, “Pacific Slope,” resplendent in its armor yellow and grey. This is some rainbow, John thought, a testament to the general fustercluck that Amtrak was between assuming its own operations and retaining W. Graham Claytor as CEO.

A nattily dressed black attendant stood at attention beside the faded but clean Union Pacific sleeper. John showed him his ticket, which he looked at with professional ceremony.

“Ah, yessir, first class. You the only one in the car, so I’s taking the liberty of upgrading you to a bedroom. You can call me George.” the man said, with a smile. John couldn’t help but notice that the man’s tag said his name was David, as he was led to the comfortable bedroom.

It was a sort of reverse pride thing some black sleeping car attendants had then. It was a holdover from when they were porters working for the Pullman Palace Car Company. The founder of the company’s name was George M. Pullman, and it was a tradition that a slave be addressed by the name of his master. Amtrak had put an end to most of the Pullman traditions by this point, but employees sometimes made their own rules.

“I’ve taken the train many times, so you don’t need to give me the tour,” John smiled pleasantly. This was a day train, so the only thing he would really need help with- opening the sleeper for the night- was not going to be part of this trip. It was a comfortable room with large cloth sofa with folding armrests, with the distinctive antimacassars of the era. The bathroom was tiny, but adequate for John, and the rest of the switches were self-explanatory.

“Thank you much, sir. You be letting me know if you be needing anything,” he smiled as he bowed out.

The car had yet to be refurbished under the planned Heritage specifications, and as a result mostly carried the internal livery of the fabled Union Pacific flagship streamliner City of Los Angeles. The interior palate was stunning, consisting primarily of light sky blues, gentle pinks, and soft beige floral patterns, giving the car a distinct identity all its own. The maroon seat and its matching window shades, recent necessity replacements by Amtrak, were a stark contrast to the rest of the car.

John settled back into his comfortable sofa as the train started to smoothly accelerate out of the grand old station, occasional vibrations coming through as the train traveled over the stations many switches. He glanced at his old Rolex wristwatch, an early Submariner. It was 6:40 on the dot. The train was leaving exactly on time. For all its underfunding, bad equipment, and skeletal system, Amtrak still knew how to run a railroad, he mused.

One facet of Amtrak that made it special was the pride of its employees. Workers dedicated to providing the kind of fine transportation that had once been the marketing arm of the private railroads. Times were changing, funding was being cut, and so were services and amenities. But the people under the management worked hard, going above and beyond to cater to the needs of the their passengers.

Almost as the train left the tunnel, the PA came to life. “Amtrak welcomes you onboard its Niagara Rainbow, with service to Croton-Harmon, Poughkeepsie, Rhinecliff, Hudson, Albany, Schenectady, Amsterdam, Utica, Rome, Syracuse, Rochester, Buffalo, and Black Rock, New York; Fort Erie, Saint Thomas, and Windsor, Ontario; and Detroit, Michigan. Connections will be available at Fort Erie for service to Toronto, and in Detroit there will be a train at 8:30 tomorrow morning to Chicago. We will be getting some Vista-dome coaches and a parlor car in Albany. The dining and lounge cars are now open for breakfast. Amtrak hopes you enjoy your trip.”

John got up and walked to the threadbare dining car. Amtrak was in the process of installing bland- but safe- fixed bench seats in all of their dining cars. This car, however, had thus far been spared that particular indignity. Although it had once been splendid and luxurious, decorated in the colors of Great Northern’s Empire Builder, the interior had faded from years of neglect. In spite of this, the smells emanating from the kitchen were still appetizing, the food still cooked fresh onboard by a full restaurant-grade kitchen staff.

The cheerful and impeccably dressed attendant sat him at one of the two-person “couple” tables. Perhaps without irony, he soon found himself face to face with one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. She was absolutely gorgeous, a picture of pure feminine beauty.

Her figure was youthful yet quite shapely, filling all the right places with all the right curves. More than this, she moved with a certain graceful quality that was extremely captivating. and John, he was captivated. Her outfit was casual, as if she just picked something to wear that morning without thought, and with mostly consideration for comfort, yet it showed off her body to perfection.

Aside from the artistic and sexually titillating shape, her face itself was beautiful. It was a kind and friendly face. Although it was youthful, it also had early laughter wrinkles around the eyes and mouth, giving it both a sense of maturity and a pleasant mirthfulness. Set into this, her friendly blue eyes spoke of the rarest combination of hopeful optimism and intelligence.

John was always a relatively shy man, but there was something about riding the train that made a man open up, especially to the female of the species. The transience of it all, combined with the kind of people who still rode trains, he figured. He could risk attempting a connection here- if it failed, it was highly likely they would never see each other again. If it worked, the wonders that could abound from it were limited only by the imagination.

“Hi,” he said, “My name’s John.” This statement was unique and extremely creative, much like a photocopier.

“Mine’s Gretel, okay?” she said with a friendly smile. Admittedly, her response was equally creative. Gretel was a Brooklyn born girl who was on her first trip to see something besides her hometown.

“I’d like tuh axe yuh if Amtrak’s food was any good, or what?” Gretel mused. It was a common question among people who were riding the train for the first time.

“Amtrak has fairly good food,” he said, pointing to his menu, “I have ridden many times. It’s variable, but safely good. I would consider anything on the menu without trepidation.”

“Anythin’ yuh like, yuh know what I’m sayin’?” she smiled.

“Not really, I’d have to know the chef,” he temporized, “Each train has their own, and they all have their own sense of creativity. But I doubt you could go wrong with anything.”

She studied her menu, and seemed to select something, then she startled a little.

“Write our orduh on de card, or what?” she asked. That often startled first time riders, too.

“That’s the tradition,” John replied, “It avoids confusion.”

Gretel picked up her order card and a pen, and wrote that she would like “One, Orange, Sunny, Bacon, English Muffin, and Coffee”, while John wrote “Three, Orange, Cheese, Toast, and Coffee”, indicating that they wanted Club Breakfasts One and Three, chilled fruit juice, toast or english muffin, and coffee tea or milk, with eggs any style and a cheese omelet, respectively. The truth was that this tradition was so confusing to passengers that Amtrak would eventually have the wait staff fill out the inventory cards for the passengers.

The server came and took the order cards with a flourish, and the newly introduced pair started having a bit in the way of conversation. It started out as light conversation, but as they got more deeply into each other, the conversation started to become more and more meaningful. So much so, there was almost a sense of tension between them. Some say it is the motion of the train, others say the unique scenery, but train travel was legendary for engendering these kinds of responses.

In time, the server came by and served them their orders, with a swift flourish that indicated that he distinctly liked the career he had chosen. The food was well prepared, and attractively laid out on striking blue china and elegant silverware that matched, and marked out sharply on the crisply laid table linens. The eggs were fluffy and well beaten, the potatoes properly cooked, the bacon perfectly crispy yet soft.

As the pair ate their breakfast, the climate between them continued to become more comfortable, as they realized the had a lot in common. They both shared a fairly strong sense of wanderlust, although Gretel, at only 19, had never had much of a chance to quench it. John, on the other hand, had a lot of travel experiences, relating to his various jobs over the years. Gretel quizzed him relentlessly on places he’d been and how he had liked them.

Over the course of the meal, they became more and more intimate, and more and more aware of each other, both mentally and physically. He became Johnny, she became Grets. He was a 44 year old man freshly retired early with a pension, and she was a 19 year old girl, but the attraction between them was apparent.

Admittedly, John was quite attractive for his age, with a strong, tall build, and a clean shaven face, a Roman nose, and nicely cropped brown hair. Gretel was an insanely attractive blonde with blue eyes. Defying the stereotypes, however, she was quite bright and aware of her surroundings, with a budding desire to be a writer of historical fiction.

When the dining car attendant presented the bill to them both, Johnny insisted he pay it- after all, he was retired with a pension. Gretel put up some feeble arguments, but relented- she was not wealthy, and greatly benefited from his generosity. In this day and age, it was not so inappropriate for a strange man to treat a woman to a meal.

They then retired to the Ex-Seaboard Air Line Solarium Lounge, a good walk up the train. Walking briskly through a moving train is a skill acquired through experience, which John had and Gretel did not. This lead to some amusement, as she stumbled while moving quickly, and he proceeded with ease and alacrity. Ultimately, however, they reached the lounge car at the front of the train.

The Solarium Lounge was an aptly named piece of railroading. Back then, many railroads had dome cars, but they were not present on trains that ran into New York because of the clearance issues in the city’s largely underground stations. To work around this problem, the customer focused Seaboard Air Line had Pullman build a car that had glass skylights and large windows for its premier train, the Silver Meteor.

The design of this car provided inspiration for several other later cars, including the Santa Fe’s Top of the Cap bi-level lounge car on the El Capitan and Amtrak’s bi-level Superliner Sightseer Lounge. It gave an excellent view out, a sunny experience, and a very enjoyable way to experience the Florida sunshine on the New York-Miami train it originally ran on.

While certainly not Florida, the train was running alongside the Hudson River. The mighty river was partially frozen with ice flows running down it, and the heavy snow was continuing to cover the already well-covered ground with more and more snow. The world was that kind of clean wonderful whiteness that makes the grunge of the world disappear on snow days. They were riding in a winter wonderland.

After they had ridden along in nature’s frozen splendor, continuing their talking and chatting, the Conductor made an announcement.

“Good morning, we will be pulling into Albany-Rensselaer in five minutes. This stop will see some cars added to the train. As a result, we will be in the station for about 30 minutes. During this time it is possible that the lights on the train will go out, and the steam heating will be considerably less effective. Amtrak apologizes for the delay, but we think we can make most of this up and should arrive in Detroit on time.”