The 12:27 Blackpool North to Leeds.
We face backward, the scenery fading away from view.
As if we are rewinding an old 8 mm movie or falling back in time, reviewing our barely visible youth on the horizon.
Ant comes back from the bar car, cheese and onion sandwich and a Strongbow. He tries to nudge Nick to let him back in the window seat, but Nicky just shifts in his nap and spreads out further. Anthony shrugs at me and takes the empty row across the aisle.
Kimm taps on his keyboard to my right, Beanie is a few rows up, head visibly bobbing to whatever the earbuds feed his head. I put on my own headphones now and Bluetooth the phone, shuffle songs by The Beautiful South.
I look behind to an empty row and tilt the seat back, a luxury I never claim on a plane.
I refuse to ever tilt the seat back a single degree in hilarious battle: a passive aggressive show of respect to my fellow man, a courtesy that is never rewarded back to me.
A 3 foot tall child inevitably gets the seat in front of me, his evil little legs unable to even reach the stained carpet.
As we reach cruising altitude, he proceeds to launch the seat back into my knees, the audible crunch of patella like a framed photograph destroyed beneath the boot of a jealous lover.
As the lilting strains of Bell Bottomed Tear come on, I slip on the Wayfarers. Take a sip of Earl Grey and watch the hills moving away from me. Their green is deepened by the clouds above, an emerald carpet punctuated only by dots of sheep.
Fuck, I love a train ride.
And the stations.
In this day where banks are reduced to storefront ATM cages and churches pop up in abandoned industrial tilt ups, you can count on the train station still catching your eye on the horizon.
A spire or clock still standing defiant amidst the cranes that seem to infest every city, like a congregation of giant robot mantises just waiting to bend down for another bite.
Still lovely on the outside in granite and gilt, guarded by patinated gargoyles or saints.
And though usually garish inside with the tattoo of modern commerce, you can just squint past the Subway and Boots signage and see its stately history.
The small stations in the countryside, outposts of connection placed among outrageous green.
Here, a pause in the journey, a garbled announcement on the PA system reads off a list of towns undecipherable.
We stand, sit, and stand again, ask each other if this is where we transfer. We put the guitars back in the racks and sit back down, only to repeat this comedy routine at the next stop.
Perhaps the best part of train travel is the absence of airport torture.
The lack of the TSA queue–or any of the overbearing corralling of the airport- makes us feel like we are finally grown ups, held accountable for our own scheduling.
Third graders finally allowed to walk to school by themselves.
The split-flap board scrolls yet again, and you gather up bags and rush toward your track with a delicious tinge of espionage.
Find the proper car class and simply get on, grab a seat.
See? You did it all by yourself.
Who’s a big boy? You are!
Doors hiss shut and there is that exquisite moment of lag between pause and motion.
You move away, slowly, the high ceilings of the station finally surrendering to the gray skies above.
You can’t help but be reminded of black and white cinematic images, the bellowing steam giving way to a couple kissing farewell.
Pearls and overcoats, a final look back before handing a porter her bag.
There is a wave through an open window, and then distance between the two lovers.
Each now considering their new lives without the other.