Chasing a steam train....by train! (Pictures throughout)
I flipped up the lid of my Macbook Air on Thursday night, as part of a routine check of Facebook and e-mails before bed, when up popped a little red flag on the bottom of the window, a instant message from old mate Mick.
"We're chasing 3016 on Sunday, wanna come?"
"Where's it going?" I replied
"Richmond"
"Yer planned it yet?" I hammered in
"Depart Central 9:52 (platform 25)
Arrive Sydenham 10:00
Depart Sydenham 10:02
Arrive Birrong 10:31
Depart Birrong 11:34
Arrive Lidcombe 11:45
Depart Lidcombe 11:56
Arrive Clarendon 12:53
Depart Clarendon 1:23
Arrive Richmond 1:28
Depart Richmond 2:16
Arrive Strathfield 3:28
Depart Strathfield 3:34 (platform 7)
Arrive Ashfield 3:39
Depart Ashfield 3:44
Arrive Lewisham 3:48
Depart Lewisham 4:03
Arrive Central 4:17"
Bloody hell! Is this a gunzel trip or a warplan?!
Come Sunday morning, I woke up, and looked over at my battered, year 7 design project clock.
Holy shit!
805?! I had to be at Central in less than an hour! My mates were coming from such golden, desirable localities as Thirroul, Morrisset, and Panania. Urban slices of heaven….yet I was still in my house, less than 10 km's from Central and still in bed….
I sprang out of bed, hurled my Canon into my bag, tossed on a flanno shirt over the "Duff Beer" shirt, I slept in, and stepped into the first pair of shorts I could find on the floordrobe (a "wardrobe", where most of the shit's on the floor), a battered, aged pair of rugby shorts. I shoved my wallet in one pocket, phone in the other, and was out the door by 820, bounding my way down to Croydon station.
Mistake numero uno of the day.
If you know a little about Croydon and Ashfield, it's that every second or third train stops at Croydon, whereas Ashfield is a major local interchange, and when you're talking about a Sunday timetable, every 'second or third train' equates to an hourly service.
I panted my way into the shade of Croydon's 19th Century, wrought iron, overhead concourse, and fixated my eyes on the indicator board.
"Next train to
Museum
Via Town Hall
33 minutes"
Shit.
Waiting 33 minutes was right off the cards.
Then, hang on….
What if I caught a train to Strathfield, then an express to the city?
My eyes shifted across to the out-bound trains indicator.
"Next train to
Bankstown
Via Regents Park
6 Minutes"
Genius!
The time was now 835, so I submitted to waiting for the 841 train, which would get to Strathfield at 856.
Then, I got a text from Morriset Mick: "Where r u"
"Croydon. What time does ur train get to strathfield? Might get ur train"
"857"
Ah fuck.
To get the same train as Mick, I would have to perform a feat of human endurance.
To run from Platform 8 to Platform 1 Strathfield to make a 1 minute connection.
Through Sunday shopper crowds.
Challenge accepted.
A venerable S set formed my travel from Croydon to Strathfield, and I was about to arrive at Strathfield, when I looked toward the intercity platforms.
Oh.
Shit.
There's Mick's train, pulling into platform #1, just as the doors on mine were about to open.
It was on!
I dived through the crowds, half sprinted half flew down the famous steep ramps at Strathfield, sidestepped and Benji-Marshalled every commuter I passed, and sprinted up to Platform 1 just as the guard blew the whistle.
I thrusted open the heavy manual door, and dived in.
Success!
Now, to find Mick…
He had mentioned last night something about "6th carriage", so I went through the rear half of the train, eventually spotting a mullet-mop just poking over the rear of the seat in front.
"Hey Mick"
"Roz mate how are we?"
"Yeah alright Mick. Yerself?"
"Yeah not bad aye"
We continued our unintelligible conversation in this manner, with all manner of banter about life, the universe and everything.
"We're chasing 3016 on Sunday, wanna come?"
"Where's it going?" I replied
"Richmond"
"Yer planned it yet?" I hammered in
"Depart Central 9:52 (platform 25)
Arrive Sydenham 10:00
Depart Sydenham 10:02
Arrive Birrong 10:31
Depart Birrong 11:34
Arrive Lidcombe 11:45
Depart Lidcombe 11:56
Arrive Clarendon 12:53
Depart Clarendon 1:23
Arrive Richmond 1:28
Depart Richmond 2:16
Arrive Strathfield 3:28
Depart Strathfield 3:34 (platform 7)
Arrive Ashfield 3:39
Depart Ashfield 3:44
Arrive Lewisham 3:48
Depart Lewisham 4:03
Arrive Central 4:17"
Bloody hell! Is this a gunzel trip or a warplan?!
Come Sunday morning, I woke up, and looked over at my battered, year 7 design project clock.
Holy shit!
805?! I had to be at Central in less than an hour! My mates were coming from such golden, desirable localities as Thirroul, Morrisset, and Panania. Urban slices of heaven….yet I was still in my house, less than 10 km's from Central and still in bed….
I sprang out of bed, hurled my Canon into my bag, tossed on a flanno shirt over the "Duff Beer" shirt, I slept in, and stepped into the first pair of shorts I could find on the floordrobe (a "wardrobe", where most of the shit's on the floor), a battered, aged pair of rugby shorts. I shoved my wallet in one pocket, phone in the other, and was out the door by 820, bounding my way down to Croydon station.
Mistake numero uno of the day.
If you know a little about Croydon and Ashfield, it's that every second or third train stops at Croydon, whereas Ashfield is a major local interchange, and when you're talking about a Sunday timetable, every 'second or third train' equates to an hourly service.
I panted my way into the shade of Croydon's 19th Century, wrought iron, overhead concourse, and fixated my eyes on the indicator board.
"Next train to
Museum
Via Town Hall
33 minutes"
Shit.
Waiting 33 minutes was right off the cards.
Then, hang on….
What if I caught a train to Strathfield, then an express to the city?
My eyes shifted across to the out-bound trains indicator.
"Next train to
Bankstown
Via Regents Park
6 Minutes"
Genius!
The time was now 835, so I submitted to waiting for the 841 train, which would get to Strathfield at 856.
Then, I got a text from Morriset Mick: "Where r u"
"Croydon. What time does ur train get to strathfield? Might get ur train"
"857"
Ah fuck.
To get the same train as Mick, I would have to perform a feat of human endurance.
To run from Platform 8 to Platform 1 Strathfield to make a 1 minute connection.
Through Sunday shopper crowds.
Challenge accepted.
A venerable S set formed my travel from Croydon to Strathfield, and I was about to arrive at Strathfield, when I looked toward the intercity platforms.
Oh.
Shit.
There's Mick's train, pulling into platform #1, just as the doors on mine were about to open.
It was on!
I dived through the crowds, half sprinted half flew down the famous steep ramps at Strathfield, sidestepped and Benji-Marshalled every commuter I passed, and sprinted up to Platform 1 just as the guard blew the whistle.
I thrusted open the heavy manual door, and dived in.
Success!
Now, to find Mick…
He had mentioned last night something about "6th carriage", so I went through the rear half of the train, eventually spotting a mullet-mop just poking over the rear of the seat in front.
"Hey Mick"
"Roz mate how are we?"
"Yeah alright Mick. Yerself?"
"Yeah not bad aye"
We continued our unintelligible conversation in this manner, with all manner of banter about life, the universe and everything.
Arrival at Central
3016 simmers at Central
Central. 0920 Hours.
No 2 Platform.
There, we met our other companions for the day, Thomas, known herein by his nickname "Turbine", and Ben, known herein as "Paynie"
The rails tingled.
A faint beat grew just within the limit of perception.
From behind the reverse curve of Central's famous No 1 Platform, came the low rumble of a gurgling Clyde-EMD, 4918, together with 4 carriages, and the star of the show, Beyer-Peacock steam locomotive, 3016.
We clicked our shutters happily as it drew to a halt. After the foaming masses of photographers around us gradually obstructed our view, we headed off, bound for the opposite end of the station: Platform 22, to convey us to our next location: Birrong.
If you know the first thing about Central, it's that Platform 2 to 22 is a bloody long way. After trekking our way across the cavernous two city blocks, we found ourselves standing at platform 22, staring at a sign.
"BANKSTOWN LINE
ALL STATIONS TO BANKSTOWN VIA SYDENHAM"
"Oi Mick" I said, turning to face him
"Yeah mate"
"Be better if that sign said "All nations on the Bankstown line, eh?"
After subduing their urges to roll on the platform floor in fits of laughter, we boarded the train to Birrong.
No 2 Platform.
There, we met our other companions for the day, Thomas, known herein by his nickname "Turbine", and Ben, known herein as "Paynie"
The rails tingled.
A faint beat grew just within the limit of perception.
From behind the reverse curve of Central's famous No 1 Platform, came the low rumble of a gurgling Clyde-EMD, 4918, together with 4 carriages, and the star of the show, Beyer-Peacock steam locomotive, 3016.
We clicked our shutters happily as it drew to a halt. After the foaming masses of photographers around us gradually obstructed our view, we headed off, bound for the opposite end of the station: Platform 22, to convey us to our next location: Birrong.
If you know the first thing about Central, it's that Platform 2 to 22 is a bloody long way. After trekking our way across the cavernous two city blocks, we found ourselves standing at platform 22, staring at a sign.
"BANKSTOWN LINE
ALL STATIONS TO BANKSTOWN VIA SYDENHAM"
"Oi Mick" I said, turning to face him
"Yeah mate"
"Be better if that sign said "All nations on the Bankstown line, eh?"
After subduing their urges to roll on the platform floor in fits of laughter, we boarded the train to Birrong.
Birrong
3016 approaches Birrong, with 4918 on the rear.
Sometime in the morning.
Myself, Mick, Paynie, and Turbine burst out of the train doors, anxious to find our spot for the forthcoming steam special. We looked up at the station clock.
10 am.
"It'll be here soon" Turbine piped up
"Thanks Turbine, like we hadn't worked that out…." I piped back.
We made our way along the bitumen to the low CityRail fence at the end of the platform, with a clear view to approaching trains. Diving into our backpacks, we each fished out our cameras: a motley assortment of mid-range DSLRs.
After much discussion about the average propensity to be stabbed in Birrong, and the usual teenage questioning of the length of one's dick, we became acutely aware of a slight beat in the distance….
A column of haze appeared from just above the treeline, as the beat grew louder.
Our shutters clicked happily as 3016, producing very little steam, drifted through Birrong, with 4918 doing the hard yards at the rear.
We turned, and began heading back along the broken, loose bitumen of the platform. As we neared the graffitied brick station building, we craned our necks to the destination screen.
"Next Train to Lidcombe
25 Minutes"
With this much time to kill, it was mutually agreed that we find some tucker.
"But we'll get stabbed in Birrong" Paynie piped up
"Challenge Accepted" we chorused back at him, as we made our way up the crumbling concrete steps to the road bridge. We turned left, and found ourselves in Fibro Heaven, as far as the eye could see was aluminium-clad fibro housing, famous in Sydney for it's traditional links to lower-class, "dole bludgers".
These urban myths were soon confirmed, as we walked past one house, with grass at about knee height, strewn dilapidated furniture and rubbish. One of the cracked windows had a large piece of plywood nailed to the inside. It was almost certainly abandoned, until we heard two voices yelling inside.
"Fellas," I said "In an urban slice of paradise like this, an argument like *that* is called a 'domestic' "
"ferals" Mick said.
We digested this thought, and quickened our pace once more, eager to find tucker.
*
Having devoured delicious, hot, meaty pies, and the obligatory bottle of coke, we made our way back to Birrong Station. Once again passing the good folks in the seemingly-abandoned house, we were soon at the station.
We boarded the train, and immediately found a 6 seat facing arrangement.
We discussed our next location, which would be somewhere on the Richmond Line.
We settled on Clarendon, having heard favourable reports about the "shot" there.
"shot", is railway-enthusiast "slang" for what kind of composition the location allows, i.e. whether there are poles in the way, or other trains, or the sun's position at that time, or anything. When an enthusiast says its a good "shot", it means the location is a favourable place to take good photos.
Myself, Mick, Paynie, and Turbine burst out of the train doors, anxious to find our spot for the forthcoming steam special. We looked up at the station clock.
10 am.
"It'll be here soon" Turbine piped up
"Thanks Turbine, like we hadn't worked that out…." I piped back.
We made our way along the bitumen to the low CityRail fence at the end of the platform, with a clear view to approaching trains. Diving into our backpacks, we each fished out our cameras: a motley assortment of mid-range DSLRs.
After much discussion about the average propensity to be stabbed in Birrong, and the usual teenage questioning of the length of one's dick, we became acutely aware of a slight beat in the distance….
A column of haze appeared from just above the treeline, as the beat grew louder.
Our shutters clicked happily as 3016, producing very little steam, drifted through Birrong, with 4918 doing the hard yards at the rear.
We turned, and began heading back along the broken, loose bitumen of the platform. As we neared the graffitied brick station building, we craned our necks to the destination screen.
"Next Train to Lidcombe
25 Minutes"
With this much time to kill, it was mutually agreed that we find some tucker.
"But we'll get stabbed in Birrong" Paynie piped up
"Challenge Accepted" we chorused back at him, as we made our way up the crumbling concrete steps to the road bridge. We turned left, and found ourselves in Fibro Heaven, as far as the eye could see was aluminium-clad fibro housing, famous in Sydney for it's traditional links to lower-class, "dole bludgers".
These urban myths were soon confirmed, as we walked past one house, with grass at about knee height, strewn dilapidated furniture and rubbish. One of the cracked windows had a large piece of plywood nailed to the inside. It was almost certainly abandoned, until we heard two voices yelling inside.
"Fellas," I said "In an urban slice of paradise like this, an argument like *that* is called a 'domestic' "
"ferals" Mick said.
We digested this thought, and quickened our pace once more, eager to find tucker.
*
Having devoured delicious, hot, meaty pies, and the obligatory bottle of coke, we made our way back to Birrong Station. Once again passing the good folks in the seemingly-abandoned house, we were soon at the station.
We boarded the train, and immediately found a 6 seat facing arrangement.
We discussed our next location, which would be somewhere on the Richmond Line.
We settled on Clarendon, having heard favourable reports about the "shot" there.
"shot", is railway-enthusiast "slang" for what kind of composition the location allows, i.e. whether there are poles in the way, or other trains, or the sun's position at that time, or anything. When an enthusiast says its a good "shot", it means the location is a favourable place to take good photos.
Clarendon
3016 steams through Clarendon, bound for Richmond
Having endured an hour of suburban trains, delays, and inconvenient train changes, we finally got to Clarendon. An SMS arrived from one of our fellow trainspotters, at Carlingford, indicated that the train was still a fair way off, and had only just departed Clyde, some 30 km's up the line.
With this thought in mind, the 30 degree heat was beginning to fry the brain.
"Hobbo" [Mick's other nickname], I said
"Yeah?"
"Wanna get a drink from the 7-11 cuz?" I said in my best rendition of a kiwi accent
"Yes uleh, oh myyy goddd" Hobbo replied, in his best rendition of an ethnic accent, complete with extra flem.
We made our way down the blinding white concrete footpath to the Servo I had indicated. We entered the shop, and were immediately met with air conditioning at least 10 degrees cooler than outside. I laid $5 down on the counter, and we immediately filled up two large cups with frozen cokes.
After being out in 30+ degree weather, it was a heavenly feeling, being in a climate controlled shop kept at 22 degrees, drinking a frozen coke.
Following our bidding farewell to the papadam at the counter, we hastened across the blinding concrete threshold, still brandishing frozen cokes.
We re-assumed our position on the platform, and, after 20 minutes in the baking sun, our anticipation was met with a thundering beast in 3016, roaring through.
I lined up my 'ideal' shot.
Click-Click-Click-Click-Click. I laid my finger on the shutter button.
Whilst the train was still passing, I took the time to review my photos, and was pleased to see all the frames had turned out well, making choosing a 'good' photo to post later that night online, that much more difficult.
We reconvened, and soon had made our way on yet another suburban service to Richmond.
To be continued....
With this thought in mind, the 30 degree heat was beginning to fry the brain.
"Hobbo" [Mick's other nickname], I said
"Yeah?"
"Wanna get a drink from the 7-11 cuz?" I said in my best rendition of a kiwi accent
"Yes uleh, oh myyy goddd" Hobbo replied, in his best rendition of an ethnic accent, complete with extra flem.
We made our way down the blinding white concrete footpath to the Servo I had indicated. We entered the shop, and were immediately met with air conditioning at least 10 degrees cooler than outside. I laid $5 down on the counter, and we immediately filled up two large cups with frozen cokes.
After being out in 30+ degree weather, it was a heavenly feeling, being in a climate controlled shop kept at 22 degrees, drinking a frozen coke.
Following our bidding farewell to the papadam at the counter, we hastened across the blinding concrete threshold, still brandishing frozen cokes.
We re-assumed our position on the platform, and, after 20 minutes in the baking sun, our anticipation was met with a thundering beast in 3016, roaring through.
I lined up my 'ideal' shot.
Click-Click-Click-Click-Click. I laid my finger on the shutter button.
Whilst the train was still passing, I took the time to review my photos, and was pleased to see all the frames had turned out well, making choosing a 'good' photo to post later that night online, that much more difficult.
We reconvened, and soon had made our way on yet another suburban service to Richmond.
To be continued....