At seven thirty I am three miles into a five mile, when I hear the distant horn, and the ground begins to rumble under my feet, and the signs ahead begin to flash.
(Terre Haute is a train town. You can never escape them. They are your mindfulness test when you are late to get somewhere and seemingly a million cars are chugging across the road. They are your constant companion as you fall asleep at night: the subtle shudder, the echo of the horn, the bell-like chiming at the crossings.)
At seven thirty a train is crossing my path. Instead of turning back, I choose to run alongside it. The cracked and crumbling wood painted in rouge red and mustard yellow and coated in indecipherable graffiti, the rusted metal wheels turning with aching force over the ancient tracks, and now a pair of pale legs pacing over the trembling earth. I thought of D.H. Lawrence’s notion of the seductive corruptibility of industry. Here she is, in all her strange beauty, sprinting through the half-light, trying to outrun steel.