It was 1941. On the Broad Lane Bridge, there was a huge steel reinforcement that stopped that bridge from falling down onto pedestrians thirty feet below. There were a series of spaces in it that formed compartments fifteen inches deep and about three feet high, two feet wide. The shining rails ran in both directions along each side. Each of us would crouch into a separate space. We could hear each other but not see each other even though only inches away from one another. Between our feet, we looked down at the strange sight of people from directly overhead, their feet appearing in a waddling action from the front and back of their head and shoulders; cyclists and cars turned under us and squealed around the corner by Pendleton's little shop.

Then we'd hear the rumble; far away. "One's coming!" All chatter would stop and we'd wait. From one of the compartments, a voice would say, "I don't wanna do this..." and everyone would jeer in relief and yell out, "Well, it's too late now!" and then the goods train would be on us! Eighteen inches from our faces, the engine's wheels, five feet high, roared by with terrible suddenness; then the ordeal started as the half-mile-long goods train battered its way across the bridge, seemingly sucking the breath from our lungs, shaking and trembling throughout our bodies as we pressed far back into our tiny steel cells and clutched the riveted plates to avoid being plucked out and torn beneath the wheels. Pebbles were flung at us, The stench of oiled metal and hot steam choked us. The roar, the thumping, the interminable shaking were deafening.

It lasted seven minutes. It seemed a life time. And then, it stopped. The silence was startling. We'd notice birds twittering. People talking far below. And we'd carefully peer out to see that there was nothing else coming, and then triumphantly crawl out , straighten up and cheer. What heroes we were!

What idiots.

If you could make it past eleven years old, you'd probably live forever.

Eric Hall ©