Racing The Red Line
Written by Boston Biker on Aug 31I have this thing with the Longfellow Bridge I will putter through my whole commute but when I get to this bridge I drop the hammer, and just go for it. Its a stretch of road where I know no one is going to pull out of a drive way, its very unlikely any peds will try to cross the street, and no one is going to be making any turns. Plus its a long hill perfect for really making your legs sing.
On some rare occasions I will enter the base of the bridge just as the red line is departing the MGH station, or just as its coming up from the Cambridge side…I look to my left, see the red train lumbering up to speed, and the battle has begun. I have been told that the red line can go about 30 mph over the bridge, I have no idea if this is true, but I would like it to be true because its how I judge my performance.
The battle starts as a mad uphill dash, the red line accelerates slowly but inevitably like the specter of death (or taxes.) I have the initial advantage my much lower weight allows for much faster acceleration, but the train has a higher top speed, and it will catch me if I stop accelerating.
The WHHHRRRRRR of electric engines bearing down on me, speed is my only escape. Faster and faster I redouble my efforts as my legs start to protest. “Why for the love all all things holy do you do this to us!” they scream as I froth and struggle, “shut up legs I am the boss of you!”
Meanwhile someone has cleverly allowed the expansion joints to get so bad that each one is like a mini speed bump. I am turning myself inside out in a futile attempt to show my speed supremacy against an big dump inanimate object, and the road surface as the audacity to supply me with moguls? The nerve.
As I reach the crest of the bridge I am usually a car or two behind. Like Jure Robič the red line never sleeps, and has slow and steadied past me. I don’t give up, the downhill portion of the bridge has arrived and my legs are rejoicing. My lungs however usually take this moment to remind me that they fucking hate me and are about to exit the building if I don’t slow down.
Digging deep for the last of my breakfast energy I force my lungs to shut up and my legs to spin even faster (fixed gear + speed + downhill weeeeee). I look over, the red line is approaching the station/tunnel entrance, its her and me, me and her…and its over. The red line comes to a stop, or disappears into the ground, and now I am left alone panting and sweaty at the red light.
In the end it doesn’t matter who wins, but that we battled. We shall meet again red line, this isn’t over.
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