The Overland Tales
Chapter 2: Brothers and Sisters from Other Mothers
The legion of railroad enthusiasts pervades societies around the globe, wherever flanged wheels rolled upon steel rails firing the wanderlust dreams of the populous. Tonight, thanks to the presence of Big Boy #4014, it seems we are all in Ogden, Utah. Well, almost. I am still on my way. Knowing good beer lies ahead, I decided to sample the local ales with imprudence rather than a sip or two before driving back to the hotel. So, I need a ride. My friends Dave and Matt have road-tripped out from Pennsylvania and by happenstance are around the corner, headed up to Ogden. I fold myself into fleshy origami wedged behind Dave’s backseat, bent between camera gear, suitcases, and a collection of exotic microbrews gathered along the journey.
Utah traffic is unexpectedly Jersey-bad, and the quick hop up to Ogden turns into a stop-and-go slog. That’s OK by me. I have a front-row seat to the Dave & Matt show: an extempore display of sarcasm, pop-culture references and finely tuned profanity of such caliber that I regret not livestreaming it. Forty-five minutes of nonstop banter shifting effortlessly between base observations worthy of Beavis & Butthead and classic guy humor stamped with the whiskey-breath elegance of Martin & Lewis entertains more than any Netflix-and-chill evening could.
Minus the chill.
Like me, Dave has compartmentalized his wanderlust, but when he roams, the man roams. He’s everywhere. We regularly find ourselves breaking bread in beer joints around America; each an unplanned moment when our paths cross. On this occasion, among the thousands who have gathered to see the spectacle of the Big Boy, Dave and Matt are in the middle of a two week coast-to-coast drive photographing over a dozen different steam locomotives and visiting countless local brewpubs.
Dave is a pop-up party ready to happen. Tonight, he has orchestrated an assemblage around a huge timber table at Ogden’s UTOG brewery. Jim and Cate Wrinn are already there with the TRAINS magazine crew. Pulling up stools, we get right into the flow. Each round brings more friends, friends of friends and a few introverted observers on the periphery of the conversation comforted to be among those who don’t care that they — as Dave likes to say — “have a touch of the trains.” Most have spent the last week photographing the Big Boy’s maiden trip from Cheyenne, Wyoming to Ogden.
I order the brewer’s bratwurst. The beer pours. The tallest of tales from the journey grow higher. The beer pours again. I am trying each brew. The Porter is right on target for a chilly spring evening. After a few rounds I start thinking about the name UTOG.
Many of us who have worked in the New York metropolitan area know UTOG as the name of an executive car service. As far as the brewery’s monicker is concerned, I am guessing UTah OGden. I can’t resist a quick Google to see if “utog” is an actual word. It is. In Cebuano, utog means “erection.” I chuckle, but choose not to share this revelation with mixed company at the table. I make a note to myself that if I am ever sipping gin in at a Bisaya-speaking pub in the southern Phillipines, I’ll be careful about mentioning how I like to have a big UTOG for the ride home from Newark airport or talking about that time in Utah when I sat in a brewery with 20 friends comparing our UTOGs.
Amidst the revelry, our waitress approaches me. She caught my eye about 25-feet ago and is now face-to-belly with me. She looks up. She seems uneasy. Maybe even pissed. “I have bad news.” My mind swirls. Is she my half-sister? Is the jig up? Have I been found out? And then it comes to me. The worst possible thing she could say… the one announcement to sour the best sour ale…
“You’re out of bratwurst, aren’t you?”
She relaxes a bit. “It’s not that tragic.”
Excelsior!
The waitress is still talking. Mouth moving. Nothing heard. I’m lost in beer-hazed visions of coriander and caraway laden pork. She repeats herself until I lock back in.
Apparently, I have committed the offense of standing up with a loaded pint glass in my hand. Generally, I find the ability to stand through an entire beer session to be an admired skill. I explain this. The waitress is not amused.
Her stern gaze stays focused on me. No laugh. No slight crinkle of her crow’s feet giving away a suppressed reaction. This must be a serious violation. I am concerned. I don’t want to do anything that would put a damper on the evening. “What can I do to make this situation better?”
“Sit down. Just sit down, and don’t do it again.” She orders. I comply. As the waitress walks away, I turn to Dave. “At least it wasn’t the bratwurst.” I lift my left leg to adjust my ass-on-stool ratio, a voice cuts through the din. “Sit down!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Within moments, she’s back. No police, so I must have properly atoned for my standing-with-beer sin. She sets a plate on the table. Displayed in front of me is a perfectly golden-browned tube steak. I swallow a few utog/UTOG one-liners and take a bite.
It’s awesome, but there will be no standing ovation.
Read the entire ebook version with many additional photographs
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