George had been working on a project that involved rusty wheels from old railroad cars, a Sportster engine, and a makeshift drive train. It was actually a small, working railroad vehicle, big enough to comfortably fit three people, and the planks smelled like creosote. We got ahold of Hank, and the three of us rode our bikes to the railroad spur, where George had his project. He'd called the railroad, and got permission to use the tracks on Sunday, as there was no other usage that day. We secured our bikes near the siding, behind an old station, and went to look at George's masterpiece. And there it stood: rusted metal and oily oak planks, with dual chrome pipes and megaphone mufflers. He set the choke to fire that bitch up, and when she was ready, George worked the throttle while me and Hank pushed her out onto the main line. We all jumped on, and putted down the rails towards Meridale. I thought that George or the railroad made a mistake, and that we'd come around some ...