George's Masterpiece

 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 scenic bend, and meet head on, with a double engined diesel, pulling a hundred cars of freight. But that never happened, and we had a fairly nice ride. We disembarked at a small station: I don't remember the name. Maybe it was Shackport, or West Cornwall, but it was isolated, in the middle of nowhere. Some people were hanging around, and they gave us some beers. George went off to get some more fuel, and call the railroad, to confirm out return trip. Refuelled, and cleared for take-off, me and Hank pushed her back down the track, and jumped on, as we putted away into the dusk. We were passing one of the stations along the route, and Hank decided to get off, because he wanted to visit a girlfriend who lived nearby. We slowed down, and Hank jumped onto the platform. We waved, and rode off down the track, into the quickly settling gloom, secure in the thought that our bikes would be there, at the end of the line.