1987
When I was a kid, our house sat near a patch of trees we called "The Woods." Every neighborhood has one—a place big enough to get lost in but close enough to make it home before dark. Ours was a tangle of trails for riding bikes in the summer, hills for sledding in the winter, and endless spots where we could run wild, climb trees, and feel like we were the only ones who knew this special place.

As I got older, we started exploring beyond The Woods. Just past the trees was a whole other world: a fenced-off quarry. In the center lay a small lake, and deer would wander freely, as if they knew it was their secret place, too. The guy who owned it had even built himself a floating house on the lake, like he was hiding from the world. Every time we went there, it felt like we were discovering buried treasure.

Beyond the quarry, though, was where things got interesting: a junkyard full of wrecked cars to the south, and right next to that, the railyard. The trains would come in for repairs and sit there like sleeping giants. On weekends, when the workers were gone, we’d make it our own playground. We’d scramble up and down the cars, using the ladders clinging to their sides. And if we were lucky, there’d be an old caboose at the end, the door unlocked just for us. One time, we found boxes of flares and went wild, setting them off for days until we’d developed a rhythm: strike, light, throw, watch the sparks hiss and burn out.

But one time, the game got the best of me. I remember the sizzle and the smell of burning hair with unsettling clarity. I’d held a flare too high, and as I brought it down, some of that molten, fiery stuff dripped onto my head. Burned a clean, bald patch right there. Let me tell you, it took a lot of explaining to my parents.

That railyard wasn’t just a playground, though. It was a launching pad. The main line ran through town, and trains would slow to a crawl as they approached the long bend near the railyard. We’d stand by the tracks, daring each other to jump on. We’d gotten so good at climbing onto parked trains that the slow-moving ones were easy. And we always knew when to jump off—never wanted to stray so far, we couldn’t make the walk home.

Years passed, and one night in high school, my buddy Jon and I found ourselves at our friend Jeff’s place. His older brother had a car and was driving to Evansdale, where he’d heard about a party with a keg. We didn’t think twice. We just piled in and went along for the ride. Sure enough, there was a full-blown party, and I ended up in the basement, hustling at the pool table, knocking back beers with Jon. Everything was fine until the cops showed up. Upstairs, people were scattering, and we ducked into a side room, hearts pounding.

As we were figuring out what to do, someone tapped on the basement window. It was the guys who’d gone out for another keg. They knew there were minors inside and needed us to make a break to save their asses. They pulled us through the window, one by one, and Jon and I tore off, running through backyard after backyard until we felt safe, ducking to avoid the streetlights. We laughed ourselves silly once we knew we were free, but soon realized we were miles from home with no way back.

Then we heard it—the low, familiar rumble of a train crawling along the tracks nearby. We didn’t need to say anything. We just ran toward the tracks, faster than we had all night. We caught the train right as it took a slow bend, jumped onto the back platform, and sat there, catching our breath and feeling like kings. We knew exactly where it was headed and figured out our jump-off point. Ten minutes later, it was time to leap. But the train was faster than any we’d tried before. When my feet hit the ground, I went tumbling over the grass, rolling and bouncing, but I walked away, scraped up but fine.

Months later, we were hanging around the neighborhood with some friends, not doing much of anything, when we heard that familiar rumble again. Jon and I shared a look, and before we knew it, we were all running toward the tracks. The other guys got on first, and I was right behind, but this train was faster. I almost pulled back, but saw them up there and knew I couldn’t chicken out.

I pushed harder, feet slipping on the loose rocks, and then, just like that, I lost my footing. My legs slid forward, right under the edge of the train, and I felt the steel pass inches above my shins. My hands shot up and caught the ladder — rusty metal biting into my palms, the vibration of the train running straight up my arms.

I hauled myself up and hung there, legs dangling just inches from the tracks, breath gone, the world spinning. The sound was deafening, the metal alive beneath my grip. Clinging to that ladder, refusing to let go, all I could think was how close I’d come to losing everything in that moment.

Hanging there, legs inches from the tracks, was the first time the thrill outran my timing — and the margin disappeared.



Want to read more stories like this?
9 Lives & Counting is my memoir of mischief, close calls, and the lessons learned from testing every limit I could find.
Coming June 2026.