I was about to respond but he beat me to it. "Boris, you horrid cat, are you still eating that lizard? Come over here. What is wrong with you?"

"What is wrong with you?" I asked instead of saying hello.

The Railroad Man strode into view. He had draped his formidable presence in a baggy pair of khaki shorts, a faded red T-shirt, canvas shoes with no socks, and a baseball-type cap in an obnoxious floral pattern. His keen blue eyes peered at me over pink tinted wire rim spectacles. He grunted in reply, "Boris ate another lizard. You ready?"

I have grown accustomed to the Railroad Man's casual, laconic greetings. Besides, he usually makes up for brevity of salutation with an interminable of stream-of-consciousness conversation once an Exciting Adventure has begun. But today was different.

For one thing, he had no trouble finding his keys. Finding them usually takes half an hour.

For another, he deliberately left his shiny black Big Gulp 44-ounce plastic cup in the cupboard. True, our adventure would take us nowhere farther than fifteen minutes from the Railroad Man's house but such trifles never before had caused the Railroad Man intentionally to forsake his Big Gulp.

Finally, the Railroad Man insisted on hosing down the van before we left. The van in question was the white Pontiac TransSport; you may recall it resembles a Dustbuster with a 700 megawatt sound system and has served us well on previous adventures. I secured my camera and gadget bag, extra film, and train hunting cap on the passenger's side and sat down. Without warning, a torrent of water blasted me through the open door. It soaked my clothes, the seat, and the upholstery inside the door.

"Next time, before you wash the car, please warn me," I suggested. "It is customary on such occasions to shut the doors and roll up the windows." The Railroad Man answered, "Oh," turned off the water, rolled up the hose, and hoisted himself into the driver's seat. He turned on the ignition and was about to back out. "Where is The Sounds of Small Steam, Volume 1 or some such tape?" I asked, incredulous. None of the Railroad Man's usual eclectic array of audio tapes was in the van.

"I dunno," he replied. Then he announced, "I'm starving. You hungry? Let's get lunch." As everyone knows, the Railroad Man has an amazing sixth sense about such things. Five minutes later he pulled up in front of a Subway sandwich shop and five minutes after that we were eating foot long tuna sandwiches. When it was time for dessert, instead of buying a box of Fig Newtons, the Official Snack Food of Exciting Railroad Man Adventures, he tried a Peek Freans Ginger Crisp Biscuit. "Feh!" he hissed.

Such uncharacteristic behavior suggested something preoccupied the Railroad Man but lunch temporarily raised his spirits. As we left the restaurant, he removed his florid cap, thrust it back through the doorway, and waved it wildly at the confounded counterman. "Heigh ho, culinary custodian!" he cried. "I am the Railroad Man and we are in search of the Ventura County Railway!" The poor fellow managed a vapid smile and waved weakly in return but we were gone before he lowered his hand.

The Ventura County Railway is easy to find. It interchanges with the Southern Pacific's Coast Line in downtown Oxnard, California and its offices are directly across the street from the SP freight depot. Grading began in December, 1903 with the original intent to run the line northeast to Bakersfield. The owners expected to haul sugar beets and the resulting sugar from a nearby refinery, produce, and passengers. By 1905, the tracks extended west to Port Hueneme and, when the Southern Pacific came north from Los Angeles, the original plans changed and the shortline concentrated on its local area.

Over the years, citrus crops replaced sugar and, when the Navy took over Port Hueneme during World War Two, the VC (as they called it) found its freight and passenger business booming.

Today, the VC still serves lemon growers and also does a brisk seasonal business hauling other produce. It transports BMWs and Volvos from Port Hueneme to the SP yards in Oxnard. Other customers include oil related industries, lumber yards, packing houses, and a Kaiser Aluminum plant. Motive power consists of three Alco S6 diesels and a new low nose GP7 upgrade.

The Railroad Man is no stranger to the Ventura County Railway so, in almost no time, he drove to the engine facilities and, out of sheer perversity, parked on an elevated loading ramp. I poked around the enginehouse. When engineer Ron Baker parked the new Geep, I snapped off a few portraits of the locomotive. The Railroad Man never left the TransSport. Instead, from time to time, he and it appeared near the enginehouse or peeked around the corner of a Santa Fe end-cupola caboose standing on the rip track.

Then we followed the line west toward the Pacific Ocean. It ran between rows of new townhomes, older apartments, and middle aged houses. When the tracks turned north, so did we, past the BMW warehouse and toward Port Hueneme. We saw the row of buildings where ladies of the evening once had entertained sailors and the intersection where a pair of Ventura County locomotives had destroyed Michael J. Fox's time machine car in Back To The Future, Part III.

We arrived at the docks but found the railroad no longer serves them. We continued toward the Navy base. Through the fence we could see the rusty tracks of a railroad yard and a few flatcars so the Railroad Man ignored security and drove onto the base. A guard with a starched uniform and a matching attitude met us at the gate but the Railroad Man was ready for him and thrust an official looking certificate out the window. The guard looked it over with a frown, read it a second time, then asked, "What's that?"

The Railroad Man could hold back no longer. "A discount coupon for cat food!" he guffawed, swung the TransSport into a U-turn, and roared off the property. He crossed the street, turned left, and entered the drive-through lane of a McDonald's. We pulled up to the speaker and a voice requested, "May I have your order?"

"Two beers," the Railroad Man answered.

"What?" asked the voice and the twice Railroad Man repeated his order. "We don't have beer," said the voice after a long pause, so the Railroad Man settled for iced tea.

We followed the VC tracks as they looped back toward Oxnard but before we had gone far, the Railroad Man realized we were approaching his favorite Mexican bakery and found himself unable to proceed without stopping in for a couple of fresa pastillas (strawberry cookies). A few minutes later, we were back at the Ventura County Railway Company offices and our tour ended. The Railroad Man had almost nothing to say as we headed home. The shadows were lengthening and, as we passed rows of produce, we could see the workers meandering to their automobiles.

Suddenly the Railroad Man came alert and his eyes brightened. We approached an unpaved access road and he lurched the TransSport left into oncoming traffic, causing a cacophony of screeching tires, blaring horns, angry shouts, shaking fists, and crying children.

The van slammed across a ditch and skidded to a stop in a dense cloud of dust. There before us in the golden illumination of the setting sun stood a Pacific Fruit Express wood side reefer. Much of its yellow paint had peeled off but vestiges of white lettering remained on the boxcar red ends. Nearly all the hardware was intact.

As I reached for the camera, the Railroad Man already had vaulted from the TransSport, nearly knocking over the rest of his iced tea, took a quick bite of the remaining fresa pastilla and, through a spray of cookie crumbs, screamed "Al Akhbar! We have found the lost reefer!" I hurried to capture the freight car on film in the waning daylight as the Railroad Man paid enthusiastic tribute to the sacred gods of steam by performing the secret railroad dance. He leaped madly about, oblivious to the vicious snarling of a trio of pit bulls in a nearby cage. Within moments, though, the dogs fell silent, reeling in stunned disbelief.

Eventually the Railroad Man regained his composure and resumed the drive home. He was noticeably more cheerful.