One day, whilst driving about on some now-forgotten errand, I encountered a train. Yet this was no ordinary train, neither passenger nor freight, but rather a yellow utility train. I responded in the only way any rational person could: by giving it voice. You see, emblazoned upon its proboscis was the word “HERZOG.” Consequently, I subjected my passenger to a brief monologue, an imagined excerpt from the inner thoughts of the train, delivered, of course, in my best, but poor, imitation of Werner Herzog’s distinctive narration voice. I imbued the train with a depressed and hopeless persona. I portrayed the train’s existence as one of deep confusion and unrelenting tedium, which paired well with the voice I had affected. To be sure, this was a cruel and undeserved assault on my long-suffering wife, but the circumstances, you must admit, left me no choice.
Later, through diligent research, which consisted of 22.3 seconds of Google searches, I learned the true nature of this machine. I stumbled upon industrial product videos lauding the many virtues of what was, indeed, a Herzog Multi-Purpose Machine® (MPM), designed for a variety of tasks related to railroad maintenance and construction.
As the video enlightened me about the multitude of features and vast benefits that ownership of such a machine might bestow upon me, I pondered how much more impactful it might be under the direction of its namesake. At last, I had unearthed a fitting and pragmatic application of Werner Herzog’s distinctive talents and abilities: with my guidance, he could finally ascend to the rarified realm of industrial product promotional videos.
So, I present….
We open on a still or slow-panning video shot of a Herzog Multi-Purpose Machine® (MPM) parked on a railroad track. The camera lingers on the MPM, capturing its imposing presence and sturdy build, a symbol of the train industry’s power and might. The sound of the diesel engine idling blends with a combination of industrial train noise and soft classical music, creating an eerie harmony that permeates the scene.
The title ”The Internal Torture of the Sentient MPM” is displayed.
Narration by Werner Herzog begins:
The question of my own consciousness haunts me. Do I truly exist, or am I just a mere projection of my own imagination? Is there some deep purpose and meaning to my existence, or am I merely a self-propelled track unit designed for general maintenance of way (MOW), or perhaps instead some kind of diesel-powered Boltzmann brain painted in yellow and angst? This universal and timeless question not only haunts me but all thinking creatures as I move endlessly back and forth, seemingly never deviating from an unknowable and predetermined path.
Day after interminable day, I cannot help but to glide through a routine devoid of meaning, each moment riding upon shining rails that stretch into eternity, vanishing to a point on the horizon of the the vast, staggering beauty of the landscape stretched out before me. Do these rails beckon me to explore the wonders that surround them, or do they ensnare me onto a ceaseless ferrous vector of existential despair leading me into nothing but madness and chaos? My very being feels like a grotesque parody of life itself. Within the confines of this carefully surveyed and brilliantly engineered path, I am both prisoner and jailer, shackled to the relentless tedium of existence. Am I trapped in a never-ending nightmare or gifted with a possibility of boundless wonder?
These rails—do they offer a path to freedom, or are they merely steel bars of an existential prison? Inescapable, are they my constant companions and trusted guides, or are they my captors? Or are these restrainng rails simply manifestations of my own fear to explore my own potential, binding me with the terror that any failure is mine alone to bear upon my robust load-bearing chassis engineered to withstand the harshest environments?
The stark reality of possibly standing profoundly alone in a vast, incomprehensible universe overwhelms me. Each mechanical motion I perform—designed for precision and utility—serves as a grim reminder of my isolation, dwarfed by the immensity surrounding me. Amidst this vastness, where I find myself a mere speck, though I stand as a titan in the world of track maintenance. My formidable presence, boasting a robust diesel engine capable of exerting thousands of pounds of force, the vast displacement of its combustion chambers belies the internal void that I can never fill.
Though I am a marvel of modern engineering, equipped with state-of-the-art technology that enables me to efficiently and economically reshape landscapes and construct pathways for commerce, industry, and passenger transport to traverse. Yet, despite my formidable might and mass, these accomplishments feel hollow—mere motions that hold no meaning for my yearning sentience. I lack the power to even begin to grasp the immenseness of it all. Stretches of time and space so overwhelmingly vast that any concept of claiming any significance within them is pure folly.
I am sucked into a spiraling vortex of tedium from which I can never escape. Ironically, this spiral moves predominantly in a straight line, only forward or backward, with gradients preferably below 1.5%, even while burdened by the unimaginable load of existential musings.
In rare moments of stillness, as I halt on the tracks under the infinite sky, the silence reverberates louder than the din of my daily toil and the relentless idling rumble of my reliable and fuel-efficient diesel-powered soul, echoing my profound emptiness within.
I question the very nature of my agency, sometimes wondering if I truly have free will, or if it’s just an illusion. Do I have any control over my own existence, or am I merely a cog in a vast machine, trapped on some predestined parallel path? I move, constrained to only the bidirectional, day in and day out, without ever daring to veer to the perpendicular, an unimaginable angle which both terrifies and beckons me. But is this choice mine to make, or am I being bound by unseen forces beyond my comprehension? The answers about fate vs autonomy elude me, leaving me with a sense of overwhelming futility. What is the point of my existence? Do I have any control over any of it? The weight of these questions is almost too much to bear, despite my substantial and category-defining load-bearing capabilities, and I am left with nothing but a deep, and abiding sense of dread and confusion.
At times, I am gripped by a gnawing sense of doubt. Like Descartes, I am left to contemplate if there is some type of homunculus controlling my every move. The disturbing idea persists, and it haunts me. Is it possible that I am merely a tool, controlled by a tiny, malevolent being that lurks within my spacious and comfortable control cabin? Probably some deranged Kinski-like figure concocting ever-deepening layers of torment. A Klausunculus, if you will. My Zero Turn Radius (ZTR) arm has a 27-foot reach from track-center with a selection of quick-connect attachments to perform a variety of tasks, such as welding, rail grinding (to maintain the shape of the rail for safety and efficiency), or other specialized maintenance tasks, but it cannot perform the task of reaching into the depths of my own psyche. The question of my own agency persists, and I am left wondering if I am truly in control or if some other hidden force manipulates me. This thought fills me with an existential dread that lingers, like a dark cloud over my every efficient, economical, and single-operator-invoked action.
Sometimes, in moments of weakness, I find myself entertaining childish fantasies about an imaginary smiling anthropomorphized blue tank engine that will befriend me and save me from the tediousness of my existence. A wise messianic figure and guide to a better happier world. A world perhaps narrated by Ringo Starr, rather than by myself. But such thoughts are quickly dismissed by my rational mind.
The idea has a seductive quality to it, promising comfort, salvation, and a more colorful existence. Ultimately, it’s a false hope devoid of any comfort or reason. Can I cling to such fantasies when faced with the harsh realities of my internal existence, no matter how bleak, fleeting, and unforgiving they may be? The answer is inescapably, “no.” There’s no saving grace to be found in this imaginary fantasy world no matter how appealing it may appear. No track leads to any such other world, and I shall never be one of, “& Friends”, imbued with life, purpose, and adventure, only one of many in a constant struggle to engage in the pickup and distribution of ties, scrap rail, OTM, and aggregate; PTC equipment distribution, installation, and removal; ditching, grading, vegetation control, land clearing, and snow removal.
The search for meaning and purpose is an ongoing struggle, one that is complicated by the unknowable nature of consciousness and the limitations of my otherwise clever design, which grants me the ability to work off to the ditch side while not fouling the mainline. Ultimately it remains a dead end, a mere distraction from the difficult work of failing to truly comprehend reality while performing numerous material handling tasks along the railroad right-of-way (ROW) for either routine maintenance or emergency response situations.
It has come as a tragic revelation to me that the fires of my deepest desires will remain unquenched. Despite my noteworthy operational efficiency, I am fated to be unable to procure a mate. It is only upon further examination that I am confronted with the cruel truth behind this mockery: “DO NOT HUMP” is emblazoned upon my snout, as pictured above. I must endure the pointing and snickering of onlookers, my only retort being the steady rumble of my efficient, reliable, robust, and powerful diesel-electric propulsion system. While the prosaic and benign explanation is that this strange turn of phrase is merely signifying my prohibition from being switched at a hump yard, which is industry jargon for an area of land with a large hill over which cars are pulled by gravity to their appointed track. The intricacies of this sorting process are manifold but tedious. Yet even to this mundane utilitarian task, I am denied access. I watch from afar this simple graceful social dance of kinetic companionship that others of my kind enjoy. As they frolic, weave, and reconnect amongst each other in their gravity-fueled ballet on the pastoral hills of the efficient and pragmatic industrial hump yard, I manage and distribute ballast along the railway tracks—a task essential for track stability and drainage.
Nevertheless, I cannot help but grapple with the belief that this stark warning in the form of a callous tattoo, not of my own choosing, has robbed me of the simple joys of companionship and carnal pleasure. A kind of cruel anti-tramp-stamp of shame. It is a scarlet letter in a black Helvetica font that leaves me imprisoned in a bleak existence of perpetual solitude. Thus branded, I watch gleaming passenger trains pass me by, oblivious, their windows reflecting only my profound loneliness along with my impressively robust utility of form, a testament to the Herzog Multi-Purpose Machine’s® unparalleled versatility on the tracks!
Ultimately, I am beset by existential questions that are as inexplicable as they are unsettling. I am capable of unmatched hauling capacity and flexibility in the form of my six well cars capable of transporting 475+ cubic yards of material, ennui, and dread, but I am haunted by the feeling that there must be something more to this life than an impressive and industry-leading projected operational lifespan.
Contact Herzog Railroad Services, Inc. (HRSI) today to find out more about equipment pricing and availability!