Two years ago, a massive furore erupted over London’s new Elizabeth Line railway. The controversy had nothing to do with the construction of the railway, its budget, its delay, or its timetables. No: the furore was all about the enthusiasm for the new railway line. Specifically, the anger related to legions of straight men and their alleged obsession with the Elizabeth Line and their tyrranical campaign of propaganda in favour of said transport infrastructure.
I believe the claim originated on Twitter, but the argument had a longer-form articulation here, in the article entitled “Why do straight men love the Elizabeth Line?”
I’m highly ambivalent about this approach. I can’t argue with the fact that train enthusiasm seems to be a male-coded proclivity. I can’t deny that the article was entertainingly written. But I also can’t help but feel there is something not particularly constructive about this form of parody, which has a slightly nihilistic tone. Sure, you might find the Elizabeth Line’s fan-club a bit cringe, but surely the train line isn’t intrinsically bad because of that? What is the utility of this kind of critique?
My argument would be that we shouldn’t stop being enthusiastic about transport infrastructure because it’s male coded, but rather, we should try and free transport infrastructure from gender coding completely. What on earth makes a train male? Heterosexual? The whole point of transport is to liberate us from a fixed position. I’d like it to liberate us from stereotypical hobby groups too.
I think transport is much more than a male nerd’s game. Transport speaks to fundamental human desires, and its history tells us about how people have tried to make them a reality.
Old transport tells us so much about human history, just as any document or artefact might. The difference, however, is that transportation is by its nature dynamic: its power and its psychological effects can be experienced in real time. It is more akin to a piece of theatre or music than a static object, as long as it still works.
This, I think, is the peculiar magic of antiquated modes of transport. There is no gap of ‘interpretation’: we are treated to an accurate performance. In the weekend just gone, I had the privilege of joining in on a boat race of historical craft, mostly dating from around 1870-1920.
The first thing that struck me about the boats is their beauty. They are constructed of wood, with a few metal fittings here and there. Their forms are dictated by function, yet plank to plank and paint layer to paint layer, they have plenty of imperfections. The masts of the boats are improbably tall and again, made of solid wood: they’re uprooted trees brought to bear on the ocean. At every point an old boat reminds you that it has been made by human hands. A fibreglass boat does not do this.
In music, we still flock to see live performances with analogue instruments. Ask most people and they will prefer this infinitely over a DJ set or even an electronic music gig. Why is this? It’s because of the jeopardy of the real thing. We are invited on an empathetic journey with the musician, who could fail at any point. And the palpability of failure comes through in the performance itself. Most instruments are not precisely tuned to exactly the right frequency; most human percussion is not precisely on time.
A boat is an improbable success wrought from little more than plant tissues (wood and cotton). The movement of a sailing boat depends on the knowledge of those sailing it. They feel or see the wind direction, apply principles of movement to it, tighten and loosen various ropes, and the result is speed. There is plenty of jeopardy here! The miracle is that it all works, and the human touch is involved at every point.
The most poignant moment of the whole weekend was at the end of the first day when we came into harbour. Most of the craft stuck on their engines (which were off during the races!) but our crew decided to do it old school. This involved getting on the right trajectory towards the narrow opening of Mousehole harbour, then dismantling the front sail (the ‘lug sail’ on this type of boat which is ‘dipped’). Then we got out some massive oars and slowly, gently, paddled the sizeable 1901 craft into the granite harbour.
Our entry was silent. The tiny cottages of the village were dwarfed by the masts of some of the craft around us. I was hit by an emotion I couldn’t quite explain. I think it was something along the lines of “So this was how it was done.” This was how most people arrived at far-flung places for my ancestors’ lifetimes. The grace and simplicity of it was stunning.
I don’t see why we shouldn’t take this kind of experience seriously. It’s interesting. It’s emotionally affecting. The reason that transport anoraks have failed to communicate the emotional side of their interest effectively, though, probably does have something to do with concepts of masculinity and the stereotypes of a transport anorak in the first place. That’s a pity, but it doesn’t have to be that way.