Every day, before most of society wakes up, a loco pilot signs a duty register and steps into a metal cabin that will become his world for the next several hours—sometimes days. There is no applause, no send-off, no reassurance. Just a clock ticking, a signal waiting to change, and hundreds—sometimes thousands—of lives silently depending on one human being. This is the reality of a loco pilot. To the outside world, a train runs because of tracks, engines, and signals. Rarely does society pause to think about the human being who reads those signals in fog, controls that engine in storms, and makes split-second decisions under unimaginable pressure. The train arrives late, and fingers point. The train arrives safely, and no one asks how. A loco pilot’s respect in society is strange. It exists—but only in silence . Inside the cabin, there is no room for emotion. Fatigue is not an excuse. Illness is not an option. Family worries stay outside the door. A loco pilot must be alert whe...
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