Lancaster Bound: Four Guys, One Van, and a Whole Lotta Trains
By Michael S. Oher, TCA #18-73531 Summer 2025 e*Train
Some people take weekend getaways to the beach. Others go hiking, camping, or wine tasting. We packed into a van, inhaled Combos and sarcasm, and drove to a building full of O gauge dreams, Standard Gauge tinplate, Postwar bargains, and American Flyer finds that smelled like history and electrical smoke.
This is the story of a train meet, a road trip, and four guys who probably shouldn’t be unsupervised in public together: me (Michael S. Oher, devoted American Flyer collector), Kevin Quinn (Standard Gauge tinplate enthusiast), Jim Battista (Lionel collector and serial vehicular napper), and our fearless van pilot, Andrew Hibell (fellow Lionel loyalist and GPS-skeptic).
“Family Thing,” My Caboose
Before we get to the trains, let’s talk about the empty seat in the van — that of Stu Rankin, who, in making a responsible family first choice (that we mostly forgive him for), chose a “family event” over joining us.
Naturally, this meant he was the subject of relentless ridicule for the entire trip.
Every train we saw that Stu would have drooled over? We texted him.
Every deal we scored? Sent a picture.
Every joke? Made better by imagining how much funnier it would’ve been if Stu were there to awkwardly derail it.
We simmered over Stu like a pot of overcooked chili.
“Oh look, Stu would’ve loved this MPC car.”
“Too bad he’s busy watching a second grader’s piano recital.”
It was even suggested we make a cardboard cutout of Stu and bring it with us next time so the joke lands better.
We already called the print shop at Staples for next time.
The Ride Down
Let me be clear: the van was great. The problem was the occupants.
I rode shotgun, which meant I was navigator, snack distributor, and the last line of defense against Kevin’s constant backseat commentary.
Kevin sat in the back with enough snacks to survive a blizzard and enough opinions to fill a timetable. He ranked diners, debated pie crust thickness, and gave hot takes on the decline in quality of diner pickles. At one point, he said, “THAT PLACE HAS THE BEST PIE!” loud enough to trigger Andrew’s turn signal.
Andrew drove with confident defiance of technology. He trusted “gut instinct” over GPS. When the map said “turn right,” Andrew said, “That can’t be right,” and turned left. We didn’t end up in Ohio, so I guess he won.
And then there was Jim — the man, the myth, the unconscious.
He fell asleep before we reached the highway, briefly woke to murmur, “Is that an antique
store?” (it was a Sheetz), and resumed hibernation until roughly the state line.
Somewhere near Easton, Kevin — half-muffled by Cheez-Its — looked around and declared:
“This is starting to feel like Gilligan’s Island.”
And he wasn’t wrong.
Kevin fancied himself the Skipper.
Andrew, clearly Gilligan.
I was probably both Howells, depending on snack availability.
And Jim? Let’s be honest — Jim was the scenery.
The Meet
We arrived, parked, and walked into the venue where the air was thick with nostalgia, cardboard, and freshly sparked Marx motors.
Kevin made a beeline for the tinplate tables like a man chasing his destiny. He found a mint Ives piece and reverently whispered, “If Stu were here, he’d love this.”
Andrew and Jim headed for Lionel filled tables. Andrew immediately got into a heated but respectful discussion with a seller over smoke unit maintenance. Jim, freshly awakened and still blinking, picked up a Lionel milk car and said, “I think I had this as a kid.” (He didn’t.)
As for me, I stayed true to form. I zeroed in on the American Flyer tables and found a beautiful box of track that practically radiated “take me home.” A gentleman looked at me and said, “Ah, you’re one of those S guys.” I smiled and replied, “The correct scale.”
We regrouped occasionally to compare finds, swap insults, and text more things to Stu just to keep him aware of what he was missing.
The Ride Back
The ride home was quieter — equal parts contentment and digestion.
Kevin launched into an extended monologue about how Standard Gauge tinplate is “America’s most underappreciated art form.” Andrew mumbled about traffic. Jim fell asleep mid-sentence, clutching a newly purchased transformer like a teddy bear. I mostly watched the scenery and smiled.
This is what it’s all about.
Not just the trains, though obviously yes, the trains.
It’s the people. The chaos. The inside jokes.
The moment someone asks if smoke pellets are edible. The time Kevin almost bought an entire table’s worth of mismatched parts just for the “aesthetic.”
The moment someone says, “Remember that guy selling smoke pellets out of a Crown Royal bag?” and everyone nods.
Even when one of us bails for a PTA meeting or a fondue party or whatever it was Stu was doing, these trips remind us why we love this hobby.
Next Time, Stu
There’s always another train meet. Another van ride. Another snack stop that turns into a half-hour debate about whether a hot dog is technically a sandwich.
But you don’t always get to be part of the memories — the ones that start with “remember when Andrew missed the exit because he was defending Lionel smoke units?” and end with, “I still can’t believe Jim slept through that.”
So next time, skip the family event, Stu.
Or we’re Photoshopping your face onto a billboard that says:
“I CHOSE NOT TO GO TO LANCASTER.”
And making it your Christmas card.
