Clear The Tracks For Big John

As the witching hour nears, the Southwest Limited is winding through the black, desolate canyons of the Sierra Nevadas. In the darkened club car, the shadowy tableau suggests an Agatha Christie thriller in the making: a bartender nodding off in the corner; a bearded man fidgeting like an assassin on the lam; an elderly gent with the frozen smile of a kindly grandfather—or a mad bomber; and a blonde in a slouch hat who could pass for the young Ingrid Bergman on a spy mission. A forbidding night full of mystery and dark portent.

Suddenly, the door of the club car hisses open. The clackety-clack of the rails is heard, a chill gust sweeps through the car and there, looming in the doorway like an ax murderer, is a giant, hulking figure that lumbers forward and collapses into a seat. The bartender, adjusting his white jacket, approaches. "A Lite beer from Miller," says the incredible hulk.

As the bartender turns, the hulk stops him with a low growl: "Did you know that Lite beer has a third less calories than your regular beer?" The bartender nods nervously, then jumps as the hulk slams his huge fist down on the table. "And that Lite beer tastes fantastic and doesn't fill me up?"

Leaping to his feet, the hulk waves his arms wildly. "There are a lot of other beers out there," he roars. "But for my money I say why buy anything else!"

Terrified, the bartender backs off. Then, ever so slowly, his expression changes from disbelief to a knowing grin. "If I didn't know better," he says, "I'd say you were that coach fella, John Madden, the one who does those beer commercials on TV. But that's impossible, right?"

"Right," says the hulk, slumping back into his seat, subdued now. "What would John Madden be doing on a train?"

Creating a little mischief, as usual. For the past three months, in fact, the former coach of the Oakland Raiders has been riding trains across the length and breadth of the land, covering NFL games for CBS-TV and delivering impromptu versions of his famous commercials at the first pop of a six-pack. Last month alone, Madden logged more than 20,000 rail miles, including one 21-day trek through more cities and landscapes than most Americans see in a lifetime. Recently, after a brief sojourn at his ranch home in Pleasanton, Calif., the peripatetic Madden was off again.

WEDNESDAY: Up at 6 a.m., Madden says goodby to his sons, Michael, 17, and Joey, 15, and drives to the Oakland train station with his wife, Virginia. He boards the Coast Starlight and, like a soldier off to a far-flung war, says grandly, "So long, I don't know when I'll be back."

Madden arrives in Los Angeles at 7:20 p.m. Enthroned like a maharaja on a baggage cart, he is driven to the boarding platform of the Southwest Limited for a journey to Kansas City and a game between the Chiefs and the Detroit Lions. Ducking into the dining car, Madden greets a "writer-type person" and immediately tells him to ditch the jacket and tie in favor of Madden's "Amtrak away uniform": polo shirt, corduroys and sneakers.

The writer type has one question: Why the train? "I have this phobia about being locked up in plane cabins," Madden explains. "I was able to suppress it when I was with the Raiders because we always flew charter and I was able to walk around a lot. But when I started flying commercial last year, the feeling of panic got to be unbearable."