THE BRIDGE
I ran the bridge this morning. The last time I did it was back in May for the annual Savannah Bridge Run. I refuse to call it the Talmadge Bridge. Does anyone still refer to it as such? Remember the old Talmadge Bridge? It was an imposing crooked span, aptly representing its political namesake.
If you look at the new bridge you realize how minor league the original bridge really was. You can see the cement supports of the old bridge way down from where the current one soars. I don’t like heights, so when I do run the bridge I assure you it is with the utmost respect. I stay well away from the railing, and while I will admit to looking out over the water, I refuse to look straight down. Okay I’m afraid of heights, so why run the bridge? Cause it’s there? Too simple, too cliché.
It’s a combination of fitness and friendship. My friends do it every Sunday morning and I have an open invite to join them. Once in a blue moon I actually take them up on it. It‘s nothing for them, they’re all accomplished runners. For me though it is always an incredible challenge. We run for an hour, all at different speeds, and with varying routes. Our common denominator is the bridge. We gather just before sunrise at the Visitor’s Center and start our climb.
This morning I took off ahead of the others. I’m fat and slow right now, and I know it. If I didn’t admit it, I’m here to tell you the bridge would expose my deception in a hurry. So I find myself about half way up, sweating bullets, puffing like a bellows, and ready to pack it in. A buddy passes me on the left and I beg for some motivation. As if he can run this hill for me. He reminds me of what I’ve done in the past, and assures me I’m capable of repeating the task. Then promptly leaves me in his dust. At 200+ feet up, I’m just gullible enough to accept his advice and decide to plunge forward.
Finally I’m at the crest and running on cruise control. The sun is coming up to my right, a ship is crawling under the bridge to my left, and I’m a new me. All of a sudden the world is okay and I’m literally on top of it. Then I’m barreling downhill, bordering on out of control. I catch myself at the base of the bridge, flirting with South Carolina, and turn to head back toward Savannah. Again, it’s a long tough climb, but by now I’ve been there and done that. I finally top the hill and once more I’m booking down the backside at a breakneck pace. As slow as I go uphill, I am the just opposite going down. Damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead is my motto. I worked too hard on the way up not enjoy the freefall of the way down.
So now I’ve flattened out at Oglethorpe Avenue, and turn left on Fahm Street. I make my way down to the river and I’m looking hard at my watch. At this point, I’m tired and wanting this odyssey to end. There are too many homeless people on the street. They appear hapless and heedless when I call out a cheery “good morning”.
River Street looks as if it’s got a hangover. Must have been a hard Saturday night, and it seems I’ve beaten the clean up crew to work. Pounding up the cobblestones, I’m making my way back to Bay Street, then Broughton, Oglethorpe, Liberty and then west towards the Visitors Center.
It’s been an hour of pure hell and heaven wrapped into one. It’s taken me months to get back out and face this cruel and yet rewarding hour. I’ve done it though, and I’m proud to record the experience. Is there a tougher run in the Southeast? I doubt it. Am I worthy? Today I was.
The feeling of cruising along on automatic pilot on top of our bridge and viewing River Street below is such a unique and satisfying way to experience Savannah. Then when tiredly plodding along River Street and looking over my shoulder and glancing at where I’ve been, it’s impressive, and gratifying. It answers fully the question I asked myself when the alarm screamed at me this morning.
Everybody’s straggling back now, and we’re all just about shot. Smiles abound, and there is a feeling of mutual accomplishment and camaraderie. We shared an early morning experience that most everybody else has slept through. We didn’t beat the bridge, we shared it. I doubt there’s anyone in town who admires the bridge as much as we do. We feel privileged to experience the breaking of dawn with this wonderful structure. It is almost a holy feeling, and for a Sunday morning what could be more apropos.
We reward ourselves by going to breakfast. We bask in each other’s glow and share our experiences while busily feeding our faces. Through our combined efforts and mutual support we’ve made an individual sport a communal affair. Then we’re back home before our families are stirring, and like new men we’re recharged and ready for the coming week.
This morning I left home an overweight, hung over has-been in my own mind. I’ve returned a hero. A couple of pounds lighter not only physically, but more importantly mentally too. The credit for this transformation in me is doled out equally in three parts.
First I have my friends to thank for their motivation and support. Where would I be without them? Next in line for credit is the bridge itself. It is always there, inviting and challenging me to enjoy its majesty. Willing to reward, but yet always demanding a sacrifice. Finally I give myself a rare and much needed pat on the back. I faced my fears, met the challenge and accepted the rewards with open arms and tired legs.