The Brooklyn Bridge

Starting back in 2002, we visited New York from Indianapolis nearly every spring, and Shawn would occasionally walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. I always refused, mainly because I envisioned a narrow shoulder with cars whizzing by, but a small part of me also feared the iconic landmark would be attacked while I happened to be traversing it. Eventually I realized the pedestrian walkway was elevated from traffic, and I was letting terrorists and Godzilla win by not setting foot on the bridge. Once we moved to Brooklyn, the bridge became the best part of my weekday runs.

I love the rickety wooden slats, the smell of paint and gasoline fumes from ongoing construction, and reaching the point where the bridge levels out from a deceptively steep incline. The skyline is magical, what with the progress on the World Trade Center's construction, the occasionally still-lit Empire State Building, and the art deco top of the Chrysler Building. My favorite thing, though, is the man who greets me most mornings. (This isn't the first mention of him.) One of these times I am going to stop and walk with him a bit, to tell him how much I look forward to seeing him and how disappointed I am on the days when we miss each other.

The Brooklyn Bridge and I had a rocky few weeks back in January, after an early-morning reveler decided to give me a scare on New Year's day. For a while, I thought I'd have to find a new route, because running across the bridge provoked an involuntary, irrational, but nerve-fraying response. Thankfully we're on good terms again, because running across the Manhattan Bridge just wouldn't be the same.