(500) Bridges

For the rest of 2012, I've decided that I am going to see how many bridges I can run across.

Why do such a thing? And why bridges?

Well, like most brilliantly spontaneous ideas, it's hard to pinpoint precisely where such a desire arose from. I have a few theories . . .

It could have been the fond memories of bridges gone by. I was telling Ashley on a run just the other day how, in nearly every significant stage of my life, there has always been a bridge somewhere in the background.

In Clemson, it was the Cooper Library Bridge:

Cooper Library Bridge (Photo Credit: Patrick Wright)

Situated right in the heart of the campus, I never needed an excuse to find my two feet shuffling across its sturdy platform. In fact, I have shuffled across it so many times that I can still hear (and feel) its grainy, almost sandpaper-like surface even now, not having visited Clemson since graduating in 2007. Whether it was an 8am Mon/Wed/Fri Thermodynamics class in Riggs or a Thursday afternoon lab in Cook, whether it was coming from Byrnes on the east side of campus my freshmen year or driving in from off-campus my senior year, whether it was to direct a frisbee into the 9th hole disc-golf basket by night or to date via phone with Ashley by day, the bridge was always there. And I always found myself, for one reason or another, walking across.

In Seville, Spain, when I studied abroad one fall with my friend Jordan, it was the Puente de Triana:

Puente de Triana (Photo Credit: Go Ahead blog)

The "puente" (Spanish for "bridge") was both our access to the University of Seville (and back home) and our escape for conversations that needed the open, night air and some moving water. The Guadalquivir River probably has quite the ear for the sound of youthfulness maturing away from home. We both needed this.

In Chattanooga, it was The Walnut Street Walking Bridge:

The Walnut Street Walking Bridge (Photo Credit: Matthew Furr)

The "the" in the above sentence is capitalized with purpose. Spanning nearly 1/2 mile (2,376 feet to be exact), this bridge is one of the longest pedestrian bridges in the world. But that's not what makes it memorable to me. What makes it memorable to me is the particular pedestrian with whom I shared most of my 2,376 steps with.

The Van Gogh-ish ceiling at Stone Cup.

Ashley and I started dating on this bridge. That first walk across, knowing what I was going to ask her on the other side, was terrifying and exciting. She said yes.

Ashley and I continued dating on this bridge, often sharing thoughts and dreams while we overlooked the blue water below (Stone Cup coffee in hand, of course). One time I remember we were driving by the bridge in the rain, stopped, got out, ran to toward the middle somewhere, and kissed, just because.

I asked Ashley to marry me on the North Shore of the Tennessee River, with the sun setting in the background, just over the bridge where it somehow all started. She said yes, again.

Ashley and I began our marriage in a tiny apartment a mere 5-minute walk from this bridge, often visiting for many more walks, runs, or fireworks on the 4th of July. We've been back to Chattanooga only once or twice since the move, but we always try to schedule a stop for a walk across the bridge. Rain or shine.

And now, in Minneapolis, it is (among others) the Martin Olav Sabo Bridge:

Martin Olav Sabo Bridge (Photo Credit: Dan Anderson)

I admit that it may be a little too early to write about this bridge (or others in the Twin Cities area) since our story here is yet to be finished. But the story has, at least, begun. I have written before about some of the difficulties of being an introverted runner living in the heart of a city. There, I wrote that the Mississippi River, which cuts right through the middle of Minneapolis, functions sort of like an escape hatch in that it allows for a brief respite from all the hustle and bustle of city life.

Well, if the river is the escape hatch to some healthy reflection, then this bridge is combination that unlocks it. With so many streets, red lights, and cars, it would take forever (in running terms) just to reach the river without this bridge and the Greenway bike path that it connects a weary city-dweller to. Fittingly, at its apex, this bridge has a great view of downtown Minneapolis—a view that waves good-bye on the way out, and hello on the return.

Some other Minneapolitan bridges I may find myself crossing . . .

The Stone Arch Bridge (Photo Credit: Greg Benz)

The Lake Street Bridge

Franklin Street Bridge (Photo Credit: Wikipedia)

Or, perhaps, the decision to run across as many bridges as possible could have been because of the transcendent nature of bridges. What I mean by that is this:

• Bridges have a way of making you feel small and insignificant. Have you ever stood at the peak of a bridge and looked down at the momentous river below? Or looked out to the narrowing horizon? Or looked up at the sky? One effect of doing so is realizing how incredibly tiny we are. People may get afraid of heights for other reasons, but I think at least one of them is because, deep down inside, people are afraid to feel small. But we are simply creatures who are like dust, breath, and mist; here today, gone the next (Ja 4:13-16). Our significance is bound up in getting caught up with the ultimate significance of our Creator. Jesus came to enable this through his sacrificial and substitionary death on the cross for us, sinners, who would much rather be caught up with our own significance. This seems like a good reality to be reminded of while running.

• Bridges have a way of making you marvel at creation. Without bridges, we may never experience the world from certain angles—the treetops from above, the wide-mouthed Mississippi from directly overhead, the wind unimpeded across your face, the birds at eye-level, the sun's rays that much more directly. Not to mention the feeling of walking on the air or over the water. Surely you hear the childlike voice whispering, "We shouldn't be here." How much more glorious is the Creator of it all—the One from whose mind such ideas come, the One from whose mouth such a world is spoken? This also seems like a good reality to be reminded of while running.

Or, maybe, it could have been a combination of all of the above. Whichever the case, I now feel like running over as many bridges as possible. And counting them, because I'm a numbers guy and because it will thread another story into the blog. The question is: how many bridges are possible?

Let's try . . . 500 of them.