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the Bridge
By Moira E. McLaughlin
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"You know, you're really stupid!" the bicyclist with the purple helmet and the yellow Lance wannabe jersey slowed down long enough to tell me. "Damn-it!" I thought. It wasn't 9 a.m. on a Monday morning and already I had pissed someone off. Maybe he was right. The synapses in my brain were a bit slow. (It was Monday after all.) And perhaps I wasn't hugging the rail of the Brooklyn Bridge as clearly I should have been. Or maybe I was just enjoying my morning run so much that I forgot that bikers own the Brooklyn Bridge.
I am a runner. As a runner, I feel a little misplaced on the Brooklyn Bridge. Between the picture of the little yellow man on the left and the little yellow bicycle on the right, we runners are left with few options. Thus we are resigned to run behind strollers, scooters and large groups of students from Nebraska. But the biker; he gets his own lane. How could he complain?
Easily, it turns out.
I have witnessed the annoyance of the biker. I have seen him yell. Swerve. And actually ride aiming at some unknowing tourist in the wrong lane. The biker has a short temper and a dark glare and I have felt his animosity first hand.
I have nothing against bikers. There are even some that I like. But I don't know what happens to them when they cross over onto the Brooklyn Bridge. Do they expect it to be people free on a warm Saturday in August? Do they feel they that their two wheels and funny shoes entitle them to exclusive bridge privileges? Do they think that their speed authorizes them to terrorize those practicing slower forms of recreation? Did they actually buy the Brooklyn Bridge?
We runners are a docile group. We curse the occasional red light or the chronic knee ache, but never do we take up arms against our fellow enjoyer of the outdoors. True, I was annoyed that with the warm weather came hoards of various peoples invading my bridge. I loved this bridge through the driving winter snow and the buckets of spring rain. I have visited her on high terror days and low energy days. Where did you all come from?? It didn't take long for me to realize that I would have to wait a few months to get back to my days of solitude on the Brooklyn Bridge. In the meantime, I figured I would deal with it, use an alternate running route or move to New Hampshire. I thought any biker might do the same. Instead he made his presence and authority known throughout the summer months in the form of a steady bellow.
Although I felt a little dejected that Monday morning, after the second grade-esqu insult, I ran on, refusing to allow such libel to ruin the morning sun. I even started to feel badly for that biker and for all the bikers that seem to be put out by the limited space on the Brooklyn Bridge. I can only hope that some day maybe they will slow down and lay to rest their chagrin, if not for the safety and well-being of the other bridge crossers, then for the safety and well being of themselves. Feel the air dear bikers! Glimpse the water! You are crossing the Brooklyn Bridge! It is an historic achievement and modern day beauty for the enjoyment of all: slow, fast, young, old, runner, biker.
And yes, even the runner.
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Moira lives in Brooklyn and is a singer and a writer in New York City. She savors her runs over the Brooklyn Bridge. Moira can be reached at moira_11@hotmail.com.
© 2004 Me Three