I can’t say that he didn’t warn me. I had helped my Navy friend Matt move a truckload of his belongings from Virginia to Pennsylvania (including a little side trip to Naval Air Station Joint Reserve Base Willow Grove outside of Philly) and we were on our way back. Matt, originally from the great state of Maryland (home of some very dubious drivers in my opinion but the birthplace of what he considers to be the most advanced system of roadways the world has ever seen) was soon transferring to Willow Grove. It was my turn to drive. Matt was vaguely aware of my irrational fear of bridges. If they’re too low to the water, I don’t like them. If they’re very high over the water, even worse. We were on 301 approaching Dahlgren, Virginia, and he sort of warned me about a bridge up ahead. Not wanting to appear the big baby I truly am, I declined to surrender the wheel and proclaimed myself fit to drive.
There’s this recurring dream that often wakes me soaked in sweat in the middle of the night. I’m driving my truck up a bridge (my truck does NOT have automatic transmission, making this nightmare even worse). The bridge apparently has the steepest grade known to mankind because as I get halfway up to the top my truck starts slipping backward. I’m able to start climbing again but my truck begins slipping backward, crashing into the cars behind me. Then I wake up. Sweating. Hating bridges.
The bridge that Matt and I were approaching in real life was the Governor Harry NICE Memorial Bridge (very inappropriately named, I might add). It crosses the Potomac. I looked this bridge up on Wikipedia, which as everyone knows is the ultimate authoritative source on anything. It is described as very narrow, with only one 11-foot wide lane in each direction and NO SHOULDERS. It also has a fairly steep grade (3.75%). The best part is that they make YOU pay to drive over this unholy invention conceived in the sick and twisted mind of some bridge-designing maniac.
After we went through the toll booth, I saw the bridge up ahead and gasped. The time was late at night and it looked as though the bridge climbed straight up into the dark heavens and disappeared. I noticed all at once that there were several things wrong here: (A) this bridge went up at a 90 degree angle; (B) there was only one lane of traffic going each way; (C) there was only Jersey wall on the side of the bridge – no railings or retaining devices of any other kind; (D) the pavement was bumpy as if it hadn’t been paved in about 50 years; and (E) when I looked over the side all I saw was blackness like we were floating in space or riding on a narrow concrete platform over a swirling black hole that could suck us in at any minute. A side note. How can they be allowed to just put Jersey wall on a bridge? How does that keep you from plummeting over the side? Aren’t there any laws that say you have to make a wall that PREVENTS vehicles from careening off the edge?!
At this point Matt seemed to be enjoying my agony. Oh he “said” he was sorry. He reminded me that he DID try to warn me. Somehow his constant giggling made these apologies come across as less than sincere. I was providing my friend a little cheap entertainment, and I knew it. I was even more determined to make it across without any drama.
I gripped the steering wheel with all my might and pressed the accelerator. I was so terrified that I just couldn’t seem to go any faster than 25 miles per hour. Matt pointed out the multiple signs declaring that the MINIMUM speed was 40MPH on the Governor Harry Nice Memorial Bridge. 40?! How could anyone possibly drive 40 up this bridge, especially in a 16-foot box truck? The laws of Physics wouldn’t permit it. Instead of hearing my friend Matt utter the encouraging words “You can do it, Mike; I have confidence in you,” all I heard was “Drive faster! Faster!” This was undoubtedly the scariest experience of my entire life, and for all intents and purposes I just knew I was going to drive the truck over the side, unfortunately taking Matt with me. The only consolation was that at least I knew he could swim.
For some reason God had mercy on my soul. In the entire time I was driving up that bridge, not a single vehicle came in the other lane, headed in my direction. I was straddling the center line, trying to stay as far away from the clutches of the Jersey wall as possible. If there had actually been oncoming traffic, forcing me to move over, I think I would have stopped the truck, gotten out, and made Matt drive. Of course, once we exited the truck we would have needed rappelling equipment, because it would have been like climbing Mount Everest.
I was grateful that once we reached the top, and began the descent down the other side, I relaxed a little. Prior to that moment, I was sure I was going to snap the steering wheel into thirds from my grip at the 10 o’clock and 2 o’clock positions! One good thing about the Governor Harry Nice Memorial Bridge is that on the Virginia side, the grade is much less. The more sensible Virginians probably objected to the steep grade approaching from the Maryland side, and demanded a safe and sane gradual descent on our side!
At last we were on the other side on dry land. Flat land. Low-to-the-ground land. Matt apologized profusely in between hearty laughs. A true friend helps you move. A truer friend risks life and limb in the process! The truest friend laughs about it all later, recalling the one-of-a-kind adventure you both had doing something as mundane as moving.
No comments:
Post a Comment