Sometimes You Have to Lie Down on a Bridge and Cry

It's just necessary.

This past weekend, I flew to South Florida to run a half marathon in one of my favorite places. The Marathon of the Treasure Coast series follows a fast, mostly flat course with waving palm trees, sea breezes, and gorgeous views.

I cut my running teeth on these streets, and they carry lots of good memories.

And some not-so-good memories.

Such as a few years ago when, in the middle of a race, I lay down on the top of a bridge to cry.

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Back in 2019, I ran my first (and only) full marathon. If you’re not familiar with the running life, a full marathon involves running 26.2 miles all in one go.

The training was long and grueling, and even though I poured in every ounce of effort and never skipped a step, race day found me fighting both my body and my mind to stay on the course.

Though I did fairly well for the first nine or ten miles, after that, things got hazy.

By the time I hit mile sixteen, I was running out on a barrier island, alone and without a pace group.

I was headed toward the double bridges to the mainland. I was running high/low intensity intervals in a hot, airless stretch of the course with no shade. If that weren’t bad enough, my body betrayed me.

My stomach cramped, hard. First one cramp, then another. Then came the rolling waves that signified serious tummy troubles.

This wasn’t good.

Runners may quibble about such matters as shoes, gels, and the best training plans, but on this one thing they all agree: when you’re running, you must never trust a fart.

Feeling pressure to deal with the situation and worried that further running might force the issue, I clenched all the muscles that were still responding to direct commands and dropped into a fast walk.

I was now sweating for more reasons than one. How close to a port-a-potty was I? Should I pull out my course map and check? Or should I just dart into the next gas station or knock on the doors of one of these townhomes and hope a kind retiree would allow a complete stranger to stumble into their half bath and destroy it?

Fortunately, the stomach cramping faded within a few minutes.

Situation resolved!

But I now had a new problem. I’d lost my rhythm and couldn’t seem to find it again.

I tried breaking into a shambly run, but my body wouldn’t respond. I fell back into a walk, wondering if this race was over for me.

But no. It couldn’t be. I’d trained six months for this! I was not quitting in mile seventeen.

Just then, I hit the Ernest Lyons Bridge, the long, sloping bridge that connects Hutchinson Island to Sewell’s Point.

An incline? In this economy? There was no way this was going to go well, but given that this was literally the course route, there was no way to go but up.

I stumbled up the bridge at a walk, continuing to lose steam as I ascended.

The sun pressed down, the air thickened in my lungs, and the impossibility of finishing the race overwhelmed me.

Even now, I’m not sure if it was my brain or my body that gave out.

Either way, things were not looking good. My hands and feet began tingling. Black splotches danced across my line of sight. I swayed on my feet.

I’d hit the wall.

This couldn’t be the end, could it?

I shuffled one foot in front of the other, actually grabbing the railing running between me and the sheer drop to the Intracoastal Waterway, hauling my body hand over hand toward the Olympic heights of the summit.

Just before the apex of the bridge, I stumbled upon a bench. Don’t do it, I told myself, even as I collapsed onto it.

I rolled onto my back, sticking my hands and feet in the air like a little bug. I shook my appendiges, hoping to encourage blood flow and ease the numbness.

Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes, trailing toward my salt-matted hairline.

This was happening. I had reached my limit. This race was over.

I dropped my hands and feet, leaving them to dangle over the sides of the bench. I opened my eyes, staring into the impossible blue of the sky. The black spots were gone.

On the bridge beside me, cars and trucks whizzed by. Even if I was going to quit, I couldn’t quit at the top of the bridge. It was too dangerous for anyone to park, for one thing; for another, I’d either have to roll over the cement barricade or be hauled over it. That sounded harder than making down the bridge itself. Much better to roll down and call someone at the bottom.

After all, if I was quitting, I had plenty of time.

Fortunately, I could feel my hands and feet again. I rolled off the bench, stumbled to a standing position, inched over the tallest point of the bridge, and started down the other side.

A blessedly cool breeze lifted before me, and suddenly I felt fresh life. While I couldn’t run yet, hope rose. Maybe I wouldn’t have to quit after all.

There, at the bottom of the bridge, was a friend, holding a huge sign with my name on it, dancing and cheering. When she saw me coming, she ran straight to me, bearing iced coffee.

“You’ve hit the wall,” she told me. “So that’s over with.” I don’t remember what else she said, but I remember that only after talking to her did I feel that I might actually finish the race.

And you know what?

I did.

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A week later, I was at the gym, working out in my race tee, marathon logo emblazoned across my chest.

A woman approached me, smiling hesitantly, studying my face.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said. “But are you the women who I passed crying on the Earnest Lyons bridge during the Treasure Coast Marathon?”

I set down my weights, nodding sheepishly. “Sure am.”

“Did you finish?”

“Barely. But yes.”

Her face lit up. “I’m so glad you’re okay! We were all worried about you!”

Of course they were.

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Running a marathon was an audacious goal for someone like me. Considering my age, temperament, and physical capabilities, it was truly an awesome challenge.

While I feel absolutely no drive to try a full marathon again, I have zero regrets about signing up, enduring the training, and suffering through the experience (although during the race itself, I couldn’t help but think the whole thing had been a huge mistake).

All I can tell you is this: if someone like me can run a marathon, anyone can do anything.

And sure, doing hard things may lead to lying down on a bridge and crying.

Sometimes it’s just necessary.

And that’s okay.