"Bridge Brave: Domination of the Dreaded Driscoll"

     Anyone who knows me well is aware that I have a bridge phobia.  It is something inherent, for, even as a child, I had nightmares about bridges, which have continued through my adult life.

     (For the record, I know a woman who will only traverse a bridge if someone else is driving, and she is in the back, cowering on the floor.  She makes me feel bridge brave!)

     One Memorial Day weekend, my niece invited me to the Jersey Shore for a barbeque.  Great idea, except I have to navigate the Driscoll Bridge to get there.  Or do I?  On second thought, I chose Route 9.  It runs parallel to the Parkway, and boasts a lower, less intimidating bridge. So off I go, a bundle of nerves, over the Route 9 Bridge, triumphantly gazing at the “Dreaded Driscoll”, to my right.  Once over the bridge, I turned left to head to the Parkway.  The result was that I was driving the wrong direction, away from the Parkway, on a highway heading north to the Route 35 Bridge, which towers above the Driscoll, and is curved and narrow to boot!  I promptly stopped, (the road had no shoulder) pondering my dilemma. There was a median preventing me from making a U-turn, so I opted to back up to the intersection, where I had noticed some kind of building.  (Fortunately for me, traffic was light that day.)  I successfully navigated my way to the parking lot, with the intention of going inside the establishment for directions.  It was a Go-go bar.  I quickly nixed that idea and I elected to take my chances with the median, making an illegal turn back to the direction where I came from originally.  At that point, my intuition told me to abandon my plight and head back home.  I didn’t listen.  After driving another hour over more bridges than I can count,   I gave up, turned around, and headed back after all.  After two hours of pointless driving, I arrived home starving and emotionally spent.  Ignoring my hunger, I went immediately to bed and pulled the covers up over my head, where I remained until the following morning.

      Ever the optimist, I viewed that little trek as bridge practice. I drove over more bridges that day than I had in fifteen years. I have since come to terms with my fear of the Driscoll Bridge, and I drive over it regardless of my interminable nervousness, and my triumphant gaze is in the direction of the Routes 9 & 35 Bridges.  Jersey Shore, here I come!