Have you seen the bridge?
I ain’t seen the bridge!
Where’s that confounded bridge?
— the prophet robert anthony plant
I’m on the verge of crossing No Hands Bridge. My pace is down to 15:40 miles as the fatigue sets in and the monkey jumps on my back, but I’m still hoping to finish before darkness envelops the trail.
I can almost taste the finish line, just a big climb and a few miles away. It tastes like pizza. I’m going to make it.
I stop daydreaming and pause on the bullfrog loop to update the tracking for moose and mild sauce. They’re doing great; over halfway, 12 hours. I send all the good karma an old guy can muster across the desert and over the mountains to a little single-track trail in California as the sun sets and the headlamps come out.
I hope no hands bridge brings them hope and agony and joy. I was lucky enough to run over it once for a shorter race; I know a little of how it feels to see it in the distance. The proud finisher of a 2-mile walk today, I am humbled and awed by the feat they’re accomplishing.
I hope that soon the finish line in Auburn will be so close they can taste it.
I hope it tastes like pizza.
I have no ideas what any of this means or where it is, but I like it.