Tag Archives: world war two

Running the Golden Gate Bridge

running-the-golden-gate-bridgeGoing out for late night drinks on a business trip never sounded appealing but even I questioned my understanding of fun when the alarm broke the dark silence of the hotel room last Friday morning.  Not without healthy debate, I crawled out of bed anyway.

That it was thirtysomething degrees outside did not help.  Someone’s coldest winter may have been a summer in San Francisco, but I wonder if they tried it in January.  That was my brilliant plan.  I dressed in layers but had brilliantly chosen not to bring the running clothes designed for cold weather.  My capacity for wise choices continued to be an open question.

The first sign of good fortune arrived with a prompt Uber driver in a Nissan Altima whose name I could not pronounce who took a lesser-traveled route to deliver me to the Welcome Center on the southern end of the Golden Gate Bridge at daybreak.  Things were definitely starting to look up.

The Golden Gate Bridge opened in 1937 and is considered one of the Wonders of the Modern World.  Not that anyone asked, but I wholeheartedly agree.  It is breathtakingly beautiful in design, and its distinctive international orange was particularly striking as the sun burst over the San Francisco skyline to my right.  This was going to be cool.

It is just under two miles across the bridge, and on this cold, early morning, I was the only jogger.  A few zillion cyclists whizzed by, and there were three walkers (well, standers with cameras), but like a dream I had this legendary run all to myself.  The morning sun and the chilly Bay wind continually slapped the right side of my face as if to say, “Hey, dummy, look at how awesome this is!”  I did.  Look from time to time, that is, amazed at my great privilege.

At one point it occurred to me that killer earthquakes happen in San Francisco from time to time.  And that I couldn’t swim.  This did wonders for my pace.  And just about then the signs for emergency phones and crisis counseling showed up to remind me that this is the second most popular suicide bridge in the world.  I decided to pick up the pace just a bit more.

Eventually, I emerged on the Marin County side of the bridge and looked back on the amazing sight.  It really is spectacular.  My dad left rural Missouri in 1942 to join the Navy in World War 2 and was sent to San Francisco on his way to the Pacific Theater.  He mentioned how much he loved San Francisco, and I paused to imagine what he must have thought about this wondrous structure that opened just five years earlier.  He must have felt what I was feeling, and that thought was worth the getting out of bed all by itself.

I then ran back, glorious experience times two, but at the Welcome Center I just kept running, angling for a long, flat run along Crissy Field and clicking off more miles until arriving at Marina Drive.  I would have stopped there but the sudden appearance of scores of joggers inspired me to keep going.  These were my people, and we ran together along the waterfront and past Fort Mason.  Just past seven miles the classic Ghirardelli sign appeared, and I called it quits.  Good enough.  Who am I kidding, GREAT enough.

An Uber escorted me back to Hilton Union Square where I showered, put on a business suit, and learned more important things about legal education.

But I ran the Golden Gate Bridge.  Unforgettable.

Special Memories

familyMy parents’ birthdays are two days apart in early December.  Well, technically, sixteen years and two days apart.  My dad turned down an appointment to the United States Naval Academy in the late 1930s but enlisted alongside thousands of other Americans when Pearl Harbor was attacked the day after his twenty-first birthday.  Meanwhile, my mom celebrated her fifth birthday in the Arkansas hills the day after the attack.  While my dad headed off to the Pacific Theater to defend America’s freedom, my mom was a little girl having her freedom defended.

This week, were they both living, my dad would celebrate his ninety-sixth birthday and my mom would celebrate her eightieth.  Ninety-six and eighty are just numbers, but they are hard-to-believe numbers.  Where does the time go?

The last time I saw my dad alive he was in a hospital bed facing a wall in the fetal position and fighting the pain.  The last time I saw my mom alive she was weak and yellow and exhausted sitting in a lift chair in my sister’s living room.  When you go to check out of this life, the checkout counter is just awful.

But that’s not what I remember on special days like birthdays.  What comes to mind are happy and healthy times—and smiles.  Like the only time I remember being angry at my dad when he couldn’t suppress laughter after a bird pooped on my head.  Or my mom’s beaming face when she had the opportunities to spend time with my sweet daughters.  That’s what I will remember this week.  The smiling people who gave me an enjoyable life.

These milestone days come and go, which must explain the shocking numbers.  My sisters and I will text each other in sacred commemoration on December 6 and December 8.  I may or may not mention either day out loud to my wife or others.  But I always notice, and always remember, and never know exactly what else to do.

I do have an idea this year.  This year, I think I’ll plug in the Bing Crosby Merry Christmas CD that I kept from my mother’s things and close my eyes and be transported to another world.  I’ll picture being a kid again in that tiny house on West Mueller Street.  Mom and Dad are both there in the living room with me.  The stove is glowing orange because it is cold and snowing outside.  I can see it out the picture window when I squeeze around the Christmas tree.

I’m going to listen to that Bing Crosby sing about Christmas and travel away to that special world of memories.  And in particular I will smile when his distinctive baritone voice delivers the signature lines from that old World War Two classic, “I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.”