I have always hated this bridge.

I have an irrational fear of going over this bridge.  When I was a little girl, I would crouch in the backseat, eyes closed, fingers dug as deep inside my ears as they could go so I couldn’t hear the “whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr” sound of the tires on the grates.  It isn’t a bridge we went over often when I was little, and it quite surprised me when I became an adult driver, and drove over it the first time.  The minute I drove onto it and I heard the “whirrrrrrrrr” of the tires, the panic welled up inside me.  “This is that bridge!”  I realized.  For five years it stood in the middle of the route from our apartment to Zan’s parents’ house, so I had to conquer my fear and drive over it on many occasions.  Now, I traverse it only occasionally, but find I still must take a deep breath and pause a moment in prayer before allowing myself to proceed. 

Over the weekend, on my little Photo Ride with Mister (you know the one…I photographed the osprey (?) nest then…) I came across a very similar bridge which crossed the canal.  This one was even narrower, and steeply humped.  I didn’t feel the fear though.  I actually stopped in the middle of it and shot this photo of it’s twin a bit further upwater. 

This begs the question, “What is it about that bridge?”  I don’t have a problem with all bridges, so why does that one bring me back to my childhood, hunched terrified in the backseat?  I haven’t got a clue.  Just one of those things…is there a psychologist in the house who could answer that question?  Feel free to post your psychiatric analysis in the comments.  (Fake analysis welcome.)  🙂