Sydney Harbour Bridge Climb: Comfort zone, be gone.

Last month I climbed the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Yes, harbour here includes the letter u because that’s how you spell the word in The Land Down Under. 

I want to get the memories written down so I don’t forget. I have tons of pictures, but pictures only tell one part of a story. Plus, this was something I was wicked stressed about doing.  Yet I got it done. The climb is a good reminder that yes, even in my dotage I can still do hard things.That bridge climb was one of my favorite experiences ever. 

Though in truth climbing the bridge wasn’t hard at all. Getting there was though. 

Here’s how it went for me. 

Though I was in Australia almost three weeks, I was only due to be in Sydney a total of five nights. Scheduling the climb was the hardest thing about it. 

Our days were packed: 

Thursday:  late afternoon arrival from Adelaide, then Marathon Expo. 

Friday: morning city tour, three-hour break then walk to harbour with a u, then three-hour cruise.  

Saturday: free day until 4:30 pre-race dinner. 

Sunday: marathon. 

Monday: all-day wine tour. 

Tuesday: depart for Cairns, which is pronounced the way New Englanders say ‘cans’.

With Saturday the only free day for the bridge climb and Sunday being the marathon, I was worried about the timing. Didn’t seem like the smartest thing, to climb then descend 1,332 steps the day before a 26.2-mile run. But when would I be in Sydney again?

I went back and forth on whether to stay in and rest on Saturday or do the climb. Suspect I was hoping that the decision would be made for me, and the bridge climb would sell out before I could register. 

In the end, I signed up the day before my departure to Australia. Turns out the bridge climb didn’t sell out anyhow. I could have shown up the day of and easily gotten in. Not sure if this is standard all year round. Technically it was still winter in Sydney, which as I understand, is a quieter season for tourists, so maybe that’s one reason there were still day of openings?

Maybe the weather had something to do with all the openings. It was a blustery day, with winds topping 30 miles an hour for much of it. God knows what the wind would be like on the expansive, open top of a bridge. (I found out!)  When I saw the weather report, I considered backing out. Then figured these folks were pros. They’d cancel if the weather was dangerous. They weren’t canceling so, gulp, here goes. 

The tour entrance was built into one of the bridge pylons, an easy downhill a mile from my hotel, past office and government buildings and into The Rocks, a quainter, more historic section of narrow lanes lined with old pubs, upscale restaurants, artsy boutiques, and lots of outdoor market stalls. After checking in at the front desk, I wandered through the adjacent souvenir store/cafe before making my way upstairs to the waiting area. 

Timing was oddly specific, with groups entering the pre-climb area every five minutes or so. My entry ticket time: 10:05. 

Me and the dozen other folks on the tour - two little families, a couple, and a few fellow singletons, entered a hallway with lots of doors.  Each door led to a staging area. In the first, we sat in a semicircle and were asked to say our first name, our country, and one interesting thing about ourselves. I said I was doing my 98^thmarathon the next day. Another woman said she was doing Sydney too, and it was her first marathon. Two folks were celebrating an anniversary. One gent was visiting his 48^th country. He was the only other person besides me from North America. All the other folks were local. There were a few kids who shyly gave their names and grades, middle and high schoolers. One woman said she was terrified of heights and was there to challenge herself. We all clapped loudly for her. 

Next, we watched a slide show where we got to see the astronaut-type coveralls we’d be wearing and reviewed safety guidelines. Because we would be so high off the ground, dropping even small items would likely severely injure or possibly kill anyone below. We weren’t allowed to carry phones or water bottles. Any dangling jewelry needed to be removed, including watches, bracelets, earrings. Anything we needed, like hats or eyeglasses, would be attached to our suits. 

Next, we entered another room where we were given our uniforms and instructed on how to wear them. We were reminded to use the bathrooms, as there were none on the bridge, and were reminded to grab a sip of water if we wanted, because we wouldn’t have anything to drink until we returned. 

We each were given a breathalyzer test. No alcohol allowed in any way, shape, or form either on or in our bodies. They were very strict about this. 

Next, we were led into a giant locker room area with rows of curtained changing rooms. I understand that in warmer weather, folks are advised to strip to their skivvies due to the heat.  Due to the windy, colder conditions, we were told to leave our street clothes on.  Our coveralls zipped up both the front and back, were hooded and had attached mittens. Staff helped us as needed. 

We stored our valuables in lockers, and wore the keys on chains around our necks, tucked securely inside our suits. Staff secured my reading and sunglasses to my suit on the attached carabiners. Staff double- and triple-checked that we were all safely attired. 

In single file we walked into a tall room, about the size of a basketball court. Standing on marked spots, which we were assigned based on our height – I was with the middle schoolers, we were inspected once more and then given a baseball cap or a knitted hat, our choice. I took the cap. The bridge folks attached this to my suit. 

We were instructed to step forward and into the safety harness across from us, one leg first, then the next, then pulled up and over our shoulders. Then we buckled the harness at the waist. Personnel ensured that these fit snugly.

A few steps to the next staging area, and each of us stood at yet another marked spot. Here, we were given earmuff-like headsets and a radio, both then clipped to our harness.  Then we met our best friend, our belaying device, which was also secured in place. By now we had a team leader. He tested each of our radios and headsets to make sure they worked. 

Then came the fun part. 

Many of us, me included, had gasped a little as we approached this staging section because of the giant elephant in the room – a bunch of ladders that we knew we’d have to climb to prepare for the bridge. 

It was time to practice.

We were taught how to attach our belaying device to the steel rod that would secure us to the ladder structure, then practiced going up one ladder, traversed a corner, then up another ladder, across a small, one-person wide bridge, then down two ladders that also included a few corner elements. 

In total we climbed and descended perhaps twenty feet. I remember thinking, “If I’m so stressed out now, how the heck will I survive climbing ladders that are hundreds of feet off the ground?” From that point on, I resolved to not think so much. 

Then it was go-time. 

Our intrepid little team left the staging area, still single file, and posed for before pics. Then we attached our belaying devices to the steel rail that we would follow for our entire two-hour journey to the top of the bridge and back. 

 As the rooms we were in were already located deep in one of the giant legs of the bridge’s foundation, we didn’t have far to go. Simply down a narrow hall and out the door and boom. Just like that, we were on the bridge, already a few stories above the street. 

No biggie. That’s what I told myself. Then I reminded myself to stop thinking. 

Via our headsets, our guide shared history about Sydney, the Opera House a half mile away, and bridge construction. Our pathway was narrow, just wide enough so that if our leader needed to leave his post at the front and get to someone in the back of the line, he’d be able to do so easily. While we weren’t enclosed by walls on either side, we had railings, one of which we stayed attached to for the duration of the trip. 

The wind picked up -- that’s an understatement, as we moved forward, our nylon leashes clanging along on the steel rod as we ascended. The entire trek, we negotiated sustained wind gusts of up to 60 miles per hour. My cap kept flying off, and my headphones constantly slid to my back. I don’t recall much of what we were told that day.  I do recall the anxiety at the start. This, coupled with driving winds is what stands out the most about our initial ascent. 

In front of me was a nervous high schooler. Behind was the 48-country guy. We all laughed and joked and talked about the wind. Occasionally my leash would stick as we took corners. That nice guy behind me was always there to help jiggle it forward.  

I never felt unsafe, not once. Even as we climbed the three ladders to move on to the next bridge level. Even as the wind battered us. The first many minutes of the trip to the top, I kept my eyes focused on the path ahead of me. The wind was so treacherous I was worried I’d get blown off the structure. “Get out of your head!” That’s what I kept telling myself.

The guide was so kind, and we were all laughing and chatting. I started relaxing, and bravely started observing everything around me, the boats cruising in the distance, the city scape behind us, the tourists, like dots, on the streets and ferries far below. 

The grade never got super steep. It was a gradual uphill, for the most part a ramp.  Though as we crested the bridge, we did hit a couple dozen shallow stairs.  At the top, an awesome 440 feet above the water, we posed for pictures. The guide shared stories about marriage proposals that had taken place there. Some went well. Some were bad. We laughed a lot. The wind continued to whip us but at that point I think we’d all accepted it as just another part of the adventure. One person said it made the trip even more memorable. That’s for sure. 

If you examine bridge pictures, you see that the midpoint of the bridge is marked by a couple of flags, the Australian flag and the New South Wales state flag, It was at that point that we crossed to the other side, the walkway still narrow, still protected on each side by rails. The entire time, we stayed leashed to our trusty steel rod. Then we began our slow descent. 

During both the ascending and descending parts of the trip, we’d occasionally stop for several minutes while our guide took our individual photos. As we ascended, good doobies all, we dutifully clutched our railing with both hands. We’d gotten relaxed over the next hour. At one point while waiting to descend, the kid in front of me put all his weight on his arms, lifted himself up, and let the wind carry him back and forth like he was a flag. It was a cool scene, but the teacher in me couldn’t resist: “Dude, if you think I’m going after you if you fall over the side, think again.” Then I told him I was impressed. 

When we reached the three ladders we’d need to descend, the mood, for all of us I think, shifted from relaxed back to anxious again. For one, the wind was even more brutal than ever. For another, going down a ladder is harder than going up. One at a time we descended, under the watchful gazes of a guide at the top and another at the bottom. Far below us, cars and trucks rumbled across the bridge highway. 

Suddenly we were back, just a few stories above the earth. As we walked what seemed now like a short distance to the building entrance, we laughed, whooped, and shouted thanks to our guide. Once inside again we found ourselves in the gym where the ladders stood. Under the direction of our guide, we removed our safety harnesses and hung them up, then detached our glasses, caps, belayer devices and other paraphernalia, depositing these into specifically marked slots. Our hair was disheveled, faces ruddy and wind burnt.  I felt invigorated and alive, like I could now go forth and do anything I set my mind to. 

We collected our things from our lockers and as we walked out were presented with an opportunity to buy the photos our guide had taken. As part of our package, we got to keep our hats, and we each received a complimentary group photo taken at the mid-point of the bridge. I’m not a big fan of company-produced photos, but we weren’t allowed to bring cameras or phones with us, so I had opted when I registered to buy the photo package. I’m glad I did. Who knows when or if I’ll ever be back? Though I do hope to return some day. 

It’s been over a month since the climb. I don’t remember everything and I’m guessing I’ve probably messed up some of the specifics. But here’s something I’m sure of: That was one of the best days of my life. And I’ve had a great life, so that means something. As I set new goals and plans, I know this memory of a time I literally climbed out of my comfort zone will spur me on to new highs. I’m ready. 

Everything. I'm afraid of everything.

 “What are you afraid of?”

That was my mother. I don’t remember the context exactly. I know it was sometime in the mid-90s. I picture me, my mom, dad, and two daughters sitting at a table in an Italian restaurant one town over. It’s dusky outside and in. Probably mid-week, because that’s when my parents liked to take us out. 

I remember the tone of her voice: irritated. 

I remember my mood in response: pissed.  Beyond pissed. 

Pretty sure I said nothing. Or something non-committal like: “I dunno.” Maybe I shrugged. 

How else to respond to those words, that tone, in a public place with impressionable kids nearby?  Also, if I responded truthfully, I’d break open a dam and out would spill a river of paragraphs that would kill me to say, damage my kids to hear, and probably barely impact my interrogator. 

I don’t think my mom ever understood how much courage you need to: go to court on your own, file restraining orders, testify in front of judges, lawyers, family, and strangers about awful things, work 14-hour days and at the same time keep it together enough to raise two kids. Just getting out of bed was a struggle back then. 

What I was afraid of in the 90s: everything. I was stumbling through uncharted territory, living a nightmare of a life that, in simplest terms, I never expected or felt I deserved to live.  One shoe would drop. Then another. Storms of dropped shoes every second of every day. It was awful.  

I didn’t have the words at the time to describe my headspace then, but I have them now: depression, anxiety, all due to and part of a whopping case of post-traumatic stress disorder. Well, it’s “post” now. During most of the 90s it was present. Worst thing ever?  At the time, yes. The birds of sadness were not just nesting in my hair. They were pecking at my brain and chewing on my innards. (see Sharon Creech, Walk Two Moons.)

Now, with decades of distance, therapy, and lots of time for reflection, I’ve developed some skills. I still have residual stuff, including the occasional trigger, but for the most part have learned how to cope and move on. 

Have yet to meet a person whose life has gone as planned, though back in the ‘90s everyone was doing better than I was. Or so I thought. Like I said, I know more now than I knew then. I still have a lot to learn.  

One thing I know for sure. That moment when my mother asked me, “What are you afraid of?” Irritated the crap out of me back then. But now? I embrace the whole scene like a gift.

Whenever I’m afraid to step outside of my comfort zone --  choosing to run a race I know I’ll struggle to finish, or, like this very minute, as I struggle to write something I’m not sure I’m really ready to write, I think back to that night in the restaurant, and my mother’s words. 

I recall the tone especially, and how awful I felt as I struggled to come to terms with a response, any response, and couldn’t, because deep down, even as I had an answer – that my life right now was fraught with worry and fear and she had no idea – I was wondering too about anger, fear, and who I wanted to be, and how the heck would I ever get there. 

I was teaching sixth grade in 2001 and had some close relationships with some awesome parents. Of course I told everyone back then, my fellow teachers, students, parents that I was running the Boston Marathon, because that’s who I was at the time. 

One of the parents who I chatted with at dismissal nearly every day, gave me a book of courage quotes to help keep me motivated. Her last name translates to “king.” So, every time I think of her, even now, I picture a crown on her head. 

Before every long run for Boston 2001 – every, single, long run, I kid you not – I read a page from that book, which sat right on top of my bureau so I couldn’t miss it. I’d open randomly to any spot. I’d read that quote and as I ran, often further than I ever thought possible, I’d keep that quote in my heart. I’d think it. Sometimes I’d even shout it. 

That book is trashed now, because I taped pages from it all over the house – my bedroom mirror, bathroom mirror, kitchen cabinets, refrigerator, and to my pencilholder, stapler, index card box, and file cabinet at school. Here’s a favorite quote that I repeat even now, after all these years: “Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear – not absence of fear.” 

My mother is in my heart with every breath I take. Her words, including, “What are you afraid of?” They’re everywhere all the time, embedded in every fiber of my being. For better, worse, best, I am my mother’s daughter.  

Life has changed a lot since she passed. Often, I still walk with fear. But you know what? That’s a good thing. In fact, fear is one of my best ever triggers. If I want something hard and I want it bad enough and I’m afraid either to go for it or that I will fail, my mother’s words come hard and fast. And in that same instant, so does courage. And resolve. 

The whole reason for writing today was to get down on paper before I forget, what it was like to climb the Sydney Harbor Bridge. I was going to write about how I was afraid at first. My brain told me I needed to write this instead.

I’m sure the memory of climbing that bridge will be just as clear tomorrow as it is today. 

But now I need to sign up for my next overseas race. It’s in an absolutely crazy location and the logistics of getting there are a little overwhelming. There are fear triggers everywhere. I know I’m not totally ready to do this. But I’m going to try. 

Forward, courage.