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In June of 2015, New York City began the demolition and replacement of several bridges along the Belt Parkway in south Brooklyn.

It was a massive endeavor. The bridge over Mill Basin differed from the one over Paerdegat Basin in that it was a draw bridge, and quite longer. It was also in really poor shape; large cracks had appeared in the concrete on the narrow pedestrian path, and there was no barrier in between it and the traffic; just the curb.

If you happened to slip on the loose concrete, it would be the end of the road.

I was quite familiar with the terrain because I ran over both bridges at least three times every week. They are one mile apart.

I realized the new bridges needed to be erected before the old ones were demolished. This was because if they did the demolition first, cars would simply drive off of the highway, and into the water below.

I’m pretty smart.

The old bridges nervously watched as their replacements were being built approximately 100 feet to their north. And what a wonder to watch! Once a bridge was completed, the highway needed to be diverted toward it, as did the pedestrian path. This in itself was a Herculean task, and the thousands of cars speeding by at all hours did not help.

When that was finally accomplished, the enormous task of disassembling the old bridges began. Day by day, they slowly disappeared.

Huge barges were parked in the water below, as dozens of workers took the 75 year old bridges apart, bit by bit.

What I found to be even more amazing was that the workers never allowed their job to impede my run. Regardless of what was happening – cranes lifting dozens of huge steel girders, trucks moving massive amounts of soil and concrete, trees being ripped up and replanted elsewhere, welders crouching to complete their precise tasks with sparks flying- when I approached, someone would blow a whistle and all work – along with the accompanying din – would come to a halt until I ran safely by.

It made me feel a bit guilty; dozens of workers just standing around, waiting for me to run out of range. Then another whistle, and work would resume. Until I approached from the other direction, on my way back.

After only three years, the new Mill Basin bridge was open for business; it no longer is a draw bridge (which often got stuck when open; I once fell asleep at the wheel, waiting for it to close), as it climbs 60 feet higher than its predecessor in order to accommodate boat traffic of all sizes.

The remains of the old bridge looked like it had been attacked by invading aliens from outer space.

There was, however, one stretch of the new pedestrian path between the two bridges that had yet to open.

As I approached on one February day in 2019, the new road was enticing: freshly paved, untouched by bicycles or sneakers. Even the seagulls, circling 40 feet overhead, knew better than to drop their recently snatched clams from their beaks on this stretch of road; they chose to dine elsewhere.

The new road beckoned me to run upon it. I would have ignored the rope and ‘Do Not Enter!’ sign that was still present, if not for the half dozen attentive workers at the other end; so I resigned myself to take the awful, temporary alternate route.

I hated that route!

A sharp right turn took me there; it was actually on the highway, safely tucked behind four foot concrete barriers, with a six foot fence attached, leading to an overhead fence.

The path was dim, narrow, noisy and dirty. Barely enough space for two people to even pass one another. I was forced onto it during every run for six months, and each time I prayed it would be the last.

When I emerged, I came upon the workers I had seen from the other side. I waved hello as usual, but they kept their heads down and ignored my greeting.

How unusual. They must be in a bad mood today, I thought. Very odd behavior…

I ran across the beautiful new Mill Basin bridge, then another half mile to Flatbush Avenue, at which point I turned for home.

When I came off the bridge and made the turn to take the temporary path across, I came face to face with the construction workers who were, strangely enough, lined up, blocking my path.

I stopped running, and stood four feet away from them. We just stared at one another for awhile.

“What’s…up?” I finally asked, rather timidly.

The fellow to my left took a small step forward. His left hand went up, twirled a few times, then unfurled dramatically towards the new road, palm up.

The realization slowly dawned on me.

“Am I the first?” I asked, excitedly.

“You,” the fellow responded, construction helmet cradled in his other hand, “are number one!”

He then ceremonially cut the rope.

Shocked, I slowly turned onto the immaculate road to resume my run. The workers, smiling, lined up to ‘high five’ me as I passed. Then they applauded!

I ran three more miles to get home. My sneakers didn’t hit the ground once…