Run report — Broløbet/Broloppet Bridge Run 2025
Damn, that was hard. After a slow start, several miles of hot tunnel (and I mean hot), okay going in but then becoming a skirmish against the senses. Down, down, down into the sticky furnaces of the earth, with a singular fan blowing a breeze with all the effort of a teenage Kevin.
Then up, up, up, towards a distant light that moves ever further away. Everything telling me to stop but no doors, no exits, only a vague promise that one day it might be over, even as part of me thinks I would be trapped forever, with forty thousand other runners on some infinite buried hamster wheel.
And then, done. A metal grid stretching above our heads, still incarcerated but breathing, then release into the air, the heat of the day tempered by a solid wind. Up further, onto the island before the bridge proper, dunes to the left, queues of vehicles to the right, filled with people contemplating their navigation choices.
Ahead, so far away, the two towers of concrete and steel looking oh so small. No spectators, only marshals, the occasional whooping driver, sometimes a silver-blanketed body surrounded by fluorescent first aiders. Pacing on with renewed vigour, still up and against the wind, but energised.
Then bam — a water station, run slows to a walk as hundreds of people suddenly, simultaneously have the same realisation. Hundreds of people who are not quite co-ordinated. Mini-tetrapaks and water everywhere. Immediately after, a banana station. Water everywhere and banana skins everywhere and what were they thinking, people slowing and sliding and… then we’re through.
On, on, on to the start of the bridge. Or the run towards it, over the sea but the concrete section. Which stretches and stretches, thousands of runners into the distance. The occasional foghorn of a truck, the bash, bash, bash of heels on asphalt. A kilometre marker, a timing mat to break the monotony. And the lamp posts.
Oh, the lamp posts. Impossible to count, though I try. How many to the bridge? Ten, twenty, thirty, a thousand? Try again. Ten, twenty… a water station. Out of nowhere, a brass band, stopping at the station then starting up again, first the saxophone, then an oom-pah-pah, then oh my god somebody is actually singing as they run. I laugh, they fade, leaving only lamp posts once more.
Time stops. The wind does not. At least the sun remains behind a veil of loose cloud. A slow incline. All thought of finishing gone, this will never end. Six miles says the Garmin, seven to go, but I know the truth, I never left the tunnel, all that remains on the planet following some cataclysmic event are a few thousand spectres of runners doomed to remain on the bridge for eternity.
A moment of lucidity. Six and a half miles, half way, fair play. The bridge is closer now, its twin peaks showing themselves as quite big actually. But still an age away, how many lamp posts? Ten, twenty, thirty, maybe sixty. The distance between each feels like a hundred miles. A water station, a medic on a bike, an ambulance, an injury.
On it goes. then a line of metal jaws (and a near trip) signals the start of the suspended bridge section. The first steel hawser stretches up and I feel extraordinarily high. I stop, in disbelief, for a photo, for a moment to collect any tendrils of thought that remain but all I have is, “This is so cool!” even as I don’t know why. I stop again, and again as I pass under the bridge, and for a moment stopping seems like the best idea in the world, until I remember it isn’t.
I carry on. Downhill now, land some four miles in the distance, seen through sea haze and sweat. I give up on lampposts and start counting steps, even as I find I have lost the ability to count. One, two, three, four — one. One, two, three, four — two. I pass a marker. Can I make a kilometre? I get to fifty, then a water station and I forget again. One, two, three, four — one.
Soon, nothing matters but counting. No bridge, no people, no destination. I pass another marker, then count to a hundred. Then two hundred. Surely that’s a kilometre? Two fifty, still no. My vision tunnels, I see nothing, I hear nothing but the steady increments. Three hundred and there’s a marker. Nineteen kilometres, two to go. I reset the counter. Six hundred is the target.
Five hundred now. I have nothing, I am spent, only the count keeps me going. Four hundred left, I am off the bridge, past a toll station. Three hundred, I bank into a park. Tears threaten my eyes but I force them back, hold onto the count. Then a meander, crowds, bells, cheers. Only the count counts. A sign for two hundred metres.
And then… we stop. The finish somewhere ahead, but the weight of runners was too much for it. We walk, and we stop. The count is gone, did any of this really happen? A bend, then a finish sign. The run is done. Minutes pass, I stretch, I amble across the final timing plate. Bemused, I find myself surrounded by disoriented runners and curious spectators, mixed like a pudding.
I see someone with medals, so I take one — a moment of elation. Someone else has water, and there, a crate of bananas. It is done. All over bar the bag pickup and bus queue, which is another epic in itself.
—
Thank you to Carla Arend for telling me about the event back in January 2024. To my co-runners Alun, Stuart, Sophie and Charlotte for making it all worthwhile, and to Mum, Liz, Nicky and Connor for being there. Amazing to bump into Dave and Val!