Twenty-five miles later I pull over, flip up my shield, and say to David, "I've been thinking about that jump."
"Me too.
"Let's go back and do it. We'll never be here again."
So, we ride back, pay our money, get weighed (for bungee length), walk out on the bridge, and get in line, David first. They wrap a towel and a nylon strap around the ankles of his motorcycle boots and latch the bungee to the strap. David tells them, "I'm kind of worried, because my boots are about two sizes too big for me. They're pretty loose."
The kid who hooks up the rope says, "If it feels like you're going to slip out and fall into the river, just curl up your toes."
David does not laugh as hard at this joke as you'd think.
The man just ahead of David jumps off the bridge and disappears from our sight. The kid looks over the edge and cries, "Oh, NO!"
"What happened'?"
"Ripped both his legs off!"
David smiles wanly. Then it's his turn.
He bravely jumps without hesitation and disappears into oblivion. Then I see he's been lowered into the tethered raft on the river below and returned to the riverbank. He is actually waving and smiling.
My turn. I hop to the edge of the bridge platform, my feet tied together, and look down.
If there was ever anything that goes against 5 million years of human evolution, it is the concept of diving head first off a 143-foot bridge over cold rushing water with your feet tied together. There is a special place in your brain set aside for the express purpose of telling you not to do this thing.
Nevertheless, I jump. The moment of jump is an odd existential experience, but the stretch and triple recoil of the bungee is pure and simple whoopdee-doo fun, like being tossed in a blanket, and is surprisingly unstressfull on the joints, muscles, and spine. When you are lowered into the raft (like a side of beef) you feel relaxed, refreshed, and loose. Another triumph of endorphins over reality.
Leanings Peter Egan p179-180