What running Bridge to Brisbane is really like

It’s 3:40am, and my first alarm of the morning has gone off.

I debate hitting snooze. I want to—I'd had a horrible sleep and went to bed much later than I knew I should have.

But the nerves win out, and I drag myself out of my warm bed. Within minutes, the kettle is on, and I’m pouring my first coffee of the day. I grab a banana from the fruit bowl and sit on the couch with my Kindle. I flick through the pages of my current romance read absentmindedly as I chomp on the banana, hoping to distract myself from the nerves building in my chest.

After finishing the coffee and banana, I feel slightly more human and put the kettle on again—this time to make a coffee for my boyfriend. I’ve heard him snooze his alarm twice now and realise he may need some caffeine to get him out of bed.

After handing him his coffee, I go to the race kit I’d meticulously prepared the night before. I put on my favourite running shorts and sports bra, my sweat socks, and the bright blue ‘Let’s Get Down to Brisness’ shirt. I’d contemplated not wearing it—I have my own favourite running shirts—but I figure it’s a fun run, so I may as well get into the spirit.

Then I strap on my brand-new running vest. I’d been thinking about getting one for months but didn’t feel like a serious enough runner to sport a vest. Bridge to Brisbane had provided the perfect excuse. We’d planned to take public transport to the event, and I needed somewhere to store my keys, headphones, phone, and, of course, some sour worms to snack on.

After plaiting my hair and applying copious amounts of sunscreen, we’re ready to go.

I expect the train station to be deserted—who’s catching a train at 4:30am for a running event, right?

A lot of people, evidently.

We manage to get a seat, but with each stop, more people pile on. My nerves start kicking in again. I know it’s silly—it’s a fun run for charity, no need to compete—but I’d trained for this 10km, and deep down, I was hoping to get a personal best time.

As we ride the train, I sip water to stay hydrated. Big mistake. By the time we pull into Murarrie Station, my bladder is near bursting.

Hundreds of people are exiting the train, creating a bottleneck at the station exit. The pain in my bladder grows, but I try to reassure myself that there will be portaloos at the event.

We join a sea of blue shirts and sneakers as we walk to the start line. Thousands of people, all gearing up to run across the Gateway Bridge.

As we approach the start area, I spot people standing in long queues.

Surely not, I think. That can’t be the line for the toilets.

But much to my horror, it is. I join the queue, leg bouncing as my boyfriend tries to calm me with reassuring words. The pain in my bladder is making me irritable, and I snap at him.

After ten minutes in line, I’m on the verge of tears, doing breathing exercises to distract myself from the growing discomfort.

We’ve barely moved. Our race start time is approaching, and I realise that if I stay in this queue, I’ll not only miss the start but likely wet myself too.

“You’re going to have to go in the bush,” my boyfriend says, matter-of-factly. I burst into tears.

“There are people everywhere!” I snap, my voice thick with horror.

He shrugs apologetically and takes my hand, leading me away from the line in search of some bushes. The sympathetic woman behind me promises to hold my place in the queue, just in case I can’t bring myself to pee outside.

We wander to the side of the event, where a bushy, fenced-off area offers some privacy. There are about thirty men relieving themselves against the fence, and I curse them for being so lucky. By now, the pain is unbearable, and I know I need to find somewhere, fast.

I spot another girl nervously looking around, clearly in the same predicament. Our eyes meet, and in that moment, we become kindred spirits. Without a word, we march into the long, wet grass in search of a secluded spot.

I find one and squat down, immediately feeling several strands of grass poking me in uncomfortable places. But at this point, I no longer care.

After what feels like the longest pee of my life, I hastily pull my pants back up and sheepishly exit the bushes. I spot other women nervously looking around and nod at them sympathetically.

“There’s a good spot back there,” I say, tilting my head towards the semi-hidden bushes.

I feel like a new person. So relieved. Literally.

I re-join my boyfriend, and we head to the start line. Holy crap, there are a lot of people.

The start times are separated into categories based on how quickly you expect to complete the race. The elite runners go first, followed by the ‘green’ category for those aiming to complete the 10km in under 60 minutes. Then comes ‘orange,’ for those expecting to take longer than an hour, followed by ‘white’ for the walkers.

It’s my first time doing Bridge to Brisbane and only my second ever running event, but I know how important these categories are to keep everything running smoothly on race day.

We’d both selected the green category.

The starting area for the green wave is packed. Thousands of runners are lined up, waiting to start. My boyfriend and I head towards the back, along with hundreds of others. Our start time is 6:25am, and by 6:20am, we’re in position, anticipation thick in the air.

Behind us, I spot the 65-minute pacers—people who run at a set speed so that runners around them can gauge their pace. I figure as long as we’re in front of them, we’re in the right place.

Our race numbers are printed with our colour category—mine’s green. But as I look around, I see more and more yellow and even white numbers, which confuses me. Yellow isn’t meant to start for another thirty minutes, and white shouldn’t start until 7:15am.

Our start time of 6:25am passes with little movement. I expect the line to surge forward, but it barely crawls.

More yellow and white numbers weave past me, and I grow irritated. Don’t they realise they’re not meant to start yet? They’re probably half the reason the line’s so congested.

Finally, by 7am, we reach the start line.

At last, we’re running. It’s a little intimidating to look up and see the Gateway Bridge looming ahead, knowing that’s where we’re headed. But unperturbed, my boyfriend and I settle into a comfortable jogging pace as we tackle the incline. Music blasts from a DJ booth, and the event commentators are hyping everyone up.

“If you’re walking, keep to the side,” they say, over and over.

So tell me why there are hundreds of people walking six abreast in the middle of the track? Why am I overtaking so many people who started in the ‘green zone’—meant to run the 10km in under 60 minutes—but are wearing yellow race numbers and taking leisurely strolls?

I don’t want to be a running snob—after all, I’m still a beginner—but I was getting really frustrated by the lack of respect. I know it’s not a race. I know we aren’t qualifying for the Olympics. But the categories exist for a reason, and with 35,000 participants, it’s crucial that people follow them.

If people want to walk the track, I think that’s fantastic! It’s a great way to join the event and have fun with friends. But that’s why there are separate categories for walkers, which start after the runners.

As I reach the crest of the bridge, a band is playing ‘Eye of the Tiger,’ which feels fitting. It gives me the push I need to get through that 1km of uphill running. Thankfully, there’s a sign at every kilometre mark, so I don’t need to keep checking my smartwatch to track my progress.

Most runners will tell you that the first 3km of any run are torturous. Your legs are warming up, you haven’t found your rhythm, and your brain is in overdrive. But after that, things start to click into place. Around the 3km mark, my boyfriend takes off at his own pace, leaving me to run alone.

With the sun beaming down, I finally relax into the run, settling into a steady pace. There are still walkers clogging the track, but I manage to duck and weave around them.

Every few kilometres, there’s some sort of booth set up—whether it’s a DJ blasting pump-up music, Brazilian drummers, a radio station reporting live, opera singers, or even performers on stilts blowing bubbles at the runners. These booths are perfectly spaced out along the 10km track, giving you the boost you need to keep going and maybe even up your pace. There are also people near these booths holding funny signs and offering high fives to those running past.

At the 8km mark, I’m feeling good and know I’ll be on track for a solid time if I keep my pace. My mouth starts to dry out, so I grab a cup of water at the final water station. I do a terrible job of actually getting the water into my mouth, but it does the trick.

I see the 9km sign and pick up the pace. I’m on the home stretch, and the end is so close. By this point, I’m, of course, busting to pee again. I push through the pain in my bladder, reminding myself that the faster I run, the quicker I’ll reach the toilets at the finish.

I pick up the pace even more as I close in on the finish line. I always like to end with a sprint, so I start building up my speed, dodging through the crowd. But as I round the last corner, the track narrows, creating a bottleneck. I’m trying to sprint, but there are so many walkers ahead of me that it’s a struggle to keep up my speed without bowling someone over.

Finally, I cross the finish line, and the feeling is amazing. This is why I do these events, and why I’ll keep doing more. The buzz of being surrounded by thousands of people who have just completed the run is unreal.

I walk through the massive shed area with crowds of people, catching my breath. Someone hands me my shiny medal, which I proudly slip over my head as I head out to find my boyfriend.

I stop my watch, and it congratulates me with a “Fastest 10km Run” badge—beauty! I’ve beaten my PB. But when I open Strava (the app I use to track my runs), it shows the run as my “Second Fastest 10km.”

We hang out in the grassy area behind the finish line for a while before deciding it’s time to head home. We make our way to Fortitude Valley station, waiting alongside a swarm of other Bridge to Brisbane runners for the next train.

Later that afternoon, I check the website for my official time to see if I beat my PB.

Three seconds off.

Three. Seconds. Off.

I want to be annoyed at the slow walkers who blocked my way, or at the person who veered into the middle of my running path without warning, or even at the few seconds it took me to gulp down that water. But honestly, I can’t be bothered.

I’m proud of myself and the time I achieved. It was a fantastic event, I felt fitter and stronger than ever, and I had an amazing time. Running with my boyfriend was great fun too.

Despite everything I’ve mentioned, my biggest gripe is with the portaloos. Please. I beg of you—an event of this size needs at least triple the number of portaloos provided!

Will I personally be doing this event again next year?

No. It’s a huge crowd, and I live pretty far from the city, so the early start was quite the trek. But if you live closer to the CBD, I definitely encourage you to give it a go, or at least go along to watch the runners stream past. It feels like a Brisbane bucket list item that I’m happy to tick off.