During Key West’s “bad old days,” the scariest thing I ever did was drive a malfunctioning Toyota truck across the old Seven Mile Bridge from the Lower Keys to Marathon.
It might not sound scary, but at that time the two-lane bridge was the width of a two-car garage, and my truck’s “malfunction” was an uncontrollable side-to-side shimmy.
The truck had no business developing a shimmy. It was almost brand new, bought by my fiancé Phil from a local dealership — a spot where scammers felt safe plunking down cash for cars.
He purchased the truck, his surprise gift to me after a lucrative “business deal,” one day while I was waitressing at the Top of the La Concha.
The Top, with its worn carpet and super-sized picture windows, stood on the seventh floor of the then-shut-down La Concha Hotel on Key West’s Duval Street. It was a favorite hangout for high-rollers and local notables, offering a breathtaking panorama of the island.
Its parking lot, seven stories below, was easily visible from the picture windows. When Phil strolled into the bar that day, he directed me to the parking-lot view.
“Look down there,” he said proudly, pointing at the vehicles. “See the blue truck? That’s yours.”
It was really his, of course, though he insisted it was mine. Occasionally I even took the wheel to navigate the island’s streets.
Navigating across the terrifyingly narrow old Seven Mile Bridge, however, was something else entirely.
Actually, it was simply known as the Seven Mile Bridge then — because this was before 1982, when a wide modern bridge replaced the dangerously weather-worn older one.
The original span had carried traffic since 1938, as part of the Overseas Highway that stretched from the mainland to Key West. Adapted from a former railroad track, its northbound and southbound lanes were each just 11 feet wide — with no shoulders.
The journey across the bridge was gorgeous, offering sweeping vistas of blue-green water on both sides, but drivers rarely noticed. They were too busy dodging oncoming traffic, gripping their steering wheels with white-knuckled intensity, and praying.
That’s what I wound up doing one afternoon in 1980. Phil was waiting at a marina in Marathon, 50 miles north of Key West, after a brief cruise to Bimini — and I agreed to pick him up.
Most of the drive went fine. “My” truck rolled easily over small bridges and through island hamlets, passing roadside eateries and tropical vegetation.
As I reached the Seven Mile Bridge and started across it, however, my hands tightened on the wheel. It was a daunting drive, and everybody in the Keys knew that.
A couple of oncoming cars whizzed by, followed by a large van that seemed frighteningly close but passed safely.
Just as I told myself I could handle this, the truck began to shimmy.
Initially the shimmy felt minor. Seconds later, it escalated until the truck was bouncing from side to side like a ping-pong ball on steroids.
The seven-mile length of that bridge felt like 70. I fought the wheel all the way, attempting unsuccessfully to control the shimmy. I pounded on the horn, trying to warn oncoming cars each time the truck bounced into their lane, and muttered prayers when it bounced back to graze the bridge rail.
After what seemed like hours, I shimmied off the bridge into Marathon — miraculously alive, without serious damage to the truck or any other vehicle — and pulled into the marina where Phil stood.
“Your truck seems to have a little shimmy,” he commented, opening the driver’s side door as I slid over into the passenger seat.
“It sure does,” I said, limp and exhausted. “But it’s YOUR truck.”
