I’m not usually one to get dizzy from news headlines, but this one gave me a touch of vertigo just reading it. The Huajiang Grand Canyon Bridge in southern China has officially opened, and it’s now the world’s tallest bridge standing 2,050 feet above the Beipan River. That’s half a mile in the air. You’re basically driving in cloud country.

The thing stretches roughly 4,600 feet long and chops a two-hour canyon-crossing commute down to two minutes. Talk about bridging the gap. The world’s highest-speed networking event is now a literal highway.

I can’t even imagine being up that high. I’m not afraid of heights, but it must be challenging being suspended over a canyon with nothing but some cables and your existential thoughts? That’s an invitation for your amygdala to start tap-dancing.

Sure, the view must be breathtaking. Literally, in that “I can’t breathe because I’m 2,000 feet above the earth’s crust” kind of way. You’d probably alternate between awe and mild panic, wondering if this is what it feels like to be a bird or an overconfident human.

What fascinates me, though, is that China keeps breaking its own bridge records. The previous world’s tallest bridge? Also in Guizhou Province. They’re in a friendly competition with themselves, building up and up and up. It’s like architectural self-therapy: “How can we go higher? How can we be taller? How can we conquer the next canyon of the psyche?”

Meanwhile, in New York City, we can’t even fix a subway elevator without drowning in paperwork. But maybe this is the future. Vertical commutes will be the norm. Picture it: sky lanes spiraling above Manhattan, Teslas and CitiBikes whooshing through the clouds, and someone yelling, “You’re blocking my lane in the stratosphere!”

It all sounds very Blade Runner meets Fifth Dimension. Instead of “going to work,” you’d be ascending to work. Instead of traffic jams, we’ll have air-space congestion and the occasional flying bagel sandwich incident.

Still, there’s something deeply poetic about the Huajiang Grand Canyon Bridge. It’s not just concrete and cables. It represents the human urge to connect across vast distances, to look at an impossible chasm and say, “Yeah, I can build over that.”

Or maybe it’s just our collective way of proving that even when we rise above it all, we still crave the thrill and terror of the drop.

Either way, I’d love to see it one day. Just not sure if I’d drive across it. Sure. Of course I would. I may just cling to the passenger seat with my eyes closed (while somehow taking a selfie), muttering, “This better be two great insightful minutes into my psyche.”