"I'm running a half-marathon today, which will complete my pandemic goal," I announced.
My wife turned. "Your what?"
"Pandemic goal."
"That sounds almost sacrilegious. Seems like 'pandemic' and 'goal' shouldn't be used in the same breath."
"No, it's fine," I said. "It's like a New Year resolution."
"You should wear a mask."
"No need, I give a wide berth when I'm running."
"Not for when you're running. For when you use dumb terms like 'pandemic goal.' Maybe people won't recognize you."
I'd been working up to a half-marathon, a goal I'd given myself back in March. I've run that far before, but it's been a while. Why not take the silent streets as opportunity to set a benchmark and work toward it? Besides, it'll give me a chance to check out the city.
I left Hillcrest, a neighborhood that grew during the Harding administration. Most houses are approaching the century mark with their large front porches and total lack of garages. I ducked onto the west branch of the Allsopp Trail, named for Arkansas newspaperman Fred Allsopp, who gained fame as the Arkansas Gazette's business manager in the early 20th century. One characteristic I've always envied about Allsopp--in addition to his day job, he owned an independent bookstore downtown. Maybe someday, I thought, as I hopped over roots rubbed by foot traffic and rocks poking from the ground like mini pyramids.
Crossing Cantrell Road, I took a right along Riverfront Drive into Riverdale. This water-bordered neighborhood has easy access to the Arkansas River and scenic spots along it. The great flood of 1927 mangled the area but allowed its rebirth as an enticing residential and commercial centerpiece. It made me think of John Barry's history of the 1927 floods, Rising Tide, which offers an insightful description of natural disasters' historic ripple effects.
I ran past the old Verizon headquarters, dodged some geese, and moved east on the River Trail. Passing Junior Deputy Fields, Episcopal Collegiate School's lush campus came into view, and then the Cantrell Road Bridge built in 1928.
Running downtown in the early morning is invigorating. I moved south on Ringo Street, angling past Doe's Eat Place. Earlier this year, Lindsey Millar of the Arkansas Times did an excellent piece on the history and personalities of that great restaurant.
I took a right on Capitol Avenue down to Seventh Street where I ambled toward the sun. I passed Vino's, that legendary pizzeria and brewery, then moved south and east again to Ninth Street, with the Mosaic Templars Cultural Center rising high above the corner where John Carter, a black man, was lynched in 1927. A beautiful mural on the backside of the center stood in contrast to that dark stain.
I ran past Arkansas Arts Center construction and the rest of MacArthur Park, named for the Little Rock-born general. I crossed the pedestrian bridge over I-630 and an unleashed pit bull gave chase; a woman in a smock waddled after it screaming, "He's friendly! He's friendly!" I sped up, wondering if she was yelling at me or the dog.
Quickly, I came to the Pettaway neighborhood, one of my longtime favorites in Little Rock. New construction borders 100-year-old houses, people of all races and backgrounds populating the sidewalks. The neighborhood gained notoriety as the home of the 21st Street Posse during the 1990s gang wars, but now, a revitalization effort is underway and the impact is evident. I ran by a brick wall on 17th Street with an inset quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Always do what you are afraid to do."
West from Pettaway led to the Quapaw Quarter, Little Rock's oldest neighborhood, which includes the Governor's Mansion. I ran a complete circle around the home of the state's highest official wondering if the governor was getting any sleep with all the pandemic worry.
I ran by Dunbar Gardens and headed north toward Arkansas Baptist College until crossing the unseen border into the Central High neighborhood, grazing the Arkansas Children's Hospital campus along the way. With the sun at my back, it was time for home.
Daisy L. Gatson Bates Drive is a path through the soul of Little Rock. The Central High crisis still looms as an historical high-water mark, a time that challenged the city's direction, sparking a painfully slow and much needed transformation. The architecture of Central High is a work of genius and one can almost hear the countless long-ago conversations embedded within its walls.
I moved north on South Park Street and under I-630. After checking out the gritty White Water Tavern off Seventh Street I continued west to Lamar Porter Field, named for a boy who attended Little Rock public schools, the Sewanee Military Academy, and the University of Virginia, where he was killed in a car accident. His family donated the land for the ballpark one year after his death in 1934. On Mother's Day.
I passed through the Capitol View neighborhood and back into Hillcrest, climbing from Markham Street through a series of switchbacks. My legs ached by that time, my mind filled with Little Rock's neighborhoods. I looked at my running watch as I approached home.
"How far?" my wife called from the porch.
"Twelve miles."
"That's not a half-marathon."
"Yes, thank you for reminding me."
I didn't quite make the pandemic goal, but I was struck again by why I love Little Rock. I found myself proud, not so much for the run but for the city that continues to flow like the river that borders it. Despite some dark times, whirlpools of grief and challenge, the city transforms and moves forward.
Always, forward.
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Steve Straessle, whose column appears every other Saturday, is the principal of Little Rock Catholic High School for Boys. You can reach him at sstraessle@lrchs.org.
Editorial on 05/30/2020