It's walking season again. On a recent day I logged nine miles: downtown to Riverdale, up through Allsopp Park to Hillcrest, down Markham and up again to the state Capitol, then home.
The walk up to Markham is easy enough. I'm happy to report that the Capital Hotel now pipes baroque or classical music into its lobby and bar and other public spaces; I don't remember what kind of music was played before, nor do I know who made the change or when, but it's so good to walk in to get coffee and hear music worthy of that beautiful old place.
No matter how many times I walk by, I always pause to admire the Old State House; Henry Miller called our Greek Revival state capitol "one of the most exquisite pieces of architecture in America." The expatriate Miller wrote that line while revisiting America in 1939. It wound up in an essay collection called "The Air-Conditioned Nightmare."
I am not in sympathy with snooty expatriates. I haven't left the U.S.A. in 18 years. I rejoice when my friends move home from Blue States. But Miller was not wrong to note that certain technologies, misapplied, have a deadening effect on American civilization.
There is nothing inherently wrong with air conditioning, television, or the automobile, but their pervasiveness and widespread misuse have sucked daily life into sealed containers. People are anxious and obese to the point of sickness from lack of contact with physical reality, lack of contact with the elements and the ground.
The least exertion, the least discomfort becomes intolerable. "You mean I've still got to walk?" a guy asked with disgust after I sold him a $20 parking spot at the Razorbacks-Golden Lions game at War Memorial in 2021. The spot was somewhere on the golf course. Not a long haul to the stadium.
Standing at Markham and Broadway, waiting to cross, my fear is that some paragon of modern mass man, enjoying every up-to-date convenience (a sealed air-conditioned vehicle, noise piped through speakers in his headrest or lodged in his ears, a small television on his dashboard or a smaller one in his palm), heedless of the red light, much less the yellow, will come speeding over the Broadway bridge or toward it--for speed is his right, his entitlement--and knock me out of this daily existence (slow, simple, defiant, and rich) that I enjoy so much.
Two young professionals cross behind me, and they are talking about leaving their babies at day care for the first time. They are practical people, without self-pity, but I hurt for them past City Hall and the old firehouse and into the "welcome to our fair city" section of Markham. Busted sidewalks, busted asphalt, someone usually asleep in the alcove of the private parking deck that no one seems to use, debris accumulated in the same, parking lots, blank modern buildings: District Court, Planning and Development Commission, LRSD.
In view of the Salvation Army, I head north on Ringo to the point where "the limited-access LaHarpe Boulevard cuts rudely across its path and closes it," as Donald Harington wrote in "The Cherry Pit." The median island makes jaywalking here less scary than the legal crossing at Broadway.
On the other side is a lovely pedestrian bridge, in place now for at least five years, still unconnected to the trail downhill that runs along the river. (North Little Rock has a River Trail; Little Rock has some very nice segments of trail here and there along the river. Telling innocent tourists otherwise is dangerous and wrong.)
The other option for crossing over the train tracks is the Lincoln Avenue Viaduct, completed in 1928. The bridge is beautiful, though no one can be expected to notice that while passing through at 40 miles per hour. The condition of the narrow elevated sidewalk on the north side is a disgrace, piled with broken glass and debris.
Arkansas Department of Transportation has laid new asphalt along this stretch of LaHarpe and Cantrell, but the edges are in disrepair. Half of the city's elite pass through here every day on their way to work. Business leaders. Philanthropists. People who care. People whose interests would be served if we were able to recruit talented young people to come and work here, or if we were able to retain our own talent.
Why do people who want the best for the city tolerate trash and disrepair along such a beautiful stretch of road, a key corridor? Because at 40 miles per hour, it's hard to notice. That is the culture of speed.