Many runners and cyclists and walkers like to plug in their earbuds when they hit the pavement, moving along Little Rock and North Little Rock’s scenic Arkansas River Trail with individual purpose. I don’t blame them, because there are yahoos like me out there singing, “We bike this city … we bike this city, Little Rock and Rooooll” to the tune of Starship’s 1985 hit.
It’s a typical refrain for me as I hop on my vintage cruiser, a rusty little beauty with a cushy seat, a wicker basket and (almost) three speeds. She was a 25th birthday gift from my then-boyfriend, now-husband Zachary. Before that, I hadn’t been on a bike since I was a kid. Even now, almost four years later, I’m not a very confident rider and I prefer flat terrain. Zach zooms past me on his sleek road racer, as I putter and heave along behind him. Still, I feel as picturesque as a French girl roaming the streets of Paris — baguette in basket, of course.
When we moved to our North Little Rock home, Zach and I knew we’d take advantage of our new location — several blocks from the river and its pedestrian trail. Our first year as Dogtown residents has been filled with free-wheeling adventures. In the spring (and even in the heat of summer) we’ve ridden to the farmers markets in Argenta and SoMa, gliding home with fresh vegetables and cheese tucked in my basket. We’ve pedaled over to the riverfront amphitheater to picnic and watch outdoor films. We’ve followed the North Little Rock trail along the Big Rock Quarry and the Arkansas River all the way to the Big Dam Bridge (clothing recommendation: anything but cut-off jorts). We even bundled up and commuted to work on a frigid January day (clothing recommendation: everything in your closet, but still not the jorts).
On a particular May evening last year, we cycled the 5-minute ride to Dickey-Stephens Park to meet friends for a Travelers game (if only 5 minutes of mildly-strenuous exercise excused my baseball-induced appetite for BBQ nachos and fried Oreos). After the game, Zach and I extended our ride, ascending the Main Street Bridge and pausing to hear the music below — Riverfest weekend, and Chicago was on the stage. The sound of their horns trailed us as we made our way back to the North Little Rock side and toward the Clinton Presidential Bridge. Harder beats and cheering crowds — a hip-hop performance brought us to a stop, along with a couple dozen boats in the river — all anchored to hear the performances.
We chugged up the steep slope of the Clinton Bridge and at the top — country rock. A ferris wheel turning slowly in the distance. “We bike this city … ” I sang on the way home, the thick wind in my frizzy hair and early summer humidity sticking to my skin. This city. Little Rock and Roll.
The true soundtrack of our city often drowns out my silly tunes: the real cyclists yelling “on your left” as they pass me on the trail; the train rumbling over the tracks and into the Union Pacific Railroad yard; summer revelers blasting music from their barges parked on the sand bars; beavers gnawing on a branch; skateboarders hitting the half-pipe in the park; the organ playing baseball classics at Dickey-Stephens Park; live music drifting across the water; and sometimes, all I hear is silence, my own uneven breathing and freedom.