The Temple and the Lake

Through the winter months, Nashville's 5K circuit called me back. A quick look at my waistline, and I had to accept. My participation became too spotty, too wedded to training for longer runs for which I wasn't equipped. I missed it too much. After a fun, fast race through the Opryland Hotel Complex, I signed up for Running to Beat the Blues, a 5K that supports mental health services and curls on a flat route through Centennial Park.

 I also miss Centennial Park. Until I walked along Centennial Lake Saturday morning, I did not know how badly. When living in West Nashville, I would spend mornings there on the weekend, riding my bike or running. Forget the Opry or the Ryman – the Parthenon will always be my favorite Nashville structure. Holly McCall took me here a decade ago, and it has always stood as a shining example of what the city can do. Shelby Park and the Shelby Bottoms Greenway cannot replace the Parthenon and the lake’s off-limits islands.

Prior to the starting gun, I walked along one lake path, the sun breaching the patchy clouds and shimmering on the water. Chattering among themselves, a mallard duck duck family floated past. I could have fit two or three of the hatchlings in my hand.

The race departed from 5K paths previously taken through the park. In a series of almost concentric loops, it passed through most paved areas of the park, the loops never rarely repeating. My traditional “Doughboy” race shirt caught the attention of a silver-maned man who told me about a doughnut race in Raleigh, N.C, where participants ran a certain distance and had to eat doughnuts before they continued. He said Nashville should own a race like that, and I heartily agreed. Maybe Nashville could make it a pancake race. People would jump at the chance to sample the Pancake Pantry’s wares without waiting in that ludicrous line (no pancake is worth that wait). I might even run it.

Overall, the race slipped by. The Opryland race ran a little faster thanks to tour buses that ambled into the course. But Running to Beat the Blues blinked by. I finished a little past 33 minutes (slow, I know), pounded several bottled waters and wandered back down the lake path, where the duck family had withdrawn and the geese babbled endlessly.

Sunday started slowly. Nancy had an afternoon fiddle lesson. After an eye-opening lunch at Anatolia, Nashville’s premier Turkish restaurant, made me into an instant fan of Iskender kabobs, we broke off for Centennial Park. It was close to Nancy’s lesson, and mention of the ducks necessitated a quick stop. There were few places to park, but on the grounds, private moments were common. After she departed for her lesson, I nestled against a column of the old stone replica and slogged through a few pages of my book. In 30 minutes, I barely flipped 10 pages. The people-watching was too ridiculous to ignore. In a tiny sampling, I saw bad tattoos, bad haircuts, motorcyclists cruising the park blasting sub-Barry White fuck music, and heard almost every language imaginable.

Centennial Park became a melting pot, but sure enough, Nashvillians of all colors and creeds wandered around the temple and the lake. A score of photographers wandered by. Dozens of families did the same. A dreadlocked, Humboldt County-type walked by, each arm leashed to dog, one a mutt, the other a purebred Husky. Without warning the man broke into a dead run across an empty meadow, dreadlocks flailing. The dogs easily met his challenge. His husky’s stride couldn’t help but be the most graceful sight of the weekend. At the meadow’s other end, they dropped and he scratched both dogs furiously. The dogs basked in their simple reward.

Getting antsy and unable to read, I returned to the paths. On the bank opposite the Parthenon, the ducks reappeared, drawing more spectators than on Saturday morning and relishing their cuteness. I furiously texted Nancy, hoping she could return to Centennial before the ducks retreated to their island hideout again. Minutes later we found each other on the path. Nancy and I circled the lake, caught sight of a few fish (most no bigger than minnows), some bloated Canadian geese and enough wasted bread to assemble several loaves - but no ducklings. The bird parents knew to limit their progeny’s time on the water and to disappear to their island enclave.

On this afternoon, the weather called for a nap. My proclivity for sleep downright demanded it. The napping rarely went deeper than Centennial Lake. Even during brief bursts of dreaming, I felt conscious of Percy in the window and Nancy next to me. Somehow, I avoided dreaming about ducks.