With a mere pinch of planning, a Sunday hike at Radnor Lake was arranged by Kelly Stewart and Stephen Frasier. With my new full-time employment as Manager of Landscape Maintenance at Brentwood Landscapes, and Kelly’s busy schedule — including writing, producing, filming, and directing the Kommon Kraft movies — as well as his possible impending employment as a graphic designer, it’s likely the Sunday afternoon hike will become the new covenance.

The heat was hot, as America mused in their 1971 hit A Horse With No Name. (There were also plants, and birds, and rocks, and things…maybe I should post the lyrics in their entirety.) Indeed, it was hot; in fact, we are making local meteorological history these days: the last time Nashville saw October temps in the 90s was 27 years ago.

Kelly’s gray t-shirt (“I’m with metrosexual –>”) was nice and dry when we launched from the Granny White parking lot at 1:50 or so. The back of Kelly’s funny graphic tee grew ever more mottled with dark moisture spots as we pressed on, and was completely dark with Stewart-brand back sweat by hike’s end.

You know how some people really stink when they sweat? I mean, really, really stink? I don’t mean a merely having an unpleasant smell; I’m talking true fetor, real malodor. Offensive stuff. Well, lucky for me and other hikers, Kelly is not one of those people. Despite trudging more than a mile in Kelly’s wake, I caught nary a fetid whiff. I trust that I am not cursed with the stench sweat, but I cannot recall ever being told for certain; they say one is by default a poor judge of one’s own odor(s).

We spotted five deer: first a pair, and later, three in a loose group. It seems like we are seeing fewer deer these days. Another observation: where are the fawns? They seem to have completely disappeared from the area. There’s one for the local deer research experts, if you’re reading.

According to my trusty new budget pedometer, the 4.5-mile loop we always hike requires me to take just under 9,000 steps. No wonder my thighs are chafing! (It burns, it burns, as little Regan cried when Father Merrin flicked holy water on her.)

Kelly and I hiked at a respectable pace. We were really moving; the breathing was heavy, even when hiking on relatively level terrain; therefore, I was certain we would not only shatter our record time of 1:18, but would even outshine Kelly’s claimed solo record of 1:12. When we neared the parking lot, I was overwhelmed with curiosity and asked Kelly what our time was. He smart-assily answered, “Wait ’til we get to the parking lot.” (What a control freak. Let’s all bow in deference to Kelly, the official timekeeper, the lucky watch owner!) A few seconds later, Kelly looked at his watch, then paused just to be a dick, and finally revealed a total hike time of 1:16.

We were surprised that we’d beat our couples record (as opposed to solo record; not a gay thing — we are not) of 1:18 by only two minutes and that we had not triumphed over the record time of 1:12. In fact, our time of 1:16 — in spite of really hoofing it, really trying for a record time — cast quite a bit of suspicion on Kelly’s claim. Although Kelly never admitted to fabricating his supposed record time, he did say something to the effect of “I must have been high” — nullifying his claim in such a manner as not to admit guilt. A sly man, indeed.

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