Man, bikes are sweet. Like, really sweet. Banana seats, streamers, pegs, those curly handlebars that look like a ram’s horns — all uber-sweet. I’ve had a lot of good times on bikes since my parents gave me my first ride — a tricycle to steer down the giant Oregonian hill that was always wet and had a potential chance for death. In retrospect, I should have called her “Appleonia” for her candy apple red color and smooth handling of curves. Despite all my fond memories of bikes and the enjoyment I attain from riding them, my opinions about them have been changing lately.

You say, “Why did you lead me on, Glenn, telling me that bikes were off the chain?”

Well, it’s not the bike’s fault. It’s a certain instance in which a collection of riders frustrates and enrages me, causing me to turn against the bicycle world. Allow me to explain.

Each week, a small staff of newspaper nerds gathers on the fourth floor of the Curry Student Center to put out a newspaper. Coincidentally, it’s the newspaper you are currently holding. And in the process, we skitter about the building, collecting quotes, information and an unreal quantity of food. But on hectic Monday nights, the process of getting around is hampered by old friends-turned-foes: