Upon entering Tommy’s House of Pizza one day seeking the refreshing taste of Coca-Cola during one of Cambridge’s last sunny afternoons, Dartboard encountered the latest of soda-pop peculiarities—C2. With a name that is eerily reminiscent of the popular Schwarzenegger sequel, Coke’s newest invention, labeled in an emboldened (and undeniably tough) red and black font, sits stoutly like a muscle car in a can. Ironically packed with only half the punch (half the carbs, that is), it seems that health-smart men finally have a drink with all the necessary machismo, but without the sugary strings attached. Harvard Democrats, rejoice: there is finally a way out for you Diet-Coke-drinking “girlie men.” Dartboard is, to say the least, amused.
—SARITHA KOMATIREDDY
Racked with anxiety
As a new resident of the Quad, Dartboard has found no shortage of uncomfortable and terrifying ways of traveling between his palatial single and the rest of campus. For example, there’s the horribly crowded 9:50 am shuttle, the 9:51 walk through the rain, or the 9:59 bike ride down Massachusetts Avenue. But the worst method, by far, is the nighttime bike ride. If dodging potholes, vibrating over brick sidewalks, and weaving between Boston drivers isn’t fun enough during the day, it’s a terrorizing experience at night. So the first time Dartboard got stranded at the river after dark, bike in hand and helmet on head, he figured his choices for getting home were either a post-dusk pedal on the streets or walking the bike through the haunted house known as Cambridge Commons.
But Dartboard heard the diesel rumbling of a shuttle in the shadows nearby, and as it rounded the corner, he spotted a stainless steel miracle—a bike rack, gleaming under the streetlights, affixed to the grill of the nighttime savior. He approached it eagerly, and spotted instructions attached. Pull, drop, heave, slip, stretch, and release. Done. Fifteen seconds later, Dartboard was sitting in the front seat of the shuttle, admiring his handiwork perched on the other side of the windshield.
The shuttle pulled away. All was well in Dartboard-land, until some fraction of a second later, pothole number one passed beneath, then two and three. With each one, Dartboard’s vintage (read: rusty) Schwinn bounced violently. No, this was no easier way to get home; Dartboard’s fears of an evening bike ride down Garden Street were replaced with visions of his turquoise beauty jarring loose from its perilous mount and being crushed under the wheels of a crimson and white beast.
Not until the bright lights of Currier were in sight did Dartboard’s heart rate begin to return to normal. Stretch, release, slip, heave, pull and lift: Dartboard’s wheels were free, and he was home safely for the night but still pondering what his next nighttime modus transporandi would be. But the novelty and convenience of the racks have been so addicting that Dartboard finds himself using them again and again—although still sweating it out each time. And while the chipper folks at transportation services confirm they’ve never lost a bike of the front of shuttle, it’s little comfort to Dartboard’s fragile nerves. Perhaps the next time a midnight Mather-to-Quad schlep is necessary, Dartboard will sit in the back of the bus—so that if his precious takes a spill, at least he won’t have to witness the carnage.
—MATTHEW S. MEISEL
Read more in Opinion
The Triumph of Red Sox Nation
