Big, fuzzy, woolly, yeti boots, the long, black North Face down-filled jackets, spandex leggings and big ski goggles have finally come out of the closet and onto campus sidewalks. Sure, they may keep some kids warm, but somehow the added layers have turned what was one of the fittest campuses in the country to one that is home to the slowest movers.
The morning walk up Bascom Hill is usually a pleasant one—there's a mad dash out the door after waking up 15 minutes before class, the appalled look at the line waiting for the 80 bus, the shock at that one boy who's always walking around in shorts and the sigh of relief upon entering Van Hise with exactly two minutes to spare. But today there was something new.
It was pink, it was a backpack and it was on wheels. And with each ""clack"" as it rolled over a crack in the pavement, it made a stream of about 15 people increasingly agitated and late for class.
Now, wheely backpacks do have a place in society. That place is in airports. Or for people without spines.
I was the first person behind the pink wheely backpack, and since I was wearing a down-filled jacket that puffed out, obstructing the view of those behind me and making me look like a lime green sausage link, I was the target of many disgruntled mutterings. Now, I'm used to being blamed for the slow movings of those in front of me—I used to drive a large, bright red minivan and was the frequent target of middle fingers, obscenities and vulgarities that should have gone to the fat woman driving a Taurus at 45 mph on the freeway. And then wheely girl stopped.
""Oh my God, how are you? I was just on my way to class and—no, I didn't eat breakfast. I totally think that breakfast is the most overrated meal. Like, what advantage is there—""
The ice was slippery, and her sudden, jerky stop almost tripped me and would have sent me falling backward down Bascom. People stopped, they glared, they moved on. She pushed the handle down into the back and carried the pink menace by its strap.
""—to eating oatmeal? I mean, god, I just don't know what I mean, you know? Oh, ok hon. I have to go. Oh my God, I'm so late for lecture!""
The morning's lecture is already full of a colorful bunch of annoying people. There's the kid who sits in the front corner and plays some dragon video game on his computer (he hasn't really moved up a level since September, when he used some fire weapon to get into a cave) who sits next to the boy in the middle section who spends most of his time nodding his head in agreement with the professor. Behind them is the girl who knits, the too-cool-for-school kids with their laptops, the snifflers, the pen-clicking chorus. And then right in front, in full view of everyone, are the kids who walk in during the middle of lecture, look around and realize they are in the wrong place. But nothing compares to the people you see walking to class, or the ire that comes from being stuck behind someone moving the pace of a snail.
Now, I can speedwalk a freakish 11-minute mile. I can make it from Humanities to Animal Sciences in 13 minutes without breaking a sweat. Most people can't do that. There's no excuse for meandering along University—it's a fast-paced street meant for those with fast-paced walking style, and UW doesn't need slow people to impede progress. That's what the smaller UW system schools are for.
