The bicycle, it would seem, is back to stay. Encouraged by the example of certain irreproachable members of the Faculty and the clever advertisements of a local renting agency, Cantabridgians have given' the ancient two-wheeled, leather-saddled mode of transportation a fling which has developed carmarks of permanency. The vast numbers of bare-kneed girls, uncoated college students, and towsic-headed youngsters who cycle daily render the pleasure of wheeling an unquestionable quantity. The one great question which perplexes the minds of prospective cyclists is a place to cycle.
There should be a simple answer. The greensward along the river, intersected by convenient gravelled paths, is probably as near the ideal cycling ground as modern civilization will produce. But there is a hitch. This lovely greensward is under the jurisdiction of the hard-hearted Metropolitan District Police. Every afternoon the men in gray swoop down in Neon-lighted cars or rude motorcycles and drive the pleasure seekers from the grass. There are no exceptions. The loveliest bare kneed girl from the halls of Radcliffe, the most pitiful youngster, the most loquacious college boy, all on bicycles are as unwelcome as an epidemic of German Measles. Why should this be? What barm do the cyclists do? What dangers do they bring with them? Can the Metropolitan District Police find nothing better to do than drive cyclists from the Harvard Lollery? Surely, as Edgar Guest might state, the crushing of a worm is neither a laudable nor a difficult achievement.