Shattered

I like this tunnel. It runs under a street close to my house, and because I typically ride it in only one direction, passing through it usually signals the end of my work day. Two more blocks, and I can eat dinner.

Neighborhood teenagers also seem to like this tunnel. It's close to their houses, too, and because so many parents are too lazy to walk a couple of hundred yards to find out what junior's doing, it's a good place for a kid to drink a bottle of beer without getting caught.

Unfortunately, juvenile delinquents seem to think that the only thing cooler than starting every sentence with "dude" is drinking a jacked bottle of Bud and then breaking the bottle.

Maybe I shouldn't be too hard on them. I almost never see the little cretins, and they don't cause any real problems other than a little graffitti and leaving shattered glass in the path of bicyclists. It's not as if they're mugging old ladies or doing drive-by shootings.

But come springtime, when thousands of tube-piercing shards are scattered across the bike route, I'd like to make some of those little shits walk barefoot through the tunnel a couple of times before I carry my big shop broom down there to clean up their mess.