Electric scooters aren’t the problem, but they are a symptom of how fast we’re moving through life, and how little we’re paying attention while doing it. On any given weekday, students zoom down Painted Street and cut across campus, earbuds in and eyes fixed in that empty, forward stare. It’s efficient, sure, but it’s also a snapshot of something bigger: a culture obsessed with convenience, speed and getting there first, even if we forget to notice where there is.
If I had a nickel for every time I had to jump out of the way of a 6-foot-7-inch man on an electric scooter, I’d have two nickels, which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it’s happened twice, right?
As funny as it is, the more I think about it, the more it bothers me.
I find the dependence on scooters disturbing and upsetting. If you’re over six feet tall, a single stride is equal to three of mine — so if I can make it to class on time, what’s the scooter for? Honestly, something is unsettling about someone that tall moving that fast.
When two or more scooters are gathered, they become a moving blockade. For those of us on foot, it’s not just inconvenient; it’s an act of survival. Trying to weave through them feels less like walking to class and more like dodging traffic on the interstate.
Most days, you’ll see scooters chained to bike racks outside of the Bell Center, or if you’re lucky, brought into lecture halls. I’m sure for some, their lives are made easier by the reliability of speed, but if you’re like me, these interactions are a source of humor throughout the day. Watching my peers haul their scooters inside Olin Hall and park them in the foyer or actually beside them in class paints a perfect picture of our dependency on convenience.
My personal grievances aside, scooter culture reflects the human desire to get from building A to building B without even being aware of the journey to get there.
It’s not just scooters, though. We move like this everywhere. Scrolling through meals, speeding through small talk with friends, treating silence like something to fix instead of feel. Maybe the scooters are just the loudest reminder.
When we prioritize convenience, we ignore the human moments in the minutiae of commuting on campus. It’s in the small greetings we give our friends, or the time we spend walking beside one another, that we connect. It’s what keeps our campus spirit alive. A two-and-a-half-minute commute between classes doesn’t allow for much conversation or community building, but it does make space for something smaller — a wave between friends, a shared glance, a moment of recognition. Even brief eye contact can pull you out of the blur — proof that you’re part of the picture, not just passing through it.
Maybe the scooters aren’t going anywhere — but that doesn’t mean we have to lose our sense of arrival. Some things are only noticed when you take the long way there.
