The Dog Parkist: Encore Les Wankers

Q: As a cyclist, I object to your characterization of bikers in a previous post. You called us  "wankers." I'm hurt and dismayed. All we're doing is enjoying ourselves and celebrating the Tour de France. Where's your spirit of international competition? What did we cyclists ever do to you? 

—Wish I Were Wearing Lance's Tour de France Pants 

A: My dear Lance's Pants, the Dog Parkist will let you in on a little secret. Sometimes when she wants to exercise without benefit of canine supervision, she rides her bike. It's nothing special. It's black. It's sleek. Most importantly, it moves when she turns the pedals. For her excursions, unlike most wankers, she doesn't get all kitted out in a fancy team jersey, padded shorts, and special clippy-toed shoes; instead she hits the pavement in a pair of old sneakers, t-shirt, shorts, and, often, unshaved legs (quel horreur!). If she's lucky, she remembers to wear a helmet, apply sunblock, and fill up a water bottle, when she can find one. She finds the act of pedaling along the bike lanes of central Austin to be relaxing and meditative. Today, in fact, while trundling north on Shoal Creek Boulevard, she was considering the possibility that she had perhaps— peut-etre—been too hard on you and your cycling confreres. 

And then, mon cher, some of your cycling amis ruined it for you. The Dog Parkist just happened to look up and see four spandex-clad lads riding side-by-side in a pack just inches from the back end of a Volkswagen Jetta, all trying to take advantage of the updraft created by a car moving less than 20 miles per hour (32.19 kilometres par heure). And, of course, at least two of those pikers were sporting a maillot jaune, a yellow jersey (Mon Dieu! Quel chutzpah!). You realize, of course, that with one tap of the VW's brakes, those guys would have been street pizza (quiche du boulevard). The Dog Parkist could not have been more annoyed and disgusted. And that, Lance Pants, is what she holds against you and your fellow pedal pushers—your self-destructive and foolish insistence on doing horrifically stupid things while riding on two skinny wheels and dressing in offensively bright synthetic fabrics. Even the French would call those guys on Shoal Creek les stupides, idiots, cretins, imbecile, boufons! The Dog Parkist simply calls them wankeurs. So, adieu. Now go away, please. Merci beaucoup pour ecriver. Thanks so much for writing! 

Dear Readers: The Dog Parkist abhors conflict. Sustaining outrage is so draining! So please do remember to pose your questions in the nicest way possible so as to ensure that everyone has a pleasant day. Thank you kindly!