Duncan, Todd
Some thoughts....
This may humble us all a little. We should check our sources and the angle in which the story is portrayed before we rush to conclusions. If nothing else than to help our image.
Todd
-----Original Message-----
From: John Kelso [mailto:jke-@statesman.com]
Sent: Tuesday, August 14, 2001 11:53 AM
To: Duncan, Todd
Subject: Re: Your Column, 7/24/01
I write a humor column, and it is labeled as such in the Austin American-Statesman, where it appears on Sundays, Tuesdays and Fridays. I don't know where you saw this, or how it's been presented. I do know this, though. Cyclists are currently the easiest group to goad in the U.S.
It's like dragging a string for a cat. This column has gotten more reaction - laughs and anger - than anything else I've written this year, I think. Thanks for writing and keep on riding.
It's France, as in bike pants, not Fronce
By John Kelso
Austin American-Statesman
Tuesday, July 24, 2001
You've noticed how many folks are riding bicycles around town and
pretending to be Lance Armstrong by wearing the colorful, flammable and,
yes, extremely itchy bicycle clothing.
I wanted to be part of that action. So on Monday I went shopping and
bought myself a pair of polyester United States Postal Service bicycle
pants.
Not that I have any intention of riding a bicycle. I have a job, so I own
a car.
One thing I quickly found out is that the bicycle clothing designers and I
have a different opinion of what constitutes "extra large."
Apparently the people who make these clothes aren't expecting a lot of
size 42s to come walking through the door.
The first pair of XL U.S. Postal Service bike pants I tried on at the
Bicycle Sport Shop on Toomey Road made me look like a cantaloupe in a
sock.
The second pair of XLs were so small that I had a hard time figuring out
which hole I was supposed to stick my foot in. If I had kept them on, it
would have cut off the circulation to my neck.
I can see the headline now: "Man Wears Bike Pants, Strangles." Besides,
these pants look like if you set them on fire they'd smell funny.
This whole Tour de France thing is getting a little out of hand here in
Austin, isn't it? The locals are even talking the talk.
Did you ever wonder why people in this town who couldn't say "cheese" in
French insist on calling this overblown Spandex parade Le Tour de Fronce?
Where I come from it's France, not Fronce. France, as in ants. Or pants.
And speaking of pants, now that I've tried on the Postal Service bicycle
pants, I know why the bicyclists in Le Tour de France have such
scrunched-up faces. Yikes.
Fronce, indeed. The TV news announcers are the worst offenders. We know
most of them haven't been east of Lufkin. Who do they think they're
fooling? I mean, they don't call Lance Armstrong Lonce Armstrong. So why
call France Fronce?
If you really want to talk snooty, you should lose the "R" in France and
call it Le Tour de Fwonce, like a real Frenchman. You know why the French
call their country Fwonce? It's impossible to say "R" after six glasses of
red wine.
There is no doubt that riding a bicycle up the sides of mountains day
after day is an amazing athletic accomplishment.
Still, those pointy helmets are annoying. If you bicyclists want to be
aerodynamic, have yourselves laminated. But don't try to tell me bicycling
is a sport. Bicycling is traffic.
Instead of being mentioned during the sports news, bicycling should be
included in the traffic report. "Judy, there's a large cluster of skinny
guys east of town just pedaling their buns off."
Here's why the Tour de France is so popular in France: The French love to
gather by the side of the road to watch traffic roll through town. They
have a longstanding history of this.
Sure, it used to be tanks. So you can imagine why the French are so happy
when the Tour de Fronce comes along every summer.
Instead of helmets and firearms, it's just some harmless dweebs in plastic
britches carrying water bottles. Ah, qui.
John Kelso's column appears on Sundays, Tuesdays and Fridays. He can be
reached at (512)445-3606 or at jke-@statesman.com