51 Whining bitches aka bicycle riders over 11

“Ever since we were children everyone has called us bicyclists!” cried Bicycle Boy #9. A score and ten bicyclists wrung their hands at his impassioned eloquence, but a few were making stragglers of themselves.
Reluctant Dissenter #2 murmured, “Duh.”
Reluctant Dissenter #1 added, “Ditto duh. All kids are bicyclists.”
RD#3 jived a little, for #1’s and #2’s ears only. “The pedaler ought to pause to think about his cause.”
#2 admitted, “I think everyone’s problem is that we’re still bicyclists, like we ought to have parked the thing forever when we were nine or something . . . by the time you’re eleven, it’s cooler to walk.”
“Hmmm, hmmm,” the three reluctant dissenters waxed bemused.
“Spokes for the folks!” Bicycle Boy #9 exhorted.
“Pedal for a medal!” chimed another among the numbers.
“Huzzah!” Many fists shot into the air.
“Whoa-oh-oooh!” sang some, as if it were graduation day, thinking of Katrina and the Waves’ unfledged ditty, forgetting, for the moment, gray hair.
“What a bunch of f_____g dorks,” the Plip Plop’s proprietor growled. “This isn’t Hyde f_____g Park! This is a for-profit, sit down and drink your g__ d___ m_____f_____g coffee San Anselmo cafe! And buy a brownie, too!”
“Lycra lulus,” hissed Uncle Joe as he eyed the tip jar. He was the only person left in line.
Thirty or so tightened their ranks, pony tails bobbing whether Bicycle Boy or Girl. The shorthairs flexed their cores, and dreamed of the day when Lance Armstrong would hear of this glorious event in cycling history. And he would love them.
“Okay!” Bicycle Boy #10 spoke up. He seemed to be more the leader than #9.
“Okay!” cheered Bicycle Girl #6, a Stanford cheerleader of the Buddy Teevans Era.
“We’ll count to three and then say ‘Leap.'”
“What a bunch of petunias,” the proprietor shook his head. “These guys even organize a street fight.”
“‘Pounce,'” Monsignor Quinn, speaking only to himself, corrected, ever the disputatious seminarian at heart.

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