Bikemares & Velodreams

If you're like me (i.e. obsessed with cycling to a degree society marginally tolerates) then you know just what I mean when I say I dream about cycling. A lot. And not just the post-traumatic stress dreams of a hard ride or the romantic, yearning dreams after an extended period off the noblest machine. I'm talking about a bicycle appearing as at least a supporting actor in nearly every dream I have.

Case in point, a few nights ago I had a dream I helped organize an alley cat race in Hawaii. I didn't know anybody, but a bunch of people showed up anyway. I lallygagged around, hitting the checkpoints, just trying to keep a sweat up and see how everyone was doing. I come to the end and there's only three cyclists there, all looking like they'd just arrived, all lined up at the finish, panting. I ask where everyone else is and they say besides them, I'm the first one. I came in fourth! I was very proud, even with my low ranking.

Most times it's random fragments of friendly (and sometimes adorable) messengers showing me shortcuts around the city or myself doing the same for someone else. Other times it's flat tires, fucked up rims, or some other failure that I take with a knowing smile.

Last night, though, I had a bad one. I was visiting my family in Idaho (as an aside, I've been dreaming about them almost nightly for a few weeks now) and everyone was staying at my grandmother's huge home. It was summer time, everyone was healthy and happy, Kasey was with me, things were good. Our bags hadn't arrived yet and I had carefully, lovingly, over-protectively packed my bike along for the trip. I couldn't wait. The weather was perfect, my family hadn't seen me in ages, and I'm always talking about the fun I have on my ebony and ivory baby. I was gonna show them a track bike! Track stands and skip-stops galore.

Then the bags arrived in a horse trailer. And on top of the pile was my bicycle, mangled beyond recognition. Not even in it's bag anymore and somehow reassembled even though it was destroyed. The paint was chipped off in huge, gangrenous patches. The frame wasn't so much dented as it looked like a bulldozer had run it over. The chain was hanging from the rear hub, and my handlebars were bent to the point of becoming a completely different genre of handlebar all together. In fact, the more I looked, the more it wasn't even my bike.

I was horrified. My family was all crowded behind me with crest-fallen faces. I took the mess out of the trailer and saw a note from the airline company: (Fun fact, you can't actually read in dreams. The part of your dream responsible for reading is inactive during sleep. Thanks Batman the Animated Series!) It said that there had been a fire, and my bike had burned up in the suitcase shed. So they had provided this replacement which they estimated to be worth $349, which is all they could do.

I looked down at the monster they had provided me and noted that for some reason it had gears on the front wheel, and started to cry. The kind of cry you can only do in dreams, where your whole being is invested in it, and there's no shame, and people don't judge you for it. I bawled on the ground, Kasey behind me rubbing my back with infinite patience and compassion, lamenting the death of the only bicycle I owned, and had ever loved.

I woke up, heartbroken. When I realized it was all a dream I had to smile in relief. I cuddled to Kasey, the cat was already cuddled to me, all was right with the world once more. I slept in half an hour later than I originally planned, just to make up for the horror.

On the ride to work I looked down and patted my handlebars, soothing both the bike and myself, "Shhh, it had only been a bad dream, it had only been a bad dream."

- David