A Boy Can Dream

I had this silly dream last night. I dreamt that I was some guy named Barry from Omaha. I still rode a bicycle -- thank God -- but I was dabbling in triathlons instead of racing my bicycle. Yuck! 

But there were times that I still raced my bicycle. They met for midweek group rides known as Wednesday Night Worlds. Anyway, I dreamt that I was in this past WNW. I know, I know, it's so odd. Here I am in Italy, wearing pink, and I'm dreaming that I'm participating in a small, but feisty, group ride in the 'States. 

So anyway, in this dream there were these guys who could really ride. Everybody wanted this one guy's wheel. His name was Jordan. Jordan was fast, although he was trying to fool others into thinking he wasn't so. He did this by putting Barbie tassels on his drops. Somehow, those glittering little things were supposed to make you think that when he was accelerating to 60 kph he wasn't really going that fast. Meanwhile, the rest of the group would tuck in behind and chase. Let's see, I even remember names. There was one woman, a fast Swiss Miss named Leah, a guy named Lucas in a Skratch labs kit, Paul in full beard, Limpach  with a mustache, Eric in Stars and Stripes, Peter the goat, Mod on a cross bike, a dude that went by "Fredcube" and some guy they called Shim, but I swear it Gregory or Greg or Mack or Buddy. 

We were riding tempo in a pace line through Boyer's chute. On one rotation, Shim -- who's riding Jordan's wheel -- says to me, "take a long pull up Ponca Hill". I go to the front and kick up the watts just as the tarmac pitches up. The sounds of labored breathing and the hum of the drivetrains accompany me as I lead the pack through a long false flat and on the way up the second hill. It feels great: the wind tossing my Euro-trash mullet around as I spin the cranks almost effortlessly. For a moment, just a brief moment, I think that I'm at the front of the Giro again. That's when I hear the unmistakable sound of a pending attack: click-click-click. Jordan and Shim and Mod and the entire pace line rushes by in an instant. I think to myself, Barry, you're winning the Giro, you've got this. So I downshift and stand on my pedals, planning not only my way back to the front of the pack, but the ensuing counter attack I'd slaughter them with once I got there. But instead of blistering speed, my attack goes like this: clunk-clunk-clunk. The last thing I remember before losing contact was hearing Shim's voice as he's cresting the hill, "You can do this, Barry!"

I wake up in a cold sweat, thanking the heavens that my name is not Barry from Omaha, but Rigoberto Uran from Columbia. Whew. What a nightmare. I switch off the light and toss and turn a few times, thinking about the Giro. Cadel's gonna be hungry tomorrow. I'd better get some sleep, there's a pink jersey with my name on it.