In the summer of 2017, I took part in the Vätternrundan cycling event (300 km around the lake), and I’d love to go back someday to beat my previous time. Out of nowhere, in the middle of winter, I had a dream about being on that same ride again, but the format was somehow different.
The dream unfolded from the moment where women were skating 100 km on inline skates, and at the checkpoint, they had to switch the skates for bikes. The woman in front of me was just standing upright with her hands on her hips, her ankles resting against a horizontal bar. I saw the scene from a top-down view.
I started wondering what the hell I was riding myself, and the realization froze me: I was sitting on a volleyball referee chair with four wheels underneath and an engine attached. The steering was done purely by leaning, and there was only one lever for both accelerating and braking. Cold sweat ran down my body from the sight, and I tried to focus on the ride while also enjoying the perfect figure of the chick in front of me.
Hours later, we reached the checkpoint, and as I climbed down from the tower, I was extremely relieved that everyone was okay and the competition stage was complete. I stopped by a café and then went to find my bike, which had supposedly been delivered by a courier. From a distance, I noticed something suspicious about my bike, and as I got closer, it became clear that the frame was pretty much trashed. My carbon frame had turned into a steel one, welds were cracked in places, one tube was bent, and to top it off, extensive paint damage all over the frame. I was in total shock, just staring at the piece of junk for several minutes before calling over an event official.
“Uh, so, this is supposed to be my bike, but it’s the wrong one and clearly unrideable, what am I supposed to do in this situation?” I blurted out all at once.
The chick glanced at the bike and asked, “Which company was supposed to deliver it?”
“As far as I know, it was Hike Organizer Ltd,” I replied.
She flipped through something on her tablet and simply said, “We’ll fix it, hang tight.”
After a short wait, they brought me a bike that was in perfect condition, except it was… pink all over. I looked at the bike, then at my outfit, it just didn’t match at all. That’s when it started to dawn on me: maybe something had gone even more wrong than just getting the wrong bike. No matter where I looked, I couldn’t see a single other guy, only women.
The fear that the bike I had in real life might actually be unusable became so overwhelming that I woke up, and couldn’t fall back asleep.
Thanks, brain.