I awoke in my dream in a pleasant land suitable for cycling adventure. The weather was warm, slightly humid and sunny yet somehow I knew I would get no sunburn. A nice selection of car free roads abounded lined with small farms, front yards with clothes drying on the lines, populated by Amish. Quicky marts were found at reasonable intervals.
The quicky marts seemed to be the equivalent of a local inn or tavern as whenever I happened to stop in looking for my standard traveling fuel, a little debbies and a coke, rather than find a wide selection of salt and sugar filled palm oil based products, I instead found myself in a common room complete with brass bar and rough hewn tables for the locals. There I would imbibe the house brew and the stew of the day, served in a wooden bowl and mug by some laconic local in homespun and engage in conversation about the weather, crops, or actual tire sizes when mounted on A23’s with whomever was talkative, while the barmaid cleaned tables and sang of lost ships and loves.
After some days traveling in such a fashion that I came across a wizard – a cycling wizard. I was sopping up the last drops of my stew with a coarse loaf of sourdough when a hooded stranger sitting at the hearth next to a roaring fire called me over. Under his hoodie his Buckler team kit was faded and worn but thankfully had no odor.
‘I know what it is you are looking for!’ He stated without preamble. ‘To obtain your goal, you must steal victory from a cyclist who is pure of heart and blood.’
Whaaat? I responded. Why do I want that?
‘Before you are able to do so, we must first assemble a large quantity of oscillating gnomes – luckily I have just such a thing for you.’ He continued, ignoring my questions.
‘We will start tomorrow, as soon as you return to your dreams.’