rêvesperminute

i was a rider of garmin-cervelo, and i helped Tyler Farrar to get to the first line of the peloton from the back of it, on my home roads (here in Budapest). i did my work successfully.

Dreamt that Taylor Phinney was cycling along and I called his name & he stopped and we talked about how tall he was and if he liked London. That was pretty much it. He was in his American kit and there was a combine harvester in the field.

i was at the Tour de France as a teammate of Vincenzo Nibali at Liquigas, and i helped him to win the Tour.

 it was the last stage, but not on the Champs Élysées. the two of us were in the breakaway with Jakob Fuglsang (of the Danish national team) and Tony Martin (maybe he was also with his national team). in the last kilometer our breakaway-harmony broke and we started attacking each other (except Nibali). i knew that i have to go as i can, and Nibali choose to stay in my pace or not. i gave maximum speed, the view in my eyes got slurred, i only saw the path to the finish, and i just pushed, pushed and pushed, the only thing for me was to Nibali have as much advantage on the peloton and on the yellow jersey as it could be. we went through the finish line, somewhere and somehow i stopped, i didn’t comprehend there much. our team didn’t care who won the stage, we were waiting uptightly for the final general classification to see on the screen. after a half minute they showed it on the screen and Nibali won the Tour. i was very very happy, i felt the joy of the good work. i walked to Nibali (i didn’t feel my legs of tiredness) and hugged him. i don’t know what he said to me but i said thank you for being a part of it. and as i said it i burst out in tears because i realized this is the day when i felt myself the most useful and the most precious of my whole life….

it was one of my best dreams ever.

Ryan Kelly’s ACTUAL DREAM!

I had a dream last night that Lindine owned his own bike shop in his house and his wife made everyone who came crepes.

I was riding in the Tour de France, except it looked very much like Sunningdale, Berkshire. I was a domestique for Claudio Chiappucci and I looked the business in my retro denim-look Carrerra kit. Chiappucci wanted me to get him a newspaper to read during the long stage, so I happily obliged. This involved actually going to the newsagent, rather than collecting it from a helpful soigneur atop a mountain pass.

Unfortunately, miscommunication abounded during the transaction. When enquiring several times as to the price of the newspaper plus a sneaky pack of sour Skittles, the newsagent kept repeating what sounded like the word “bourbon.” Feeling like an idiot, I looked helplessly at others in the queue. Luckily a long time friend of mine was there to translate, and she told me I had 12.5p to pay, “because the newspaper has canoe adverts”. On checking the front of the newspaper it said 12.8p. Wanting to avoid any further delay, I handed over a 50p coin (which was round instead of heptagonal) and told him to keep the change. This seemed overly generous in my dream, but in retrospect I hope it was enough to cover the Skittles as well as the paper.

I shared my Skittles with others at the back of the race and suddenly we had a burst of speed and zoomed up ahead of the leaders, which included Chiappucci. He might have been a bit put out that his domestique was upstaging him, not to mention I don’t remember handing over his newspaper. We were whooping and hollering and finding the race easy.

I can only conclude that the Skittles had some kind of EPO-effect, and that I would make a terrible domestique.

It was a sunny day. I wandered over to Mark Cavendish, who was sitting on the grass talking with Peta about lampshades. In my dream I must have been their friend because I remember them being very sweet to me although I don’t remember much of what was said, only that I rested my hand on Mark’s shoulder at one point. Then Peta asked me if I was going for a swim and I realised I was in my swimsuit (my lesser worn black and red one), so I said yes, and dived off the promenade into some slightly murky water.

Such was my dream last night I woke up with an arm round a v worried looking @LukeRowe1990 #sorrythoughtyouweremygf

Row row row your…machine

I’m going to preface this by saying I was woken up three times during the night so the mind was most interrupted and unsettled!

Initially it was all non-cycling, I was back in the world of retail in a place I used to work.  However at the end of my shift, I sat down to watch a tv show. A tv show with cyclists.

It was in the style of a jazzy Saturday night primetime show, except it had several cyclists all lined up facing the camera on rowing machines.  It was some kind of strength test. I don’t know exactly how it worked.

Apparently - according to dream thinking - I had tuned in to see Thomas Lofkvist (rowing, obviously…) and was quite pleasantly surprised to see other cyclists there!

Bert Grabsch and Michele Scarponi were forming a team (of rowers…) and Arnaud Demare and Sylvain Chavanel formed another team.  Robbie Hunter was there too wearing leather chaps and general cowboy attire.  This was explained as being because of the event and not how he actually dressed.  Dream me bought this even though absolutely nothing else and no one else was in any way cowboy related. Also, rowing. There are not cowboy rowers.

The only thing I remember after that is that Arnaud Demare was watching a replay of himself. In this replay he had a Euro-mullet. Upon seeing it, he remarked “Oh man, I look like a dilly!”.

I woke up wondering if dilly was a real word. It is. It doesn’t make any sense though.

I dreamt that Mark Cavendish won Olympic Gold in the double sculls.

JTL asked me to foster three orphaned kittens he’d found. I did.

Coffee with Fabs and Jens

I had unexpected houseguests, Jens Voigt and Fabian Cancellara. I’m a lousy housekeeper and an inconsistent cook, so the situation had me in a panic. Fabian was in the guestroom with the door open. I knocked softly and asked if I could get him anything. This was the quiet, pensive Fabs. He had, after all, just had a very disappointing Olympics experience. He said he would like coffee, so I went downstairs to make some.

Jens was lounging on the couch, totally relaxed, seemingly oblivious to the dreadful state of my house. Bless him. As I walked by he gestured to a second couch (which I don’t actually possess in the real world) and asked about it. Apparently he’s in the market. Then he started talking about the high price of international shipping.

I went into the kitchen and worried about what to serve with the coffee. Soy milk? Fake powdered creamer? Then I panicked about what I would fix them for breakfast. Did I have any eggs? Would oatmeal be okay? When was the last time I had been to the grocery store, anyway? My husband came in as I was digging out various sweeteners and I asked him what he thought I should do?

He offered to make a Starbucks run. “I bet Fabian likes Caramel Macchiato,” he said.

What? Where did he get that? “Um, I really doubt he will want that much sugar,” I said.

He shrugged. “Jens, coffee,” he called into the other room, and Jens came right in. I handed him my biggest mug and he doctored it up with real sugar and fake powdered creamer without complaint. Bless him. He and my husband went back into the living room and turned on some episodes of The Big Bang Theory (an American sitcom about geeky intellectuals).

I heard them both laughing as I arranged a mug of coffee with the fake creamer and assorted sweeteners on a tray. I wondered if I should add a snack, but decided against it. My hands shook as I carried the tray upstairs, causing coffee to slosh out onto the tray a bit. The guestroom door had been shut, so I tapped lightly. “Fabs-ian. Fabian, I have your coffee.” Crap! I almost called him Fabs. I heard footsteps and he opened the door. He looked down at my meager offering and my stomach dropped. My face was on fire.

Then he gave be the biggest, most beautiful smile. “That looks terrific,” he said. “Thank you so much.”