we dream of jensie... and the peloton in general
we dream of jensie... and the peloton in general
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 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.
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.”
I’m in a dark place and scared. Male voices echo towards me from a distance and I realize I’m in a big building, like a warehouse. The voices are speaking German. Moonlight is streaming in from a window high above. The voices stop and I hear footsteps coming towards me. I want to run, but where? I don’t even know where I am, and it’s so dark I can’t see anything.
The footsteps continue towards me, then stop a few feet away, and someone speaks my name. He steps forward just enough for the moonlight to slant across his knife sharp cheekbones. It’s Andre Greipel. He says my name again, and smiles. I am instantly flooded with relief, and also affection. In this dream world Andre is my lover. I have dream memories of our intimacies.
He says my name again, and says, “Come,” gesturing for me to come to him. As he does this he steps further into the shaft of moonlight. It illuminates what he is wearing, a Nazi SS uniform. I scream, “Noooooo!” Then I wake up.
I was an amateur ballroom dancing contestant, waiting backstage. My dance partner was to be none other than world renowned ballroom dancer Denis Menchov. We were to do the Viennese Waltz. However, I made us late for our entrance as I did not have a proper costume to wear. He was clad in a forest green unitard, with rhinestones across the chest. Because I had no proper costume, he went on to dance with someone else. I was bummed.
Late for class with JV!!
Last night I dreamed that I was a student in a college course taught by Jonathan Vaughters. I had skipped the prior day of class and was running late to the current day’s class. I had to walk in through the front of the room, right past JV. He gave me a reprimanding look, and as I took my seat, he lectured the class on the importance of punctual attendance! Oopsie! :/
Bernie, EBH, blueberries
I was stood on a beach next to a lagoon. The water was very calm and the surface was covered in blueberries. Bernie Eisel came towards me on a motorbike with a covered sidecar attached. As he came nearer I could see Eddie Boss was in the sidecar, banging on the roof to get out. I waved at him but couldn’t make eye contact as I hadn’t done my hair.