Me…in my dreams (if I ever have a riding dream). Photo credit: person who took this photo

I’m totally gay for mountain biking. I think about riding more than things that probably (no, definitely) deserve more of my mindshare. I can’t help it. I just adore mounting my two-wheeled happiness machine. When I walk out into lovely weather in the morning, my mind automatically goes right to riding through the warmth. “Stupid work. Wish I could ride today.”

It’s the one passion that’s held onto my gnat dick sized attention span. I’ve picked up and lost interest in several hobbies over the years: Harmonica. Bonsai. Snowboarding. Being a stoner. I’m a fella who is really good at quitting stuff. An expert, really. But mountain biking will live with me until I start calling my loved ones by the wrong names. I mean, I talk about it until I annoy even myself (I’m kinda annoyed right now). Once I get going, no one’s interest level is safe, and they soon run fleeing in fear of being crushed to death by my endless droning.

But, you wanna hear something surprising? Do ya? Do ya? I had a sudden realization the other day that I’ve NEVER had a mountain biking dream. And I wonder, why the hell not? Dreams are where our experiences and desires—conscious and subconscious—come to orgy in a hyper-real circus. Dreams are the ultimate warped playground and, dammit, I want to ride in one. Yeah, there’s the manual clumsiness that happens in dreams. Need to dial a phone number? Tough shit, Fatty Fingers. Need to run? Too bad you suck at it so bad. Looks like you’re gonna get run down by that dude who wants to stab you. And I could probably do without the classic dream storyline where I wander around my high school or college trying to find my next class that I know I haven’t been to all semester. But things are usually pretty funky fresh in dreamland.

I end up hooking up with every woman who has the sexy fortune of wandering into my sleepy head. It’s like in Andy’s Dreamtown the oxygen is replaced by Spanish Fly and Roofies in their gaseous form. R2O or something.

I get to hang out and smoke weed with George Clooney and then suddenly be George Clooney, or some other celeb.

And the most cool: I win every fucking fight I get into! I’ve never even been in a real live fist fight, but you wouldn’t know it from the unmerciful, poetic, fluid, complete and total beat downs I lay on punk ass bitches in my dreams.

Yeah, dreaming is great.

But for whatever reasons, one of the activities I enjoy the most has totally eluded nigh-night time. Maybe it’s because mountain biking is such a part of my waking life, that when my brain goes to sleep, it’s like, “Enough with the fucking mountain biking, already. Here, try this crazy shit. You’ll totally flip out…” And instead I get a dream like last night when I was up in the rafters over some Texan’s private big cat collection. And these big cats were not happy about me being up there so they kept jumping straight up, like 15 feet, and swiping at me, just catching my shoe laces and stuff. I’m pretty sure there also ended up being a chick who made out with me and let me see her boobs.

But mountain biking? Nope. And it’s kind of a drag. I can’t imagine the types of rides I’d have. I’m sure some annoying stuff would happen, like I couldn’t get my feet clipped in or my grips would keep coming off. And I’m sure eventually I’d feel the coldness of my seat, and I’d be naked, but that’s cool. But I also bet fun stuff would happen too, like riding up trees or having big tires that let me ride on water. But that shit is probably tame compared to the unimaginable ride that will happen if my schizophrenic dream chefs cook me up some ridin’.

Me…in my dreams (if I ever have a riding dream). Photo credit: person who took this photo

I actually even did some research on dreams to find some insight. But all I found out is that scientists just pretty much throw out a bunch of horseshit because they really have not idea what any of it means or even how dreams happen. How can you really explain the stuff that goes down in dreams? So why not shit out my own theory on why I’ve never dreamed about riding? I’m sure it’ll be close to an accurate answer as any (if the notion of an “accurate answer” can even be applied to the biological universe up in our craniums). Maybe it’s because dreams, at least the really fun ones where we do supernatural shit, easily kick dudes’ asses and women find us irresistible, are just plays we put on for ourselves featuring scenarios that we know will absolutely never happen. But mountain biking is the most dreamlike thing I do on a regular basis.

Let’s see:

The other night I had this dream that I was hauling ass—I mean flyin’— through a beautiful forest with my buddies. There were all kinds of curves and steep parts that made it incredibly fun. I wasn’t worrying or thinking about a goddamn thing except what I was doing and how amazing it felt. And suddenly there was this bobcat off to the right of the trail just sitting there looking at us as we passed. We keep going, then the forest opens up into a clearing, and there’s the Pacific Ocean…

Sounds like a pretty sweet dream

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