We All Have To Dream

I had a great ride. My legs were loose, I felt like I could go on for ever.

As I flew up the hills I could feel my body in tune like a well-oiled machine. It was as if every muscle of my being was in complete synchronicity. Tour de France sensations were seeping through my veins. I was Lance. Or maybe even Rasmussen.

On the flats I was in the ultimate aerodynamic tuck. I may very well have been zipping between the air molecules - nothing could hang on to me. Nothing could catch me. No matter how fast I went, I wanted to go faster. And I did. I did it so effortlessly.

I looked down at my heart rate. 138. Still relaxed, still easy. I smiled.

Not just a smile - I laughed. I screamed. I love this. I LOVE THIS!!!

Then the alarm clock went off.
I opened my eyes a slit and looked over. It said SOS, which seemed appropriate.

Or maybe it was 5:05.

I rolled out of bed and crammed some oatmeal down my throat. I got dressed and muddled my way outside. I hoisted my tired legs onto my bike and pushed ever so slightly forward.

My ride sucked. It was dreadful. Horrendous.
I'm a much better athlete in my dreams.