I awoke the other night, around 3:00 am after a significant nightmare. It was quite entertaining, granted, I was a little horrified at how my skull could come up with such stuff.
I was standing on the side of a stream, water trickling past, dancing whitewater, little mini-rapids, making the sound of one of those "Fang Shoo way" water fountains some of y'all have in your homes, flowing over rounded granite, water cascading over rock, in a shut-in somewhere, I stood meditating my way through the peaceful moment.
When out of nowhere Kevin Miquelon, Vice President of the Ozark Fly Fishing Association and President of Pfoodman, enters the picture. He just kind of like "popped in", didn't walk up or cross the stream to come near me or nothin. Suddenly, he was just there, staring through me, as if to see something behind me, but through me. He showed no emotion as he stood with a $1500.00 Fly Rod in his hand, holding it high, as if to say, "you pissed me off and I am going to whip your ass with my fly rod you jerk". It was like, if he were to bring his arm down, the rod would strike me square in the face. And he had one of those Karate outfits on, with a black belt and frankly, (he looks a little Asian if he squints up just right). He still had on his Merrill's, hell, he never takes them off.
So what happened? Kevin began beating me about the face and head with the fly rod. I began to bleed from all the injuries, swelled up around the face and eyes. I couldn't see very well as he repeatedly struck be about the face and head. I stood frozen, without the ability to flee, the sky was dark, clouds rolled in, the water was black as oil, the eyes of a madman squared off with what was left of my sight. I saw the face of a wolf and he beat me down.
But Just as quickly as the madman had appeared, he was gone. The stream turned quiet, the playful chatter of water over rock found its way back and things were serene again, Wapiti. I touched my face and head, nothing. Not a scratch.
While laying in bed, sweaty, alert after the nightmare, frightened and cowering beneath the covers, it occurred to me why the dream had come--why the "pop in"--why the sudden ass whopping by Kevin, my favorite and "more bald than I am" guy.
Was it because I had announced in front of the group at a our meeting earlier in the day, our Pfoodman/Wapiti Cycling Club meeting, that Kevin had indeed made a commitment to ride 40 miles of the MS 150 bike tour? Forty miles that a kindergartner could do?
He had snucked in to my dream and commenced to beating me. He infiltrated my subconscious in order to get back at me for making him keep his word that he would:
A) Raise money for MS.
B) Actually get on a bike and ride it the novice minimum of 40 miles, the day of the tour.
I can think of no other reason to take such a beating. Other than the fact that I might have mentioned that nobody is really stupid enough to buy a $1500.00 freaking fly rod.