No bicycle accessories for Greg, thank you

 

I was awakened abruptly, so I was unable to properly pack up my dream. All I can recall from it was that Greg had a bicycle which my mom and I had borrowed and on which we had both installed accessories, much to his annoyance.

"Thanks, but no thanks," he told my mom when he saw the devices. 

"But I -- we-- thought you'd be pleased," my mom said, hurt by his callous rebuff.

My mom's accessory was more of a decorative enhancement than practical upgrade, something like changing out the original handlebar grips for fancier ones. It wasn't anything as frivolous as tassels or sparkle-infused urethane, but whatever it was rubbed Greg the wrong way.

I was glad that the accessory that I had installed was more practical. It was a sturdy, light-weight bike rack that doubled as a rear seat. It was specifically designed for his model of bike and the color matched and everything. I was proud of the upgrade and could think of no downside. 

"That goes for you, too, Andrew," he said in a irate tone. "I want that thing off of there."

I tried to point out the many advantages of having a well-designed luggage rack that was sturdy enough to accommodate a passenger and only minimally affected the bike's performance as a full-suspension mountain bike, but Greg was having none of it.

"I just don't want stuff on my bike, OK?" he said, grumpily, "I want all that stuff off of there, and that is that. Now, both of you, get to it."

While I was showing him what a chore it would be to remove the rack, he noticed a few pits and scratches in the paint of his otherwise pristine bike. 

"How did these wind up here, I wonder?" he said, implying that my installation had caused the defects.

"I'm pretty sure these are due to a problem in the manufacturing process," I told him, and I began to expound on my vast knowledge of bicycle frame fabrication and painting:

"You see these pits are caused by oil or moisture left on the frame before it was painted. This weakened the paint and caused it not to adhere properly to the metal. When the bike was taken out in the sun, the little bubbles in the paint expanded and burst, leaving these pits. See?" Sounded legit. I was buying, at least.

I pointed out a similar defect on my own bike, which was a model much like his. I pushed the lever on my telescoping seat post, and it popped up like an overzealous jack-in-the-box, almost striking him in the face.

"Well, never mind, that. Just get my bike back to the way it was before you borrowed it," he said, waving me away, unamused at my bike's untoward seat post erection.

I went over to a filling station where my mom was already in the process of removing her accessories. I needed to find the right tools, so it took me a while to get to the removal of the bike rack. In the meantime, my mom took a hose with pressurized water and began to inflate my bike's air suspension with it. I stopped her when I saw what she was doing.

"Why are you filling my air shocks with water?" I demanded. 

"Well, I...I...," she stammered. "The hoses look the same. I guess I got confused."

I began to drain out the water, but mostly air was coming out. I guessed that she'd not managed to get much in there before I stopped her. But now my pressure was off, and I'd have to get the right amount of air back in there, or the bike would ride funny. I couldn't find the proper air hose with a gauge on it, so I tabled the idea.

I went off in search of some allen wrenches. I had to sneak into a garage where some skateboarders where laying around smoking weed. I managed to get past them and retrieve a tool bag, but on my way out, I had to crawl under a mostly closed garage door which was being held up with a skateboard. I scooted it away and managed to get out just as the stoners were becoming aware of my presence. 

The dream ended at this point, and I was awakened by my computer's jangly email notification. But sometime before this happened, I have a vague recollection that I was burning a compost pile in the back of my house in Paradise. I'd placed the debris far too close to the house, and my mom was insisting that I move it to a better location, so I wouldn't burn the place down.

"Right over there," she pointed out the spot where previous burns had taken place. 

It was over on the east side of the house, in a spot where some ivy had been trampled and an oleander bush had been removed earlier. My basset hound, Huckleberry, used to poop there. I had to agree it was a better spot and reluctantly began to move the debris. 

That is the last trace that I remember of a disjointed and rather insignificant dream sequence. I'm sure there was more to it than that, but I've probably fabricated enough as it is, just trying to squeeze out this much. A segment with my mom and me buying beer at Ray's Liquor in Paradise got left on the cutting room floor.