I fall in the lake on a bike ride and get a job working at Darlene's bike shop

 

I dreamed I was out riding my bike along a path next to a lake. It was a deceptively treacherous narrow strip adjacent to the water, with loosely packed sand that would crumble off when you got to near to the edge. There was a four foot dropoff to a beach that was 3 feet wide made of extremely soft, plush sand. Naturally, I went off the ledge, and my bicycle and I sank into the quicksand up to the seat post.

I dismounted and quickly sank up to my chest in the soft sand. I somehow managed to get free, pulling myself horizontally across its surface. I grabbed the bike's handgrip, which was the only thing protruding out of the mire. Within seconds, I was back on my bike, pedaling along the beach, my bike and I both a sandy, soggy mess.

The sand appeared to be more stable now, but I soon fell into another trap, as I found myself being funneled into a steeper and steeper part of the shoreline. Above me, the ledge had grown taller, as the strip of beach got narrower and more slanted. I was unable to stay on the bike, and this time I went in the drink. 

My bike quickly sank into the incredibly deep water. I reached for the nearest thing I could find, a barstool, auspiciously placed just within my grasp on the sandy beach. I used the barstool as a flotation device and paddled back to shore. 

Bikeless, I walked to a nearby town, where I found part-time employment as a bicycle mechanic. The proprietor was an elderly woman, a kind of sinister version of Granny of the Beverly Hillbillies. She resembled Darlene Snell, a murderous drug dealer on the show Ozark. She had about 50 cats, and they were constantly underfoot in the crowded bike shop that was her home.

Since I didn't have a bike, I would borrow one of the store's bikes to ride home from work everyday. I tried to pick a different one each time, so as to minimize wear and tear. Some of the employees knew that I was borrowing the bikes, but the owner did not, and I wanted to keep it that way.

One of the bikes looked exactly like my alien green Stumpjumper, except that it had orange tires which kept changing color, depending on what kind of light they were in.  Looking at the tires in one light, they appeared all green, but in full sunlight they turned orange.

As I rode home, I thought my brain was playing tricks on me, like those internet pictures of a gold dress, which some people see as blue and vice versa.  The tires changed color so often that they appeared to be both colors simultaneously, with radial stripes that turned to a checkerboard pattern when you slowed down. 

Riding home was a treacherous affair. There was a criminal element to be avoided, people who would just as soon rob you of your bike and murder you as say hello. I managed to avoid them by keeping up my pace and never initiating eye contact.

One day after work, I was about to grab my favorite bike to pedal home when the owner caught me, and I had to explain my situation to the fearsome lady of the shop.

"You see, I--" I stammered, recounting my story, beginning with the lake incident where I'd lost my bike.

"No need to explain," she said. "My son lost a bike there once. I'm just glad I didn't lose a son." She was kinder than her appearance let on. "Why don't you take the station wagon?" she said. "It's raining outside, and there's a pistol in the car, in case you run into any thugs on your way home."

I gladly took the keys and thanked her. I promised to ride my own bike to work in the future. The distant future that is, I thought to myself, when I could afford to replace the bike I'd lost in the lake.