Fear the Crab

I rode a motorcycle, a phat beast of a hog with enough roar to shatter windows.  Except this motorcycle also had pedals, which I seemed to use whenever I took a turn.  The crank on these pedals was not very good; in fact it was almost as small and frail as what you’d find on a kiddie tricycle.  The pedals themselves were thick and flat, and I think they were made of wood.

But that didn’t matter, because I used “phat” to describe it, and all the cool kiddie tryke riders know that “ph” in “phront” of anything makes it cool. Besides, acceleration on my dreamcycle was taken care of in the normal handlebar means.

Tooled around an unfamiliar suburban neighborhood, and stopped at a motel of sorts to find room.  I was approached by the manager and a female acquaintance of his, and was asked to escort the woman on some errand she had to perform.  The woman was required to use a motorcycle to deliver some package, and she said she would feel better if there were another rider with her, because she was not very experienced with the machine.

Perhaps it was the clandestine nature of the request, but I refused.  I had some kind of rebel-loner streak going and I didn’t want to get involved in any shenanigans, particularly those that seemed strange or out of place.  I also didn’t want to babysit someone and train them in handling a motorcycle during the journey.

The dream devolved into some attempt at blackmail, linking me to a motorcycle gang and the threat of revealing said history to the outside world.  Apparently I was an ex-member of a notoriously wicked group of riders, and I tried to cover up my past association by literally covering the patch on the back of my jacket with a blank sheet of leather.  The manager took a knife and cut away the leather, peeled it back and revealed my colors.

The patch was a white-feathered stork, neck bent in an S-shape, head tilted down in an alert pose, wings partially open as if it were ready to take flight.  The feathers were ruffled, standing straight up, and the tips melted into a rainbow of Van Gogh streaks, red and yellow and white against a blue background.

I still refused to do this task, and left the manager with my tattered jacket.  The woman followed, and proclaimed with wonder, “You were a member of the <insert name here>?” [I don’t remember the name she said]  After which, she pulled out a large book from her bag, flipped it open to a page and said she had been following the life of the group since she was young.  The picture on the page looked nothing like me, and the dude was playing a guitar during a concert on stage.

I didn’t answer her, and just kept walking away in my cool phat loner rebel style.

* * *

I don’t know how to ride a motorcycle, and I don’t know how to manually shift the engine.  That didn’t seem to matter in my ride, though, which I can only assume to mean that my bike was automatic.

Or maybe I shifted gears using pedal power.  That’s cool.