I had an extremely vivid dream last night and it's unusual that I remember the details so well.
We were driving down Highway 9, heading west, maybe to Norman. I was in the driver's seat and it was in broad daylight.
There was a small group of three, maybe four motorcyclists in front of us. One of them swerves a little too far to the left and when he corrects himself he smashes into another rider until everyone of them has crashed and burned. I drove on. I knew there was something I should do...maybe call 911, duh? But for some reason I didn't.
Then it happened again. Another set of bikers. One moment they're tooling down the road without a care. Then, sure enough, they hit the ground, too, their cycles spinning gravel, careening, riderless, into the ditch like chickens with their heads cut off. And once again I scooted on with only a modicum of concern as to their welfare.
They say the third time's the charm...well, not in my dream, not if you're on a chopper. That's right. Yet another small posse of bikers took a fall.
I feel I should point out that when I use the term "biker" I don't necessarily want to suggest the stereotypical "biker" with the Hell's Angels jacket, the countless tattoos featuring the world famous Harley-Davidson logo that likely cover his beefy frame, their proclivity for dive bars, pool tables, cheap beer and swag smoke, free spirited women who don't think twice about flashing a tit in public, especially if it's during a rally. I love this sort of biker and have always respected and looked up to them. But alas, these cyclists were not of that stripe...obviously. A true blue "Fuck-taking-a shower-let's-roll!" biker would not have wiped out like the pussies in my dream.
Getting back to that dream...these three guys may or may not have been pussies. What they were, for sure, was HURT when their skulls met the tarmac and the blood began to flow. They scooted down the gravelly highway like hockey pucks on ice.
I don't think this instance was any worse than the previous ones...I mean it's hard to think of cycles crashing at high rates of speed in degrees of severity. But for some reason I decided that this time I would get out the cell phone and call 911.
Some lady answered the call, informing me that she represented the local 911 rescue service. She asked me what the problem was.
I said, "Well, we've got a pretty nasty bike wreck here. Three or four guys went down and they don't look so good. They don't look too good at all."
"Okay, sir. What is your location?"
And THIS is the detail I can't believe I recall because it seems so insignificant. I looked behind me and saw the mile marker sign. 125.
"We're at the 125 mile marker on Highway 9 headed west."
And that's it. That's all I remember. I have been puzzled all morning as to what the number "125" signifies, if anything. I have a pretty good idea of why I left the scenes of the accidents in the dreams, but I don't know why there were three of them or why they were all motorcycles wrecks instead of cars or a combination of 2 wheelers and 4 wheelers. Why didn't I call 911? Or maybe it would be better to ask, in light of my failure to do so for the first and second set of victims, why did I opt to call for the third?
It's got to mean something. I'm sure of it. I can only hope that it does not portend something sinister. I can only pray that it is not a harbinger of ill tidings.
Hopefully, like life itself, it was only a dream.
Only a dream.
125.
No comments:
Post a Comment