Riding to Work
One afternoon in early summer, Brandon rode his bicycle home from work. He rode his bike to work and back nearly every day, if he could – it was his favorite part of the day. He had a good but unexciting job with a software company in an up-to-date large city in the western U.S. He fit the stereotype of a hipster tech worker perfectly. He had done well in school, had a solid job in his early twenties, and lived in a decent loft apartment just far enough away from his job to have some serious time on his bicycle. He wore nerdy-looking glasses that he actually needed in order to see. He dressed casually but fussily at the same time, and his long-on-top-faded-on-the-sides haircut, complete with a shaved-in part, required regular maintenance.
He rode to and from work in the same clothes he wore in the office, using a bicycle clip if he thought his skinny jeans or slim-fit pants might have enough material at the ankle to catch his chain. Anything he needed for work he carried in a messenger bag, even though there were hardly any actual bike messengers left in the city. He hadn’t lived there long, and he really knew no one except a few of his co-workers. He supposed that he was okay with that, but something still felt missing in some way, missing from his life, that is. The only time he felt fully alive was when he was riding his bike.
On a whim, he stopped by a cool-looking bar on the way home. “Might as well stop and have a drink – do something different for once,” he thought. The place had a moderate crowd, mostly other young urban types like himself, but no one he knew. Like most bars, the TVs were tuned to a few different sports channels.
Soon he was sitting by himself at a table, idly sipping on a mojito or a mule or something – he hadn’t really paid attention to what the bartender had recommended, but he was sure it began with an “m”, at least. His eyes wandered to one of the TV monitors. The channel was promoting its upcoming coverage of the Tour de France and showing clips from previous years. Even someone as low-key about sports as Brandon had heard of the Tour. That was the one bicycle race that nearly every American who wasn’t into bicycle racing had heard of.
He found himself drawn in, fascinated by the fast racing machines so unlike his single-speed commuter. The racers fascinated him, too, clad all in matching team kits of skin-tight spandex with tanned arms and tanned hairless legs. Without really understanding the tactics, he could see that the team members were working together to get certain racers into certain positions. And they moved so fast! He wondered what it would be like to be a racer on one of those teams, riding his bicycle all day. Those tanned, skinny guys in spandex, that was their job: riding a bicycle for a living. What would that be like?
The channel moved on to some other sport, and Brandon found his attention wandering. He finished his drink and headed home to another night alone in his hipster loft. He had hardly felt the alcohol, but he was intoxicated in a different way: he couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to be a professional bicycle racer, flying over those European roads so fast. It was all he could think about the whole night.
Waking up dully the next morning after restless dreams (which he couldn’t remember), he got ready to head to work. He felt better as soon as he got his bicycle moving into traffic. He was enjoying himself, as usual, but his mind kept wandering back to the racers in the Tour. The race was supposed to start today. He might actually decide to watch the coverage this year, he thought. Why not? He rarely watched sports, but it wasn’t as if he had other plans.
He suddenly came out of his reverie as a big delivery truck pulled out from a side street right in front of him. He hit the brakes as hard as he could, locked up the wheels, flew over the handlebars onto the pavement and blacked out.
« Bruno, mon pote! Lève-toi, lève-toi. Il faut qu’on aille! »
Hearing those words, he tried to rouse himself. He couldn’t remember where he was or what had just happened, but the voice was urgent – and familiar. Feeling very dizzy and disoriented, he stood up, examining his fallen machine. Instinctively he checked the handlebars and chain as he’d done countless times, looking for damage that would mean he’d have to get a spare off the team car. It was hardly the first time he’d fallen in a race, and it probably wouldn’t be his last. But putain – there was no way he was going to crash out of the Tour de France on his first day, though it seemed to happen to some unlucky rider or two every year. The bike looked good; other than a scrape or two in the finish, it was undamaged. It should be ridable, and he knew the team mechanics would check it out thoroughly later. He looked himself over next. He didn’t have a scratch. The only visible sign of damage was a small, ragged hole in his shorts, revealing a patch of undamaged skin much paler than his tanned legs and forearms. Why had he blacked out, then? He was sure he hadn’t hit his head, and his helmet didn’t have a dent or a scratch anywhere.
« Bruno » his fellow domestique and roommate Thierry said, more urgently this time: « Dépêche-toi! Allons! T’as quelque chose? »
« Bruno? » he thought. « C’est moi, Bruno? Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé? » Something about the name Bruno seemed wrong to him, but why would his own name seem wrong? In any case, he didn’t have time for daydreaming. Thierry was right; they needed to get back in the race. He got back on his machine and clipped in.
« Rien de trop grave, » Bruno replied to his teammate, who was already pedaling away from him. « Attend, attend un moment; j’ arrive. »
A number of racers were still trying to get back on their bicycles. Some were still on the ground. Maybe a few would have to abandon. The chatter of the racers around him, speaking in half a dozen different languages while his race radio was jabbering in his ear, did not help his feeling of disorientation. His thoughts felt foreign in a way that he couldn’t define, as if he were a different person or thinking in a different language. A couple of riders near him were speaking German, which he understood barely a word of, and a couple of others were speaking English, which he understood better. Foreign languages had always come hard for him. Thankfully, he and Thierry were on a French team.
It wasn’t just his head that felt strange, though; even his body seemed different. But as he finally got his bicycle moving at race speed and locked onto Thierry’s wheel, his feelings of otherness lessened. He fell into the comforting rhythm of turning his pedals. He never felt more alive than when he was on his bicycle. That had been one constant in his life as long as he could remember, and now that he was actually in his first Tour, he couldn’t imagine his life getting any better. He wasn’t going to blow this chance. Their team had one of the best GC contenders the French had had in years. This year they had a real shot at winning.
Even though the rhythm of racing was as familiar to him as breathing, Bruno still felt a vague sensation of unease. He was safely back in the middle of the peloton, but the pace felt insanely fast. Why did it seem as if he’d never ridden this fast before? His body felt so light and small. His arms were thin, and he didn’t have a speck of fat, or a lot of muscle, anywhere on his upper body. But his legs looked strong; he could see the striations of his powerful thighs through the spandex of his bib shorts, and his diamond-shaped calves bulged above the tops of his socks. The warm breeze felt amazing on his smooth legs today. They were always particularly sensitive after a fresh shave, and he and Thierry (and probably every other rider in the Tour) had made a point of shaving last night in preparation for opening day. Bruno had almost forgotten what it was like to have leg hair anyway. When he was still a teenager, he used to let his hair grow back in the off season, partly because some of the guys at school made fun of him for having no leg hair. But that first shave of the season was such a hassle! Soon he had decided it was easier to just keep it up all year. He was a professional bike racer, after all. Leg hair just looked wrong on him now.
The feeling of disorientation had mostly passed, until it came back again strongly at his first pause naturelle. Now his penis somehow seemed alien to him. What was with all that skin over the head? Oh right, that was just his foreskin. Perfectly normal. Why should he be circumcised, after all?
He put that thought aside and got back in the race. He and Thierry had a lot of work to do. They spent the day doing the kinds of things that domestiques normally did. They carried water bottles and other necessities to their teammates. They took turns pulling their sprinters and GC contenders to keep them fresh. The stars had to be kept from becoming exhausted, after all. Bruno and Thierry weren’t stars, not yet; no one cared if they got exhausted. That was their job. Bruno was happy enough just to be on a team that was riding in the Tour.
Unfortunately, their star sprinter didn’t win the stage, but Bruno and Thierry got a little bit of attention from the press. They were interviewed – sort of – by a British reporter looking for riders who were in their first tour. The problem was that there was no interpreter. The reporter barely spoke any French, and Thierry had laughed out loud at Bruno’s English. Bruno couldn’t blame him. His prof d’anglais had always said Bruno was hopeless. He just didn’t have the knack for foreign languages. He’d studied Italian, because it was supposed to be one of the easiest for a French speaker to pick up, but he found even Italian challenging. English was far worse. It had so many bizarre sounds that were impossible to reproduce. The reporter’s strong London accent hadn’t helped; Bruno was sure he would have done much better understanding an American. Thierry had translated the reporter’s questions, but Bruno hadn’t managed to say much more than a laborious “I yam veree ‘appee to be in ze tour”. In truth, Thierry’s English wasn’t great, either, but it was way better than Bruno’s.
Mercifully, the interview was soon over. They rode the team bus back to the hotel, giving everyone a chance to recap the day’s action. Dinner gave them both more time to socialize with the rest of the team, but their directeur sportif insisted on everyone getting to bed early, naturally. Back in his room, another wave of disorientation hit him as he got ready for bed. He stopped dead in front of the mirror, staring at a face that was familiar and strange at the same time. He couldn’t think of what was bothering him. His thick, dark brown hair was cut in a no-nonsense buzz cut; the last thing he had wanted was hair getting in his way while he was racing. His soft brown eyes stared back at him. What was different about them? Wait. Where were his glasses? But no, he didn’t wear glasses or contacts. Why did he think he did? Shaking his head at his expression of bafflement in the mirror, he got ready for bed.
Bruno was surprised by how quickly he fell asleep. He was tired enough, but he was so keyed up after a day of racing that he thought he would be awake for hours. He was out as soon as his head hit the pillow.
In the middle of the night, Bruno had a dream. It was a confusing dream; he dreamt of someone else’s life, some tall, skinny, American guy living in a large apartment and working for some kind of software company. He felt a vague distaste for the man, yet he seemed familiar, as if he should know him. Then he heard a voice. “Brandon, Brandon!” it called. He woke from his dream – or thought he had.
“Branne-donne?” Bruno questioned out loud. « C’est qui ce Brandon? »
“You don’t need to talk out loud,” said the voice, slowly and in English. “Only you can hear me. You have a choice to make. You can still go back, but you need to choose now.”
Thierry stirred in his sleep. Bruno was afraid for a moment that he’d wakened, but Thierry started snoring again steadily – as usual.
“He won’t wake,” the voice said. “I have to explain. The man you dreamed of – his name is Brandon. You used to be Brandon. But Brandon wanted to experience the life of someone who rode his bicycle for a living, a racer in the Tour de France. Through an extraordinary gift, you have been given that opportunity. But now you have to choose which life you want to live. You can go back to being Brandon again. Or you can remain Bruno. The choice is up to you.”
“Quoi? De quoi tu parles? Oh yes! I remembair now,” said Bruno, speaking out loud despite what the voice had said. Remembering Brandon had made it easier to understand English, and he had switched languages without realizing it, until he heard the bizarre sounds coming out of his mouth. He fell silent for a moment, hesitating. Bruno’s lips and tongue were simply not capable of making the sounds he heard Brandon making in his head. No wonder Thierry had laughed at him. He tried again: “But what ‘appen to Brandon if I stay ‘ere?” He grimaced at the odd-sounding, halting words, but the voice seemed unconcerned.
“Reality will adjust to your choice, Bruno. Neither you nor anyone else will remember that Brandon ever existed.”
“And eef I become zees Brandon again, what ‘appen to me, you know? What will ‘appen to Bruno?” Bruno was losing his self-consciousness as his labored English started to sound normal to him.
“You will wake up as Brandon, after a very vivid dream.”
Bruno considered. He could remember more of Brandon, now – dimly. Brandon was a good guy, sure. He made plenty of money, and he had a good life – for a young, lonely American in a big city. But his life was empty. He had nothing in his life but his job, and Brandon didn’t even love his job. He remembered that now vividly. The only thing he really loved was riding his bicycle. That was the link between Brandon and himself.
Thierry snorted in his sleep, louder than usual. His snoring was so annoying! But he was used to it. He and Thierry weren’t just roommates for the Tour; they’d shared an apartment ever since Bruno had joined the team. Thierry was a bon gars and a good friend, he remembered. They’d had a lot of amazing times together. As for the other guys on the team, well, he wasn’t as close to them as he was to Thierry, but they were great guys, too. And they had a real shot at winning this year. It was the fucking Tour de France, after all. He wasn’t going to miss that. His team needed him. No way was he going to let them down.
Of course, whichever choice he made involved sacrifices. Wistfully, Bruno realized that Brandon would probably have made more money than Bruno ever would. Brandon was probably smarter, too. Bruno knew he’d never been the best student, but he had managed to pass his bac, at least – barely. On a sudden whim, wanting proof that Bruno was real and not just a dream, he got out of bed and grabbed his wallet, looking for his carte d’identité.
It was there in his wallet, right where he always kept it. Reassured, he smiled as he read the official French document. He was born in Beauvais? He supposed that was right. He realized that he was thinking completely in French, and his memories of Brandon were already fading. The choice was easier than he’d thought. He’d already made his decision, hadn’t he? It was time to let Brandon go.
« T’es sûr? » the voice asked.
« Oui. Absolument. »
« Eh bien, Bruno, t’as choisi. Adieu, et bonne nuit! »
Bruno put his wallet back on the nightstand, wondering why he had thought he would need it in the middle of the night. He must have had some weird dream. He was pretty sure he had been dreaming, but any memory of it had already faded. He’d better try to get some sleep. Thierry was snoring soundly, and they had a long day of racing in the morning.
I don't normally reblog my own posts, but since the Tour is almost over, I thought it was a good time to put this little story back out there.
