I’m writing this very early on a Monday morning after what I have to assume was just a fantasy – a dream lived out in immense detail. I woke up ealy feeling still adreniline-pumped from a dream so intense that it felt like it had actually happened to me.
I dreamed that the Tour de France visited Yorkshire. I know… daft, isn’t it? Just let me elaborate, because there was some real details in my head.
On the Saturday, it was a dreary morning with a bit of cloud that cleared off to be a lovely sunny afternoon. My family teamed up with lots of friends to drive over from Ingleton to Hawes and walk up the “Cote de Buttertubs” (I know – just humour me…) and enjoy the most fantastic atmosphere with hundreds of thousands of cycling fans. The race came through with Jens Voigt on a doomed but brave solo break, and all the children screamed, waved flags, and watched, semi-aghast.
In our thousands we walked down the hill back to Hawes, still goose-bumped, and had a BBQ an Jean and Bill’s. Matthew and I looked at our photos and the children ran round the garden in the sun.
But the dream continued…
I dreamed that I got on my bike on Sunday morning and rode from Ingleton to Mytholmroyd to watch the Tour de France ride up Cragg Vale. In this part of the dream, I met up with mates old and new, and again watched (pinching myself, to check if it was a dream), as hundreds publicity caravane vehicles, Gendarmes, and, eventually, toasted, lean, cyclists, rode up a hill I know a bit too well. (They only rode up it once – even dreams aren’t that silly).
After a ride home with a few friends, I dreamed that I watched the whole thing on TV, with a beer or three.
Here’s my artist’s impression on Flickr of what it would have looked like, if it had actually happened.