Dreams Are Good Things
I was a kid of 6 when I woke up from a "bad dream". When my mom came to my room to see why I was crying, I told her that I dreamed that I was riding a bike and that it was racing down a steep hill with three busy intersections, something like San Francisco. I did not know how to stop the bike from hurtling towards a muddy river in flood, with several rusted car wrecks bobbing up and down. I could not swim. At the last moment, just before landing in the river, I managed to swerve to the left and crashed into an old willow tree. I saw how the front wheel buckled and bent completely out of shape, and how my right arm broke at the elbow and how bits of bone fragments protruded where my elbow was. I remember gagging on something with a metallic taste, as I wiped my mouth with my left hand, I looked down and saw that it was blood, from a wound in my forehead.
My mom reminded me that it was only a dream, as I don't have a bike. But on my 9th birthday, my friend was busy giving me my first bike riding lesson, using his bike. He was holding onto the saddle when his grip slipped. The problem was, that he had forgotten to tell me where the brakes were. The rest is history and happened exactly according to the dream I had 3 years earlier.