This was a sweet dream, for I was out in the country. There was time before dinner for a bicycle ride, so I found myself riding endlessly along gentle hills and curves under the grey skies and softly falling rain of a late western New York evening. And I seemed to go on forever, until it was time to turn back so as not to be late for dinner, and somewhere I ran across someone with a long, wide strip of leather — some kind of device that made perfect sense — that was a relic from World War II. I did not make it to dinner before waking up. For all I know, I am still riding, riding, riding through the sprinkles . . .