Shake it Up

What's in a dream? Have they ever been so vivid that you feel yourself thinking they're real, even during an impossible peregrination from the mundane to the fantastic?
My wife and I went to The Bicycle Place where many familiar faces from the cycling community were gathering for a long bike tour, like to the end of the Canal, except I didn't recognize any of the names along the route. As we assembled to go , there was a lot of activity in The Shop where Mike's family (more grown up) were playing around the stairway which had a wobbly railing that an older Brock commented on being "a loose Bannister Fletcher", which made me laugh because the pun referred to the classic architectural encyclopedia. Clever kid. Downstairs were youngsters assembling, like, three different Titanic puzzles. A narrative in my head explained how the doomed ships' boilers kept fireing even as they settled into the sea (not entirely accurate)...
But then we were in the tour van, having a good time; The Car's were on the radio playing "Shake it Up" while the guy next to me, who looked exactly like the Terps' Bambale Osby, was singing the chorus, "Do do doo" (unlikely) when discussion led to this guy who wrote an amazing book about proportions and beauty and how he was inspired from the view from his hillside cave, coming into view so blindingly bright like the white cliffs of Dover and then I morphed into him and saw for myself the most fantastical urbanscape of buildings and temples with spires and gilded domes rising up out of the landscape that stretched across the horizon before me... then my step-mother-in-law took back the book as she is wont to do, though oddly the binding changed into the color and consistency of molasses as it ended up in one of my neighbors' hands...
It was time to resume the tour as our group tromped down a long staircase to street level which consisted of a network of canals. Barracuda-sized fish raced along these channels and I followed one as fast as I could, barely keeping up with it and the voice of our tour guide who was explaining everything so authoritatively with his British accent and of course it all made perfect sense at the time... but then I was moving swiftly on rails, through a train yard passing freight cars overflowing with gray gravel under canvas tarps and surrounded by a bleak burned out city with block after block of hollow building shells of ochre and mustard. Where had that fantastic city gone?
Alarm clock said it was time to go to work.