I’m still not sure how I ended up here. I recall riding my bike along the 101 in California, stopping to fill up a water bottle, and then nothing until I woke up here. I’ve spent the last 5 days cooped up in what I imagine is the remnants of a medieval torture chamber, only there are shredded bike shorts hanging from the walls. I don’t have a bed, it’s just a slab of wood. Oh, and my bike is here, bolted to a trainer in the middle of the room. Every once in a while a tray of “food” is slid under the door, although I’m not sure I’d call it food. It’s primarily a plate of rusty nails, a jar of angry bees, and a glass of some kind of bubbling concoction. I figured if I shake the bottle enough I can knock the bees unconscious and get a few down. I’ve managed to mix the nails and whatever is in the glass together and get that down too. It burns pretty badly though.
On this day, instead of the plate of food the door was opened, and an older man walked in. He glared at me for a few moments, and then waived in what looked like a few trolls. They scampered over to my bike, unbolted it from the trainer, checked the tire pressures, and walked it out of the room. The man told me to follow him. I obliged, although I was more than a little freaked out about this whole deal. As I followed, he began explaining, in rather broken English, where we were going and what was going on.