This just in: "I am fulfilling a long-held wish of mine: to follow the Tour de France in person, cheering on Lance Armstrong in five stages and riding in a lot of them. Old and overweight, but I figured it's now or never!"

If this e-mail had come from anyone except my own (unpredictable) 38-year old son I would have scoffed and dismissed it as sheer folly. But he has always attempted the unusual and impossible and usually succeeded. "Old and overweight" he may be, certainly compared to Armstrong's mere thirty-one years, but then age is a relative factor. My son has heart and the willingness to act on his fantasy. In a made-for-movie finish I can see Lance Armstrong falter on a switchback and my son race ahead to finish in his stead. Now who's fantasizing! 

This e-mail has occasioned a lot of discussion and even a few "true confessions" about wishful dreams, possible goals, and yes, ideas that may sound fanciful enough to be fantasies.

When I was a freshly-minted college graduate I was offered a magazine job in Paris. Yes, Paris as in Paris, France. A far piece from Annandale, Virginia. My French was as nonexistent as my journalism experience and the pay was barely subsistence. I declined the offer to stay home and work for a year in D. C. And then left for Germany.

Occasionally I look back and ask myself, what if I had moved to Paris in the '50's? Is there a possibility that I might have become an underling to M.F.K. Fisher? Or a sous-chef to the incomparable Julia Child? I'll never know. The one certainty I do hold is that I have no regrets. I can fantasize all I want and it will help put me to sleep at night.

A gentleman of my acquaintance admitted that he used to fantasize about being a world-class skier. An elder statesman of the Jean-Claude Killey set. My friend had taken up skiing late in life and found it exhilarating in every sense of the word. When a deteriorating hip curtailed his swoops on the slopes, he found solace in remembering his past prowess as a hand ball champion. Although snow skiing and handball have little in common, both demand skill and concentration and my friend excelled in both. And won a trophy to prove it. The skiing remains a dream-setter for him.

One of my young friends aspires to be a gymnastic champion, going all the way to the Olympics in a few years. Don't all little girls who take to the bars and mats and rings hope that they will be another Nadia? Or Mary Lou? But my eight year old pal has already progressed two levels in a mere six months of training. Pretty good for a beginner. She may just have the heart and skill to make the Olympics in say, '12.

Some colleagues tell me their greatest desire is to balloon over half a continent, champagne and caviar in hand; others have more modest wishes, such as riding a Harley crosscountry or joining Paul Newman for an intimate supper. (No mention of Joanne.)

I'm all for this fantasizing. It exercises the mind, stretches the imagination. I dare not poll any of the Harry Potter fans within the sound of my voice. Doubtless they would all voice desires to flee to Hogwarts and cavort with Harry and his chums. J. K. Rowling has given readers the greatest of gifts. Not in her novels alone, but in the sheer challenge to every readers' imagination. 

I'm going to recharge my own imagination this instant and replay my son's huffing and puffing among the treacherous curves and plunges of the Alp d'Huez. My money is still on Lance, but my heart is with my son who is daring to try his dream.

Barbara Dickinson is a Roanoke novelist and sometime painter.
 
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