Everyone else had started back, eight or nine bicycles in the pack headed up the trail, but he needed to use the rest room. There was only one, and it seemed that everyone else exiting the event needed to use it as well, most of them seeming to be small boys. It was curious that the inside of the building was spacious and modern, an auditorium of some kind, while the outside was rustic and woodsy. Even the rest room was out of character, a dark and dank concrete rectangle that was more like a janitor's closet than a public restroom.

I'll skip the rest, I think, except to say that the protagonist somehow finds himself back home, where he has several things to do, and then decides to go back for his bicycle. There are people who make a fortune listening to things like this. They know when to make a note, when to nod their heads, and what to tell you about the symbolism of it all. "The bicycle represents the tool you use to accomplish what you need to accomplish in life," they tell you. "You've evidently abandoned it for the time being."

And this much is true, but only because the office needs to be painted and the ceiling in the bedroom needs to be patched. But how did this translate into a bicycle? "The path is obvious; that's the path you need to take to escape from that dark, dank bathroom. The path leads to your accomplishments, but you've taken a shortcut, only to realize that you need to get back on the path."

OK, Doc, you've got me there. I bought one of those "How to Write a Novel in Four Days" books, and I haven't finished reading it. Office and all, as I mentioned earlier. But how do I know that you know what you're talking about? Couldn't you tell me just about anything?

"Hmm... Tell me why you feel this way."

I hate it when they do that. I just want to know why we have to fork over large amounts of cash just to hear things like this, especially when it's something we could have come up with on our own.

"Aha! This is an insight! You see, that's exactly how it works. There's nothing I can tell you that you don't already know yourself. And you could have easily told yourself, but you didn't have permission. I had that permission, but only because you paid me."

Wait... this doctor is telling me that I could just as easily have paid myself to tell me the things he did? My brain is starting to hurt...

"It gets worse. Remember, you're writing this. You created me. This is a dialog you're having with yourself."

Ow. I need a cup of coffee.