From what I can recall, something had happened to my car which left me in a serious pinch on how to get to work each morning.
So naturally, I went with this alternative:
This is a Cheetah, a kind of souped-up Big Wheel sold in the 1970s by Lakeside Toys which my parents bought for my brother and me to run from the top of our long, semi-steep driveway and spin out in the back (again and again).
But I digress.
In the dream, my new commute went swimmingly until on my home from work one afternoon, one of the plastic wheels on my Cheetah wore out and became unusable. So I pulled over, distraught knowing that Cheetahs haven’t been manufactured for 30-plus years, and that it’d be almost impossible to get a spare wheel.
I couldn't even call AAA for a tow, although I imagine they would have been happy to strap my poor, busted ride to a tailgate and give me a lift to a garage.
Then I woke up, with a little tinge of regret, in that despite the little challenges of driving them on the tollway, commuting by Cheetah—which don’t require a drop of gas—really wasn’t so bad at all.