Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Autumn Ride (Encore)

Episode Date: October 1, 2026

Originally Presented as Episode 19 of Season 10 (Oct 10, 2022) Our story tonight is called Autumn Ride, and it’s about pedaling with friends under falling leaves. It’s also about treats from the bakery, wrapped up and ready to share, rediscovering a pure feeling of joy out on the road, and a hoodie zipped up to your chin. Subscribe to our ⁠⁠⁠Premium channel⁠⁠⁠. The first month is on us. 💙 ⁠⁠⁠Join⁠⁠⁠ the Village of Nothing Much App! Order Kathryn’s new book ⁠⁠⁠On the Street Where You Live ⁠⁠⁠NMH Merch, Autographed Books and More!⁠⁠⁠ Listen to our daytime show ⁠⁠⁠Stories from the Village of Nothing Much⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠Sit Meditation with Kathryn⁠⁠⁠ Follow us on ⁠⁠⁠Instagram⁠⁠⁠ Visit ⁠⁠⁠Nothing Much Happens⁠⁠⁠ for more Village fun! Sign up for our Newsletter ⁠⁠⁠here⁠⁠⁠ to be in the know! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Get more Nothing Much Happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories, and ad-free listening, all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe now. Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolai.

I write and read all the stories you hear on nothing much happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We are bringing you an encore episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past. It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location. And since I'm a person and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different,

but the stories are always soothing and family-friendly, and our wishes for you are always deep rest and sweet dreams. Now, I'm going to read you a story. It's mostly about mood and feeling, so you don't have to keep track of anything as you listen. just let your mind follow along with the sound of my voice. This will keep it from wandering, and before you know it, you'll be dropping off to sleep.

I'll tell the story twice, and I'll slow down a bit with the second telling. If you wake again later in the night, you could start the story over, or just think back to any part of the story that you can remember, especially any part that felt cozy or relaxing. So many listeners have confirmed what I've been telling you all this time. That good sleep is a habit you can build.

So be patient if you're new to this. Our story tonight is called Autumn Ride. And it's about peddling with friends under falling leaves. It's also about treats from the bakery. wrapped up and ready to share, rediscovering a pure feeling of joy out on the road, and a hoodie zipped up to your chin. Now turn out your light,

slip down into your sheets, and feel how cool and soft they are around you. Settle each part of your body, as if you're walking through a house and turning out the lights room by room, whatever you got done today. It's enough. All that remains now is rest. Take a deep breath in through your nose.

Let it out your mouth. Nice. One more. Breathe in. And out. Good. Autumn ride. Back door of the bakery was propped open wide. And the ovens were all run. at full capacity. The mix of warm and cool air was one of my favorite things about baking in the fall over the fresh baked loaves and cookies. I could smell the clean, crisp scent of the outdoors. I wasn't actually supposed to be at the bakery today. It was my morning off, but I was up to something

special, and my staff certainly didn't mind while I was rolling out the cookies and proving the pastries. I moved hot bagels from their tray into baskets for the front counter and shaped a dozen loaves of sourdough. I got into that state of flow when I was in the bakery kitchen, when I felt like my mind and hands were perfectly connected, and time sort of stopped. So they just put things in front of me and stepped back. And honestly, I loved it. I could hear the bell over the door ringing as customers came and went. I could smell coffee brewing and stopped to taste the apple filling for the pastries. I just kept making, kept going. Back in the spring, when the bicycle shop first opened,

the owner had come in and placed in order for several dozen cookies to serve on their first day of business. He'd had that tired but excited look that I remembered from my own first days owning the bakery. so many ideas, so much possibility, and so many little details that you hadn't considered until they suddenly demanded a solution. I'd taken his order myself and, curious as anyone, about his new shop, had offered to deliver them the morning of. I'd made several types of cookies, oatmeal raisin, which, yes, some people prefer, but also chocolate chip so there would be no hard feelings.

Snickerdoodle and peanut butter and a few sugar cookies stamped out with my bicycle-shaped cutter and perfectly piped with colorful icing. The bike shop had been bustling when I carried them in and set them up by his coffee pot. I hadn't intended to buy a bike that day, but once I started looking, well, I suddenly remembered how incredible it had felt as a child. To zoom down sloping streets in my neighborhood,

how the rushing air had made me feel like I was flying. And I just couldn't resist. The shop owner helped me pick out the right sort of bike for how I like to ride, fitted me for a helmet, and ordered me an extra cushy, wide saddle so I could be as comfortable as possible. And that first ride had been, well, joyful. Why had I ever stopped riding a bike? I remember that it had rained the night before, and when the wind blew, a shower of drops fell from the trees. And I'd laughed while I was peddling. Yes, joy was the word. I felt free on my bike, so a few things had quickly become part of my routine.

On Saturday mornings, I took a break to deliver more cookies to the bike shop. and whenever there was a group ride, I joined in. We'd biked through the old neighborhoods around downtown and even partnered up with the Garden Club to learn about some of the special green spots in our village. One sunny day, we rode all the way out to the inn where we stopped for lemonade and coffee cake on their back porch. and I got to talk shop with their chef.

While they hadn't divulged their coffee cake recipe, I had been given two jars of pickled cauliflower, which I'd brought home in my bike basket and savored over the summer. On those rides, I'd made new friends. I'd learned the names of customers whose orders I knew by heart, and seen several corners

of our town that I never knew were there. It wasn't just exercise and fresh air I was getting. My days were richer because of the places I rode and the people I'd met. Today was our autumn ride, though we hoped it wouldn't be the last for the year. We were meeting where we always did, in the alley in front of the bike shop. So I packed up the apple turnovers into a giant sheetcake box, tucked in a stack of napkins, and carried it out to strap into the carrier on the back of my bike. I'd ordered it specifically so I could bring treats on our rides.

And so far, it had held lemon cupcakes and green pea and potato. pasties, and nothing had been crushed or lost. With my helmet on and my favorite hoodie zipped up to my chin, I pushed off the curb and started riding through town. It was a quiet day, and I liked passing by the shops, and seeing them lit up inside with a few patrons in each. I started to hear the bike bells before I turned down the alley and began to ring my own. It was how we greeted each other and kicked off each ride. There were a couple dozen of us today,

and I was glad I'd baked a double batch, enough for everyone. I stopped to chat with a few fellow riders, as everyone tightened their helmet straps and filled their water bottles from the sink in the bike shop. Then we were off, following the leaders out past the train depot on the edge of town. We rode past neighborhoods where leaves were being raked and Halloween decorations set up on front lawns and kept going till we were on a dirt road.

moving through a tunnel of trees, whose leaves were shades of orange and yellow and bright ruby red, the sound of a million leaves rustling in the wind, the sight of them rolling like waves, falling like bright raindrops. Again, it was pure joy. someone rang their bell and someone else hooted. And we all knew we were feeling the same thing at the same moment. At some point, we would find a place to stop, maybe near a lake or an outcropping at the edge of a valley.

And we would sip our water and pass around the turnovers and take a few pictures. Till then, we'd pedal and breathe the air and ride under the leaves. Autumn ride. The back door of the bakery was propped open wide, and the ovens were all running at full capacity. The mix of warm and cool air was one of my favorite things about baking in the fall over the fresh baked loaves and cookies. I could smell the clean, crisp scent

of the outdoors. I wasn't actually supposed to be at the bakery today. It was my morning off, but I was up to something special, and my staff certainly didn't. mind while I was rolling out the cookies and proving the pastries. I moved hot bagels from their tray into baskets for the front counter and shaped a dozen loaves of sourdough. I got into that state of flow when I was in the bakery kitchen. When I felt like my mind and hands were perfectly connected and time sort of stopped. So they just put things in front of me and stepped back and honestly I loved it. I could hear the bell over the door ringing. As customers came and went, I could smell coffee brewing and stopped to taste the apple filling for the pastries and just kept making, kept going.

Back in the spring, when the bicycle shop first opened, the owner had come in and placed an order for several dozen cookies to serve on their first day of business. He'd had that tired but excited look that I remembered from my own first days owning the bakery, so many ideas, so much possibility, and so many little details that you hadn't considered until they suddenly demanded a solution. I'd taken his or order myself and curious as anyone about his new shop had offered to deliver them the morning of. I'd made several types of cookies for him. Oatmeal raisin, which, yes, some people prefer, but also chocolate chip. so there would be no hard feelings.

Snickerdoodle and peanut butter and a few sugar cookies stamped out with my bicycle-shaped cutter and perfectly piped with colorful icing. The shop had been bustling when I carried them in and set them up by his coffee pot. I hadn't intended to buy a bike that day.

But once I started looking, well, I suddenly remembered how incredible it had felt as a child to zoom down sloping streets in my neighborhood, how the rushing air had made me feel like I was, flying, and I just couldn't resist. The shop owner helped me pick out the right sort of bike for how I liked to ride, fitted me for a helmet, and ordered me an extra cushy, wide saddle, so I could be as comfortable as possible. And that first ride had been, well, joyful.

Why had I ever stopped riding a bike? I remember that it had rained the night before. And when the wind blew, a shower of drops fell from the trees. And I'd laughed while I was peddling. Yes, joy was the word. I felt free on my bike. So a few things had quickly become part of my routine. On Saturday mornings, I took a break to deliver more cookies to the bike shop.

And whenever there was a group ride, I joined in. We'd biked through the old neighborhoods around downtown and even partnered up with the garden club to learn about some of the special green spots in our village. One sunny day, we rode all the way out to the inn where we stopped for lemonade and coffee cake on their back porch. and I got to talk shop with their chef. While they hadn't divulged their coffee cake recipe, I had been given two jars of pickled cauliflower, which I'd brought home in my bike basket and savored over the summer.

On those rides, I'd made new friends, learned the names of customers whose orders I knew by heart and seen several corners of our town that I never knew were there. It wasn't just exercise and fresh air I was getting. My days were richer because of the places I rode and the people I'd met. Today was our autumn ride, though we hoped, It wouldn't be the last for the year.

We were meeting where we always did in the alley in front of the bike shop. So I packed up the apple turnovers into a giant sheet cake box, tucked in a stack of napkins, and carried it out to strap into the carrier on the back of my bike. I'd ordered it specifically so I could bring treats on our rides. And so far it had held lemon cupcakes and green pea and potato pasties. And nothing had been crushed or lost. With my helmet on and my favorite hoodie zipped up to my chin, I pushed off the curb and started riding through town.

It was a quiet day, and I liked passing by the shops and seeing them lit up inside, with a few patrons in each. I started to hear the bike bells before I turned down the alley and began to ring my own. It was how we greeted each other and kicked off each ride. There were a couple dozen of us today, and I was glad I'd baked a double batch. Enough for everyone. I stopped to chat with a few fellow riders as everyone tightened their helmet straps and filled their water bottles.

From the sink in the bike shop, we were off, following the leaders out past the train depot on the edge of town. We rode through neighborhoods where leaves were being raked and Halloween decorations set up on front lawns, kept going, till we were on a dirt road, moving through a ton of. of trees, whose leaves were shades of orange and yellow and bright ruby red, the sound of a million leaves rustling in the wind, the sight of them rolling like waves, falling like bright raindrops. Again, it was pure joy. Someone rained. their bell and someone else hooted. And we all knew we were feeling the same thing at the same moment. At some point, we would find a place to stop, maybe near a lake or an outcropping at the edge of a valley. And we would sip our water and pass around the turnovers.

and take a few pictures. Till then, we'd pedal and breathe the air and ride under falling leaves. Sweet dreams.