(type: bizarre ... a first person account)

Ed: This sob story has to be told. I'll be as brief as I can. Grab some popcorn.

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My dad and I left at 12 PM EST for the Nashville Airport, where I would be starting my trip home from a long holiday visit. In the security line in front of me was, I noticed, a very sexy brunette in nice clothes. I caught a brief glimpse of the side of her face and thought to myself, "That looks kind of like that actress whose name I can't recall," which I immediately dismissed, because why would that particular actress be boarding a plane in Nashville, Tennessee by herself? But then, after I went through the metal detector, a security person was bantering with her and I heard her trademark goofy laugh, and just before she turned to walk away, she looked back at me with a smile on her lovely, unmistakable face: Cameron friggin' Diaz, boarding a plane in Nashville, no former 'N Sync members in sight. For what it's worth, Timberlake's family apparently lives in TN, which sheds a little light on the appearance.

I wish I could continue the story with Miss Diaz's presence and tell you that we sat on the plane together and were soon making lots of little Diaz-Gurley babies, but that smile was unfortunately the last shred of Hollywood glory I got. Things went downhill from there.

The first-leg flight was the most turbulent that I had ever been on, so much that I started to worry about the integrity of the plane. But no big deal, we landed safely. The second leg was fine aside from the little boy beside me spilling half a drink in my lap. No big deal, I didn't get too wet. My girlfriend picked me up from the airport, then broke up with me on the way to her house. No big deal, I had seen it coming - we were on the same page - and knew the relationship wasn't going to go on forever. So after we discussed that for a few minutes I asked her if I should just head home instead of spending the night, to which she replied, "Well, yeah, I think so." By now it was 11 PM PST and very cold outside (the 40 minute trip home would be on my motorcycle), but no big deal, I drove out here in the cold, I can deal with one more freezing ride, bundled up in every insulating garment in my suitcase. But things continued to go downhill.

Or more specifically, they went uphill more than I would have liked. The battery on my bike had not been working well when I drove out here a couple of weeks ago and I knew that there was a good chance it wouldn't start, which of course it didn't. My now ex-girlfriend does live on a hill, though, so I figured roll-starting it would be easy. Wrong. The push up her driveway was soon to be followed by a push up a slight but long incline that I hadn't factored into my analysis. Nonetheless, it did finally start and stay started once I got to a significant downhill. Yay!

Oh, wait - I needed gas. I knew it was on empty when I drove it here but I was so cold then that I didn't want to bother gassing it up. So I rolled into the first station I came to, revved the engine for awhile in an attempt to charge the battery, put my card in the pump and put the nozzle in the tank, which proceeded to pour lots of gas into my hand and onto my tank because it had a leak (we bikers have to hold onto those stupid spring-loaded nozzles that CA pumps are no longer legally required to use but still have). No. Big. Fucking. Deal. I looked everywhere for paper towels, but there were none. Waited a few minutes for the two people standing in the cashier line in front of me to conduct their business, got paper towels, paid $.75 to wet the towels at the air/water pump, cleaned everything up, and... the bike didn't start. It did, fortunately, roll start just fine when I coasted out of the parking lot. "I'm home free!" I said to myself.

If only.

Just before I got onto the interstate, I started to worry about the things I had stuffed in the outer pocket of my pack. The pocket was only fastened by velcro and I was worried that they might fall out at highway speeds, plus I wanted to fasten the top button of my coat. So I stopped on the shoulder to correct these things, which turned out to be a colossal mistake. Moved things from outer to inner pockets, fiddled with the button for 2-3 minutes, then just as I was about to get back onto the bike, I heard "putter, putter, putter...," then silence. The bike died again.

I was on a hill, though, and I figured I'd be able to get it going again without too much trouble, but I was very wrong. After repeatedly pushing, turning the key and dropping the clutch to no avail, I finally rolled the bike the wrong way down an on-ramp onto the nearest street. No hills in sight. Rolled it into a liquor store parking lot and asked a cop if he had jumper cables. Nope. I had no choice but to call the ex.

She thought but wasn't sure that she had jumpers. She arrived twenty minutes later, and after rummaging through the random junk in her trunk we determined that she didn't, so we drove around for a few minutes looking for an open gas station, which we fortunately found in only two tries, and bought cables. Jumped the bike with no problems, which is the only thing that had gone right since Cammie-Di (she likes it when I call her that) smiled at me. Spent the next half hour frozen to my bike, and finally rolled into my garage at about 12:30 PST (15.5 hours after I had started my trip, but who's counting?). Got to bed at about 2 after catching up on mail. Woke up with a sore back from pushing a 450-pound motorcycle around.

But I have to admit, I feel great now. The trip from hell is over and I'm finally back home in sunny California, ready to take on whatever not-big deals confront me in the new year.