You would think this is the easy part, going home. All I had to do was get on 3 aeroplanes, hurtling west, sitting on my ass, eating stuff that is put before me because there is nothing better to do, get off plane 3, walk to my waiting brother's car and that's the end of it. But nothing every goes as planned.

In the wee morning hours, 6am to be exact, Peter gallantly drove me to the Edinburgh airport which was super nice! Thanks again, Peter!

I arrived in plenty of time but the place was PACKED. I wasn't expecting a relatively small airport to be so crowed. I left my bike in the capable hands of British Airways and set off through the remarkably busy gauntlet (Security) and still made it through in time for coffee and a cup of oatmeal, er, I mean porridge, because they say porridge there you know, not oatmeal.

Though I shouldn't have bothered because British Airways gave me a choice of a continental breakfast OR a full English Breakfast, plus all the tea I could drink in the one plus hour flight to London.

From there I was whisked by bus to a different terminal and herded through a maze of corridors, plus another security check, and arrived as my American Airlines flight was finishing up boarding.

From there it was on to Chicago, where I would collect my bike, go through customs, then security, again, and on to plane 3 to San Francisco.

Except there was no bike. And no one seemed to know where it was.

"It probably got stuck in London," one of the American Airlines worker bee's said. "It may be on the next plane, or maybe it will catch up with you?"

Of course my plane was leaving shortly so what could I do? The Trucker was lost and lonely but there was nothing I could do.

In San Francisco there was still no word, I was given a claim number and a phone number and a web site to visit and sent on my way.

The next day I called and was told that they more or less know were my bike is. Or more accurately, where it is not.

"It left Edinburgh," they said. "It must have gotten lost at Heathrow."

Hmmm?

It went like that for a while, until I got a call the next day in the evening with a recorded message that said something along the lines of, "We are calling about claim blah blah blah, at this time we are unsure of the location."

WTF? Did I hear that right?

An urgent call to another American Airlines phone person said, "oh, it is not that we don't know where it is. We know where it is. It left London and is on its way to Chicago."

"Then why did they recording say you don't know where it is."

"They mean it left London and is in route. I guess that is a little confusing."

"Yes, it is a little confusing."

The Trucker arrived home the next day at 11:00pm and was none the worse for wear, aside from emotional trauma, I assume.

Anyway, we were happily reunited. We were home.