Our story begins in the age old city of Toronto, back in the year 2000. I was a young man back then, full of vibrant energy, youthful optimism, and in the prime of the age of discovery. Outside, it was dark and rainy, and the streets were filled with the light, splattering noise of droplets striking everything from pavement and cars, to the makeshift newspaper umbrellas pedestrians carried as they ran for shelter from the persistent rain.

I had just enjoyed a savoury evening's meal with the charming Miss White, and as we exchanged our departing pleasantries, we boarded our respective subway trains, whence began a series of unfortunate incidents that utterly spoiled what was up to that point a favourable day. Outside, the rain had ceased, but that was little concern of mine.

I glanced at my watch to check the time - 7:30ish. I had a mere ten minutes or so to arrive at Union Station in order to catch my train to Clarkson. Alas, it would not be so, and I was less than ten minutes late. The next locomotive was not due for another hour, so I waited. And waited. And waited some more. I read from my textbooks. I read from a newspaper. I read and waited as an hour of my life despoiled.

At long last, the train arrived, and I was en route to Clarkson Station. I continued to read the newspaper, whilst the gentleman beside me struggled over a crossword, coughing and hacking, projecting infinite numbers of microscopic organisms through the air around us. As the train lurched along its course, what seemed to be a peculiarly long trip was about to get longer.

The public address system came to life: "Attention passengers," the conductor said. "There is going to be a slight delay as we seem to have been switched onto the wrong track. We're going to have to back-up after the next stop to get back on course."

"Patience is a virtue," I told myself. "And I must strive to be virtuous."

Eventually, we arrived at Clarkson Station, and I debarked from the train, nearly two hours after being deprived of the cordial fellowship of the charming Miss White. I bundled up to prepare for the cold ride home, unlocked and dried off my bicycle, and set forth. The ground was still wet from the evening's earlier rain, and the wind howled, attempting to throw me asunder, and slowing my progress as if the god of wind personally enjoyed my company, and was begging me to stay and play with him, perhaps share a drink, or partake in a game of Scrabble.

But, I was in no mood for games at that moment, and pushed forward, fighting the calls of the wind, and urging my solitary operational brake to double its efforts on a slippery, wet wheel. At long last, I surpassed the uphill climb, crossed the highway, and began the smooth descent and level stretch towards home.

Although Murphy's Laws need no further confirmation to obtain my belief and recognition, he still found it suitable to use me as an example of his never-failing theories. As I crossed a small street, the one single solitary operational brake became none. With a clatter and clunk, the front reflector danced across the road and the front brakes entangled themselves with the wheel, bringing my motion to a sudden halt.

"Fuddle duddle," I thought to myself. "That's bad. Now I definitely really need a new bike. Well, I can't ride this anymore, I'd better call home and get a lift."

I scanned the horizon. Could it just be coincidence that the tides of fate had pulled me under even farther, and stuck me in the one place on my route home where there were no accessible telephones? No houses, no restaurants, only a series of locked-up industrial office buildings, each in a different far-off direction.

Just to make the situation seem even more like a nightly television sitcom, it began to rain.

I walked the bike along the road, laughing hysterically.

Several street blocks later, I arrived at a fast food restaurant, and stepped up to the pay phone. I removed my gloves, exposing my hands to the bitter November cold and rain, and fished for some change. I inserted a quarter, dialled home, got rained on, and heard my quarter drop into the coin return.

I stared blankly at the telephone for a second, and tried again. I reinserted the quarter, redialled home, got rained on some more, and once again heard my quarter drop into the coin return.

After discovering I had been trying to make a call with a nickel, I inserted a real quarter into the pay phone, dialled home, got rained on, and heard the real quarter deposit itself into the coin return.

The telephone received a stern blank stare yet again.

This little routine was repeated several times in various combinations, perfecting my coin-inserting, number-dialling, and blank-staring skills, until I discovered that someone had left an empty calling card in the telephone.

I finally made the call to get my dear Dad to rescue me, and I stood there and waited, something to which I was becoming quite accustomed. "This wasn't supposed to be so unpleasant," I thought to myself as I frightened a group of young ruffians with my don't-mess-with-me haircut. "I was supposed to spend an enjoyable evening with the charming Miss White, expediently travel home, partake in some Oreo goodness, and perhaps have a little nap before going to bed. Nowhere in there did I plan on excessive delays, excessive rain, and excessive bicycle failure."

Father finally arrived, and drove me and my defunct bicycle home. I crossed the threshold, removed my shoes, bypassed a lecture on the dangers of winter biking presented by Mother-dear, and retired to my quarters (I guess they should be considered thirds, technically, considering the absent fourth wall). The day was done, and there was quite the story to be told.

I don't know if there is much of any lesson that can be learned from this adventure, but you can be sure of this: Any time I spend a pleasant after-work evening with the charming Miss White, I bring the leftover fries with me in a doggy bag -- I may need them to fend off starvation should I be faced with an even more time-consuming fiasco.