Love @
130kmh
He started the engine and we got going.
I didn't dare look up. It was hard to, anyway. The helmet was
clamped tight on my face. My cheeks were bunched up like a
chipmunk's. I didn't feel particularly attractive.
He went a bit faster.
I squeezed my eyes shut and kept my head low. I could feel the
cold eating into my legs. I should have worn thicker tights, I
thought.
It was early spring in Wales and still very chilly. The wind
forced its way into the sliver of space I'd left open in my helmet.
I couldn't breathe otherwise. I'd never realised how claustrophobic
it'd feel under a helmet.
I wrapped my arms more tightly around his waist but my fingers -
clumsy in thick gloves - couldn't grab him properly.
The minutes passed.
I opened first one eye, then the other, and lifted my head a
bit. I peeped to my left and right.
A quarter of an hour went by. I was now sitting straight up on
the motorbike and turning my head coolly.
Cars were whizzing past us on the right. Hedges and stone walls
loomed dangerously close on the left. But I wasn't scared, not
really.
When we reached a bend, our bodies swayed with the machine and
dipped low near the tarmac.
I looked at the speedometer. It was inching past 100kmh to 110,
120. I pressed my body closer to his and wrapped my thighs more
tightly around him.
Then I noticed something happening. Whenever we went downhill,
he would have to adjust himself and would slide down the seat. I
could feel the gap between his body and mine - an emptiness,
almost, a sort of loss - and I'd make a desperate grab for his
waist.
Then when the road levelled up, he would inch himself back up
the seat and I could feel his body again. I felt safe once
more.
And it was at that point that I realised that, yes, if I could
trust my life to him as we zipped up and down the motorways and
country roads of Wales on his scary-looking 1,000cc bike, I could
trust my life to him.
And so, dear reader, I am doing it at last. Getting, er,
married. At the grand old age of 46. Next month. To Hurricane, my
crush from junior college with whom I reconnected after 29
years.
I called him Hurricane because he looked like the actor (an
unknown Hawaiian called Dayton Ka'ne) in the cheesy 1970s disaster
flick, Hurricane, starring Mia Farrow.
We went on one bad date in 1980 when we were both at
Anglo-Chinese Junior College. We watched a movie at Capitol and had
a milkshake. We were both so shy we were almost mute. We couldn't
wait to go home. I took the bus and he cycled back.
That was my memory of what happened.
His version is a little different. 'You broke my heart - twice,'
he said when he looked me up last July.
'You're crazy,' I said. 'You're imagining it. We had just that
one awful date and never saw each other again.'
No, he said, you broke my heart first in JC and then again a few
years later. He said he'd phoned me when he returned from
university in Canada. I'd been curt and that was that.
'You're wrong,' I said. 'I have no memory of that.'
But he was probably right. While going through my old things
last year after we'd re-connected, I discovered that he had
actually sent me a birthday card, a Valentine's Day card and a love
letter (all without dates, unfortunately) after we'd left JC.
In any case, we went our separate ways. I became a journalist
and worked in the same newspaper for 25 years.
Among other things, I wrote many (too many - sorry) columns
lamenting and celebrating love and singlehood.
He, meanwhile, worked at the Singapore Sports Council for a few
years. In the early 1990s, he met a Welsh woman while they were
both playing in a chess tournament in Kuala Lumpur. They got
married.
She lived here for a while but the mosquitoes gave her hell, so
they packed up for Britain. He taught in a primary school for a
while and played in lots of chess tournaments.
They lived in a few cities before settling in Wales. He became
an electrician and taught chess in a few schools. They had a
daughter five years ago but the marriage was already breaking
up.
There was no communication, he said, and communication, he's
since realised, is critical to a good marriage.
His divorce was finalised early last year. In July, he came to
Singapore to visit his family.
There were actually two former girl friends he thought of
calling, he told me later. He couldn't get the number of the first
girl but he knew where I worked.
Thanks, I told him, I'm so flattered to have been your second
choice.
I wasn't at my desk when he called and we kept missing each
other's calls thereafter. But we finally got in touch.
We met up for lunch and we weren't shy anymore. It felt nice
resuming our friendship. It felt comfortable.
When he went back, we kept in touch via e-mail and Skype. I made
it clear that I was not looking to be in a relationship. We're like
siblings, okay, former JC mates. I felt for him like I would a
brother, and I really did.
We talked a lot, about nothing and everything. We argued and
quarrelled a bit too. But mostly, he listened to my endless woes
and buoyed me whenever I felt depressed.
Don't ever do anything stupid, okay, he said. Come visit me
first.
He was open about his feelings for me and was nice. He got a
birthday cake sent to my house. He kept me company over Skype on
Christmas and New Year's Eve when I was feeling desperately
lonely.
He badgered me to visit him. Ya, I said, I will. In 2010. End
2010. Maybe. See how.
In March this year, I was feeling particularly down and in need
of a friend. I decided on the spur of the moment to visit him.
Guess what, I told him, I'll see you in two weeks' time, okay?
But, please, we're just friends. I merely want a change of
scenery.
Sure, he said, we'll have a great time, as friends. I'll show
you around, I'll make you happy.
I nearly didn't go because we got into a silly tiff over whether
he'd drive me back to Heathrow from Swansea. He'd casually
mentioned that should he be really tired, there was a bus I could
take to the airport. I flipped at that. Some kind of friend you
are, I said. I'm not going.
We didn't talk for two days. Then he gave in. He sent me a bunch
of roses and the note read: 'I'll drive you to the end of the world
and back. Love, Hurricane.'
There you go, I scolded him, always speaking so extravagantly.
But I couldn't help smiling.
So he picked me up at Heathrow. He had bought tickets to a
Liverpool v Portsmouth EPL match and we drove to Anfield. It was
fun.
We made our way down to his house in Wales and spent the rest of
the week there. We did the usual touristy things. He cooked for me
with Don McLean playing in the background. ('We've very different
music taste, you know,' I remarked. I prefer Usher and Sean
Kingston. I don't think he's heard of them.)
It rains a lot in Wales, I discovered. But on the Sunday before
I left, the weather was bright and sunny.
Let's take the bike out, he said. We'll go to the Gower
peninsula.
I told him I wasn't sure about that. I'd told my mum that I
wouldn't go on his bike.
Oh come on, he said, it'll be fun. I'll take care of you. I'll
be careful. We'll have a great time.
He fitted me with a biker jacket and biker gloves (his ex-wife's
actually, she'd worn them only once) and I was in tights and boots.
I felt like a biker chick.
And he was right. It was great.
That night, he asked: Will you be my girl?
It wasn't the first time he'd asked me that. He'd been doing it
from last July after we'd met.
Aiyah, I said, you and your girl girl girl. If you mean
girlfriend, say girlfriend.
But maybe it was the bike ride, the romantic rainy weather, Don
McLean even, or maybe I was just sleepy.
I thought, oh, what the heck, you live only once. Grab the
chance. Be bold. Take the plunge.
Ya okay, I added.
Okay? He did a double take.
Ya okay, I said. I'll be your 'girl'.
He looked at me, shocked. Then grinned. A really big and silly
grin.
You'll be my girl, he said, in wonder.
Ya, okay, stop saying it, will you?
We might as well get engaged then, he said. Why wait?
What? You mad?
No, let's get engaged. I'll buy you a ring.
He was very happy.
So was I.
And so, that's how I finally did it. At such an old age. Giving
up my singlehood after so many years of wondering if I'd ever find
the right one - or if there was a right one in the first place. And
there he was, right under my nose when I was 16 and in school.
He'll be moving back here and the wedding's set for the end of
next month.
What happens if it doesn't work out, I asked him at the bus
station before leaving for Heathrow (in the end I decided to spare
him and I took the bus back to the airport myself.)
It will work out, he said. Marriage is forever.
Well, it wasn't forever for you the first time round, was it, I
retorted.
This time it will be, he promised. We can communicate.
I looked into his eyes gazing at me and at the lines that have
appeared on his face in those 30 years I hadn't seen him, and I
said: 'Okay, Hurricane. I trust you.
'We'll get married.'
it's actually quite sweet. 
but it seems she has succumbed to her
loneliness