Bikes, Changi.

G'Day,
Today I found an email to say that my husband has been the successful bidder on Ebay for a motor bike. I am p...ed off.
I knew this was coming and have done for quite a while, but now it is here. He has wanted to buy a bike for ages and knows how scared I am of them. Now he has one. My comment tonight when he came home was, "Well that should be good, I guess it won't be long before I am waiting for you to come out of your coma and be pushing you around in your wheel chair and changing your colostomy bag, if you are lucky. " I am sarcastic and very blunt when in this mood.
I do not care about him spending money on it, it is his money. I am scared of him getting injured. He has not ridden a bike for about 25 years and now he expects to hop back on one and ride it through peak hour city traffic. Nice. He says he is a careful rider, I am pleased he thinks he can vouch for every other driver on the road.
The reason I am so scared of them? I don't know when it really started. Thought I would never get on one, ever since my early teens. I was scared of them before my first boyfriend was killed off one when he was just 17.
When I was in my teens and lived in Singapore I went out with a Malay boy called Ringo. That was his nickname, his real name was Zionel. Anyway, he was my first gentle sweet innocent boyfriend. He was quite a dare devil on his bike and loved to show off and do tricks. One night he and his best friend, Rahim, were coming home after seeing some other Australian kids off at the airport who were returning back home to Australia, and probably mucking around as usual when they hit a land rover head on.
I remember sitting in the dark hiding, and not being able to talk of or face what had happened. Blocked it out. I did not go to the funeral, but my Mum and sister went for me even though they did not know him well. I remember sitting in a tree near Changi beach cuddling and sheltering from a thunder storm. I remember clandestine meetings at the back of the swimming pool at the army base and at the local shop because I was not supposed to be hanging around them. I remember going to his house in the kampong at Changi beach and being served drinks and snacks from his Mums best crockery, on a tray as a special guest by his Mum while his younger brothers and sisters were giggling and peaking around the edge of the door and him trying not to laugh. I remember seeing him covered with bruises after a beating by his Dad who had caught him being stupid on his bike. I remember having arguments with him and then going out with his best friend who was also in the accident with him. ( we did this a couple of times. I was very young. lol.) He got a broken jaw, ribs and leg from the accident. Not laughing anymore. I never would get on that bike with him though, I used to catch the bus and he would ride along behind or beside it and follow me down to the beach or where ever.
When I was about 17 and living in Wagga, my dear but eccentric uncle Wally had an antique motor bike and side car and talked me into going for a ride with him. He took great delight in lifting the side car off the ground at every corner and making me squeal. He took me down the main street and made everybody turn around and stare. But that was fun and the closest I ever got to going on a bike. My uncle Wal was always great fun and up to something, he used to be known as the oldest biker in Griffith, which was my Mum's home town.
But back to my dear husbands mid life crisis. He knows what I think of it and I can't stop him. He lost his own brother in law from a bike accident in the Victorian mountains near Bright on Australia day probably 12 years ago now. There you go!
While on the subject of Singapore. I was there in 1971 for about a year and a half and lived in Changi, before the new airport was built there. My Dad was in the army and was posted there. A couple of blocks from where we lived was the Changi prison which was built on part of the land that held the Changi prisoner of war camp during the second world war. My uncle , Arthur Roger Palmer, known as Roger, was there as a captive during the war and was sent on to build the Burma railway from there. He survived but was never a well man after that, mentally or physically. I went to a party once in the jail. It was held at a house of one of the prison officers which was inside the grounds. I knew his son.
Ah well enough of my silly whinging and old memories for now. I guess I will have to wait and see what happens now won't I.