Racing hearts

Oct. 11, 2006 | Imagine: You meet a wonderful man and he falls in love with you. What are the odds? After all, you're nearly 40 and struggling to raise three teenagers on your own. You are moderately successful, but due to monstrous orthodontia bills you still shop at Kohl's. You are neither fashionable nor beautiful; what you are is smart and self-sufficient. And in the dating game, you've found this is a liability more often than it is an advantage.

But here, suddenly, on a rare, rainy winter night, is a sturdy specimen. He is low-voiced and gentle, but clearly intelligent. A man with a job, a full life. He is in software, a "math geek," he says with a charming tinge of embarrassment. But also, it comes out, he has read Dante, Dickens and Cervantes -- in the original Spanish.

You were married to an addict for 14 years. So you watch carefully as the wine is poured, as your date lifts his glass. You see him sip abstemiously, after using the small reading glasses he keeps in his pocket to read the label. He drinks little these days, he tells you, because he's in training.

"For what?" you ask, thinking through various middle-class possibilities. Marathons, mountain biking, the company softball team.

"Motorcycle racing," he answers. And a dangerous flush runs through you.

So you move to a restaurant with this man, where he takes your hand. Asks you what you want from a relationship and you tell him the truth: Saturday nights. Movies, nice dinners and maybe -- you force yourself to meet his sharp, hazel eyes -- with the right person, occasional sex. He takes this in stride, nods, raises his hand for the check, then takes you out to his car where he slips a hand up your skirt and acquaints you with his fast-cornering ways.

On your third date, he takes you to a motorcycle show. The convention center reeks of motor oil and black leather. You meet various long-haired, tattooed people who greet him with great cheer. Afterward, you go to his place and eat the lime-cured salmon ceviche he's prepared. Candlelight flickers, the stereo clicks from Coldplay to Rachmaninoff. He touches you reverently. It is, you think, the perfect affair.

But then, suddenly, this thing begins to move faster. It is like you are riding something that's not within your control. He is around not just on Saturdays, but on Monday, Wednesday, Friday and sometimes Sunday as well. He is teaching your daughter to dirt bike, helping your son with higher algebra, stopping by with grocery bags full of imported cheeses, dark chocolate and red wine.

For your 40th birthday, he whisks you away to New Mexico where he takes you to the Georgia O'Keeffe museum then drives like a demon along curving mountain roads. A sign for Las Vegas appears and he points at it, "Want to get married?" he asks. And you look at him in profile, thrilled with confusion, wondering if this is a joke or a dare.

Summer means racing season. By this time he has made his proposal official and you have accepted. Also, he's begun taking you to club dinners, where the talk is all of throttles and gear. Race weekends are surprisingly long, you discover -- Wednesday night through Sunday -- and involve at least three days of prep work to ready the bikes.

It is the first time you've been apart for four nights in a row since you met. He calls you several times from the track, text messaging "I miss you" in the middle of the night. His friends, he says, are teasing him about being whipped. But he is racing better than ever, shaving two to three seconds off each lap. You are secretly pleased that even at 40, while schlepping kids to and from the YMCA and the shopping mall, you can inspire both recklessness and love.

He arrives home Sunday near midnight with a new beard and a raw quality to his voice, both of which turn you on. You welcome him into your bed, though he is sweat-stained and slimy with axle grease. It's never been better than this.

During the second race weekend, he calls you from the track to tell you one of his friends crashed. You notice that your man sounds odd -- both anxious and strangely high. He's packing the injured man's gear while two other guys accompany him to the hospital. They've all agreed to forgo the last race while waiting to see if their buddy will lose a hand. He says this as if it is a major concession, an act of extraordinary goodwill.

You join the racers at the bar where they eat tacos each Tuesday. It is here that your fianci announces your engagement. His friends raise their glasses and the only other woman at the table leans in to give you a hug. The evening goes on, more beer is drunk. Someone tells a joke: Why do they call it PMS? Because the name Mad Cow Disease was already taken. You draw in a breath that you let out raggedly, almost like a laugh. You think about your 12-year-old daughter who once went dirt biking with this crowd, and remember her, just last month, doubled over with cramps.

Not the sort of person who hides your feelings easily, you are probably quite visibly tense. Aloof behind your plain librarian face. One of the men scoots his chair over next to yours. He is young and handsome, with a wide Tom Cruise grin, which he employs at its fullest wattage now.

"A guy gets to be a certain age, starts to slow down, he starts feeling a little desperate," he says quietly, in your ear. "Suddenly, he's getting married."

Next page: You truly love him -- sexy, dirty, dangerous obsession and all