The heat was omnipresent but the full punch of the August sun only hit us through gaps in the canopy. The leaves above chattered in breezes that never reached us on the ground as nothing more than tepid puffs. Daysi shifted into the easiest gears and settled into the long spin up Bliss Road into East Montpelier. Most newbies are so infatuated with power that patience has no place in how they confront a route. The simple Newtonian logic of cycling gives no advantage to speed. No matter how rendered, it is the cyclist's job to cash in biological calories for the magnificent prize of putting a heavy thing just a little higher in the world. Potential energy rises. Physical energy fades. Psychic energy falters. The bigger bites of harder gears might look better in lycra, but they give no actual advantage. I marveled how easily she accepted these truths. Even more than with the hill, she was patient with herself, and not ashamed of her novitiate status. My wife has a gift for grasping things I have learned very slowly, if at all.
I left the girls at the top of the hill and doubled back to cheer her on. I found her humming a tune through the scratchy labor of her breathing.
“You go on with the girls,” she spit out in a quick gasp.
“Its a family ride,” I reminded her.
She kept spinning. The girls were ready to move by the time she reached the top of the hill. I dropped my foot to pause with her. I bit down on the valve of my water pack while she pulled out her water bottle. The mosquitos zeroed in on her as quickly as the black flies swarmed me in May, “Let’s go.” she called. The kids knew to wait for us at the next stop sign.
We hadn’t reached this point through good luck or even just grace. We had dedicated many quiet evenings talking through how we wanted to be outdoors together and as a family. I had learned to let family expeditions stand alone with their own kind of magic. They met my nearly pathological need to get out. In exchange, she accepted that I was content going slower or doubling back. Out on the cross country ski trails or riding on dirt roads these were easy compromises but on pavement there was a bigger difference between our paces and doubling back was sometimes dangerous. All of this meant that our riding together, fell into a limited range. We were willing to work within those limits, but didn’t mind pushing against them too.
***
At the end of our second summer in Vermont Daysi and I received the gift of a long weekend escape. On a prior trip to Montreal with the girls we had seen heavy tourist tandem bikes cruising the trails beside the river and had somehow decided that this experience would be a reasonable test of our marriage. By this time we had done enough family riding that we came equipped –– lycra, helmets and gloves. We intended to make a day of it. I had a loose route mapped out that would get us out of the downtown and into some of the less trafficked sections of the island.
On a beautiful August day, we dropped into a bike rental stand on the edge of the touristy historic district, and emerged on a clunky cruiser whose gross tonnage probably exceeded my first car. The saddles were tourist-type cushy, and wider than I would like, but the gears moved smoothly and the brakes had enough grip. Riding with Dad I had been on the back of a tandem a few times, but this was my first experience as the captain. I had never felt the responsibility of having someone behind me or the challenge of getting such a long piece of metal through traffic, tight bike-trail corners, or pedestrian throngs. Daysi had never been on the back of tandem (AKA, the stoker), so I have reason to believe she was nervous too.
My anxiety ticked up a notch as I peered into the thick crowd of meandering tourists who looked in every direction except where they were walking. I summoned whatever understanding I retained from riding behind Dad, checked the gearing to make sure it was loose enough to start, and remembered the challenge of coordinating the starting strokes. I waited for a promising gap in the crowd. “Ready?” I called out… “1-2-3” downstroke. Butts on seats. Wobble. Wobble. Don’t kill pedestrians! We are moving!?
There were enough gaps in the crowd and enough well-defined bike lanes for us to advance without many complete stops. Keep the gears loose! When we slowed to a near stop I was surprised that the bike remained just as stable as my solo wheels. Even when we needed to drop a foot, the movement flowed easily. We paused. Waited for a gap. “Ready? 1-2-3”, downstroke. Wobble. Wobble. This was less terrifying than I had feared.
Ten minutes of excessive caution and a few polite “Excuse me!” calls got us out of the thickest crowds. I kept a thumb on the bike bell to give us space and tightened the gears. Cadence emerged of its own accord. Stable and cruising, this seemed all too easy. Encouraged, we settled onto the trail that ran alongside the Saint Lawrence river and aimed for the western tip of the Island. As tourists we stopped frequently to catch the sights along the St. Lawrence, even more frequently to consult the maps and occasionally doubled back to correct my navigational errors.
Both bike and pedestrian traffic thinned but we were rarely alone. We found a soft rhythm and a sense of ease diffused into the hours. The frequent pauses to work out navigation were part of our flow and the easy terrain gave us the chance to practice tandem starts with little risk. “Ready? 1-2-3” Downstroke. Wobble. Wobble. At least the wobbles now swept across smaller arcs, and lasted for only a few pedal strokes.
Talking was easy. The distance between us was less than we had ever managed on our independent bikes. I had no worries about slowing down or catching up to have a conversation. I didn’t have to pull up beside, check to see if I was blocking someone behind or dodge oncoming cyclists. Though we were not pushing either of our physical limits, gentle fatigue lent the slightest tang of common enterprise to our progress.
I am sure that the rest of our weekend was also lovely, but that ride was the unambiguous highlight. I don’t recall if we returned to evaluate the cost of a tandem, nor if we were raving about the experience at family gatherings, but that Christmas Dad and Leslie presented us with a slender envelope that held a fat surprise. We had an appointment to get measured for a tandem at our local store, Onion River, so that they could order the bike and get it set up before Spring.
***
Our first ride on the new bike fell on a bright, warm spring day. As was only appropriate, we had selected Route 2 into Middlesex as our route. The “Tandem thing” had evolved from a lark into a serious investment, and I was feeling the pressure as we mounted up in the shop parking lot. “Ready? 1-2-3” Downstroke. Butts on seats. Wobble. And we were out on the road. Stop sign. Keep the gears loose. “Ready? 1-2-3” Left turn. Next stop sign. “Ready? 1-2-3” We caught a green light at the edge of town, and the open road was ours.
This was no tourist shop junker. We were on a bright blue, aluminum beauty, drop bars in front and 32 mm road tires paired with extra large disc rotors – designed to roll. We were also equipped with a clever shock-absorbing seat post that minimized the impact of bumps into the stoker’s cockpit. The rough spring pavement just outside of town demonstrated the brilliance of this feature.
Clever engineering, however, was not enough to negate the trauma of raw spring pavement. Leaving town I heard two gasps of surprise and discomfort in quick succession.
“I need some warning,” she said.
“Yep. We are going to have to get off the seats for some of this crud.” I looked ahead at an especially forlorn piece of pavement where the shoulder has already started to slide down the berm.
“Get ready. Get up.” I called back.
In the act of standing, the reality of being clipped into a single drive train was moved from a conceptual thing to a question of ligaments and muscles. Neither of us could move without the other’s permission, and one person decision to stop peddling locked the knees of the other. On this first attempt, I think we were just lucky to get away with it but I made note. We settled back on the seats and began to spin. We got up over the pedals again, just in time to make it through another rough patch.
This was too complicated for the variability of Spring pavement. The difference between an actual threat and normal jiggles was not always clear when we were among the patchwork of so many repairs and fresh winter damage. Sometimes, I could make out a threat only in the last seconds. Four words was too many. “Ow!” again. I began to experiment with warning calls. My third(?) variation was a short, clear call, “Butt Up!” That worked. More subtly, I also worked out how to freeze my legs in place without contradicting her efforts. We ended up in a stable platform, right foot forward, and knees flexed to let the impact flow through the muscles of our legs instead of the bones in our butts. This quick call and the unspoken entanglement of our legs fit easily into our rhythm. Every once in a while I was surprised by some asphalt feature that delivered more impact than I had anticipated, but even on this first day, failures were rare.
When we reached the first of our two mild climbs, I dropped us through the gears to find one that fit. We knew when I found it. The grade increased. I slipped up one more gear in the rear cluster, hit the crest, and then geared down. “Butt up” I called out for the descent. With our asses in the air, and bumps consumed by the flex our legs, we could appreciate the stability of the bike. At the base, we lowered our butts back onto the saddles and began to spin. I felt around for the gear that gave the right level of resistance and we fell back into cadence. The fidelity of the non verbal communication was startling. Every shift in weight, perspective, or spirit flowed directly into my body. I was literally strapped to my wife.
“How’s life back there?”
“This is great!” I was cheered by her enthusiasm.
I didn’t really want to turn back at Middlesex, but this was enough for our first test drive, and the three way intersection gave us plenty extra room to swing a u-turn through such a long wheel base.
“Can you see if I am clear to turn?” I requested.
I corrected for her lean to the left as she twisted to look over her shoulder and then swung us around. Already some of the conscious efforts and fears about sharing this single set of wheels with my wife had faded into the background and the ride itself was coming into focus. On the return, we were granted the first mild taste of what it might mean to take this creature on the flats. Over the years we’ve had many people declare emphatically that tandems are too slow. The only possible justification for this (incorrect) assertion can be found in the climbs where gravity is more of a master than wind resistance. Everywhere else, physics favors the tandem. The stoker is almost perfectly placed to hide from the consequences of increasing wind resistance. The extra power flows to both riders. We got our first taste of these equations as the familiar flats melted away.
Approaching the creemee stand on the edge of town I initiated something that became a tradition for us. “Days,” I called back, “Let’s see what we can do on this thing.”
“Okay.”
“From creemee stand to the stop light. You in?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Ha, of course” On a tandem it is easier to veto than vote.
Passing the stand, I tightened a gear and poured every ounce of effort through my quads and into the downstroke. I felt Daysi’s power flow through my pedals and the machine surged forward. I cut another gear. And another. I didn’t need to check any device to know our cadence was now over 90 or that my power was barely sustainable. We had 1.5 miles from stand to stoplight –– plenty of time for the lactic fires to consume us. Within seconds there was enough air rushing past my ears that I could no longer hear her breathing. I didn’t need to. Here, at maximum capacity, I found a tight and exceedingly subtle call and response between the fibers within us. Whenever there was the least bit of doubt coming through her stroke my quads redoubled on their downstroke and the next revolution was restored to full power. When I started to fade into the pain, the exhortation of her force burst through the chain. My quads replied.
Were I on my road bike this sprint would end in the single pedal stroke when I met the goal or the pain won, but the tandem unwound gently. Whoever let up first was really just asking a question. If the offer was accepted, the other person also dropped their power. We were so tightly bound, that even stopping required each to be aware of the other. I caught my first insight into the constant call and response between bodies bound together.
***
We were still in that stage of life where parental logistics could be complicated. Our weekly date nights required a babysitter and escaping during a weekend meant we had to find child care. “Chiquita, why don’t you guys go play at your friend’s house,” was a common suggestion to our daughters. My work schedule, however, granted us certain days when we could sneak out of the house during the week. Here the brilliant engineering of our rig was fully revealed. Beefy wheels, oversized discs, and that clever shock absorber in the stoker seat post meant that all of the dirt roads outside of our door were not just survivable but entirely pleasant riding.
There was something deliciously naughty about these mid-week rides. Escaping from our responsibilities, out, alone on nearly empty dirt roads –– moving through the dappled sunlight and rustling leaves –– dropping into the descents “Butt Up” and peeling through the gears on sudden steeps. No adults required. At times we chattered away and at others we got lost in the gentle sounds surrounding us; breeze, birds, cicadas, crickets and squirrels blended with the low rattle of turning chains. Who wanted to go back? Our afternoon quickies gradually became more strategic. We found ourselves planning the next day’s route after the kids were in bed. The opportunistic gaps in my work calendar were occasionally supplemented with hard blocks of time marked “unavailable”.
The post ride glow, that pervasive sense of peace and well being, was now something that I shared with my partner. I could see it in the flush of her cheeks, and I felt it in the way she settled on the couch beside me. There was profound equality in the work that we did together. In the absolute physical measurement of force, I was undoubtedly stronger, but it was the very essence of the tandem that we could only go as far as our combined strength allowed. We gained power together not so that one could pedal harder than the other, but so that both could go further –– that we both might spend yet more time in that sacred, sweaty bubble.
The logistics of life and work prevented us from getting out on many days, but there were also plenty when we were hoofing it to get home before the school bus arrived (or at least not long after). Like any good affair, we showed up suspiciously disheveled and slightly concerned about how we might smell in public places, invented excuses for why dinner might be late and showed up at teachers conferences a bit overly clean and Daysi’s hair suspiciously wet. No orgasms were involved (at least I can speak for myself.) but this was a deeply physical and intimate experience. It was our protected space –flagrantly personal and self absorbed right there in the middle of any given day.
This lithe machine needed a name. It didn’t take long to work out the equation. On the bike we were both just a couple of Happy Asses. Happy Ass x 2. Politely abbreviated to HAHA. To further declare the boundaries of our sacred space, we denied any explanation of what HAHA might stand for. When our children asked, we said, “We’ll tell you when you are older.” As soon as we had done that, we knew that the explanation could not be whispered to anyone else without violating their trust. They would both be in their twenties before the truth was revealed. And so HAHA became the dirty little secret that we could flaunt right out in public –our tryst, secreted away on the grand climbs and bomber hills of shady dirt roads.
Over the course of the years, I have been blessed to receive many material gifts. Some are a nexus of treasured memories. A few are among the handful of physical items I actually care about. HAHA is the only one that changed my life.
buy me a coffee
Member discussion: