How Tandem Biking Changed My Marriage

Being independent is great. But sometimes, giving up some control in a relationship can make you stronger—and closer, too.


Going Along for the Ride

My husband and I could never exercise together. I’m a runner, and Dan’s knees can’t take the pounding. He’s a cyclist, and I’m a traffic wimp. Most weekends, I’d go for a steady 7-mile run and he would cycle for four hours, returning too exhausted to do anything other than eat take-out food on the sofa. (So much for our Saturday nights.) I knew I should support his commitment to fitness, but I couldn’t help but feel that if he really wanted to be with me, he wouldn’t be sacrificing our precious weekend time. I never said anything, but we would inevitably spend those evenings quiet and careful with each other, as if we had been fighting. I guess we could have smoothed things over by skipping our respective workouts, but both of us had been married before, and we had learned the hard way that you can sacrifice too much in the name of coupledom.

Then one afternoon, Dan clicked into our kitchen with his cycling shoes and helmet on, eager to make a proposal. “You’re strong enough to be a good cyclist,” he said, “and I have the road skills. Maybe with a tandem bike, we could spend more time together and exercise, too.” All I knew about tandems is that serious cyclists hated them; if Dan wanted to be with me enough to trade his sleek high-tech bike for a clunky two-seater, I could step out of my comfort zone enough to give it a try.

The next weekend, we rented a tandem, and I sat behind Dan, not expecting it to be very different from riding a solo bike. So it was a shock when Dan spun his right pedal up and my foot moved up, too. I hadn’t noticed that a tandem connects both sets of pedals with one chain, so riders must pump in sync. We wobbled into the street and headed downhill. I reached for the brake and got my second shock: I didn’t get a brake or a gearshift. We rounded a corner. Third shock: I couldn’t steer. My handlebars were there only to keep me on the bike. Suddenly, I understood why, in the bike shop, they’d called Dan the captain and me the stoker. My job was to pedal and provide unquestioning support.

I’m well aware that marriage calls for give-and-take, but this felt like full-on follow-my-husband-off-a-cliff dependence. “You’re going too fast!” I yelled, as I pushed back against the pedals. “Hang on! I’m taking us to a bike path!” he answered, swerving between two cars. I closed my eyes and held my breath. Did he understand that the tandem was much longer than his road bike? Focus on breathing! I told myself, trying to stay calm.

Yet by the time we reached the safety of the bike path a few minutes later, I started picking up the rhythm and felt my body relax a bit. I wasn’t exactly enjoying myself, but it wasn’t an entirely bad thing, riding on the back of Dan’s confidence. I could see from the way he kept glancing over his shoulder that he was looking out for me. As he threaded between giant eucalyptus trees, the happy-wife part of me savored the novel feeling of going along for the ride.

Finding the Rhythm

My inner teenager, on the other hand, was crying out my mother’s warning: Don’t let yourself get dependent on a man! Men leave, and they leave you with nothing! As a girl, I had watched as she struggled to restart her career after 15 years as a housewife and, after she and my father divorced, heard her argue with my dad about child support. I vowed that I would never depend on a man for anything. My two selves fought bitterly for a few miles, but by the time we got back to the rental shop, I’d negotiated a three-point deal with myself that didn’t feel like a betrayal of the daughter my mother had raised: (1) I’d always pull my own weight. (2) To ensure that happened, I wouldn’t buy into any of Dan’s testosterone-fueled goals, such as his proposed 2,500-foot climb up Mount Tamalpais, our local San Francisco Bayñarea peak. (3) Dan and I would never, ever wear matchy-matchy cyclist clothing. Not going there.

The next week, we bought a bike, and I quickly learned that tandem cycling is more complex than it seems. For one thing, it looks as if the person in front is in charge. But rather than a dictatorship, tandem riding is more like a dance, with constant back-and-forth. Working the same chain, we know how hard the other is pushing and when we’ve hit the sweet spot and fallen into an identical cadence. I can tell where Dan wants to go by how his weight shifts. Sometimes, we intuit what the other is thinking. When my pace suddenly slackens, my husband doesn’t have to look around to realize we’re nearing my favorite ice cream parlor. He can feel my internal argument of indulgence versus restraint, and he waits, smiling, for my decision.

I’m not even conscious I’m doing that; I’m too busy watching his signals. A certain sequence of pausing and tensing in his upper arms makes me stare hard at his butt, not because it’s cute but because I need to be ready to stand on the pedals the moment he lifts off the seat to avoid the bump I can’t see.

I’ve also discovered that I have more control over the bike than I would have thought. I can guide Dan from behind, pushing against his pedal stroke to signal that I want to slow down or pedaling faster to say I’m ready to pick it up. All this silent communication pays off: At the end of a mostly wordless ride, we feel as connected as if we’d just had an intimate conversation.

Soon I began to think I could take a backseat to my husband on the tandem without affecting the balance of power in the rest of our life. Dan still ironed his own shirts, I still paid my own bills, and we checked in with each other before making evening or weekend plans. Then we did our first hill climb. Mindful of my vow to pull my own weight at all times, I pushed hard. Dan heard my labored breathing. “I’ll slow the cadence,” he called out. “If it feels too tough, rest your feet on the pedals!”

The Reward of Letting Go

It was a reasonable suggestion, but it felt wrong. How could I be equal if I didn’t do my share? However taxing the incline, being dependent, even on my husband, felt worse. So I cranked, breathing even harder, and my husband offered, “Let me do the work. Why is it so hard for you to not push yourself?”

Suddenly, his words clicked. I thought of how I’d always made sure to hold up my end, if not do more, in our relationship. We split things financially, true, but I did most of the housework, grocery shopping and meal planning. If I asked Dan to fix something, I managed to mention a task I’d done recently, to make it clear I wasn’t asking for favors. It was an old habit; in my first marriage, we’d kept tabs. But at that moment, with my quads burning, I wondered if I could let myself do less without losing myself. I rested my feet on the pedals.

At first, I fought the rush of relief, afraid that it would trigger an irreversible slide into passivity. But as the weeks passed and I found myself relenting and easing up when I needed to, I noticed that my career didn’t evaporate, nor did I turn into a you’ll-have-to-ask-my-husband Stepford wife. Plus, my cycling muscles got stronger. So when Dan once again suggested a ride up Mount Tam a few months later, instead of refusing, I was eager for the challenge.

On a lovely Saturday morning, we cycled to the Old Railroad Grade trail, a long but gentle climb up the mountain. Dan wove a path between the rocks while I pedaled myself into a Zen-like state of pushing and breathing, soaking in the views of the Pacific below. A few hours later, we stood on the east peak of Mount Tam, sipping lemonade and crunching on pretzel M&M’s in satisfied silence. We were so high over San Francisco Bay that it looked like a scale model, with bridges made from tiny Erector sets.

For years, I’d seen hard-core cyclists pumping their way up Mount Tam but never thought I’d be one of them. But I was a serious cyclist now, even on a tandem; it was a new and potent part of my identity. As I gazed at the view, I felt a surge of pride—and realized that I couldn’t have done it if I hadn’t taken a backseat and surrendered control. By letting Dan steer and occasionally pull for me, I’d built up my own strength until I could make it up that mountain. On my own, I never would have known I had it in me. I had always confused dependence with weakness. But leaning on my husband when I needed to and admitting I couldn’t do everything myself made me stronger. Thanks to the tandem, I get it: We’re working the same chain, each powerful on our own, but even more powerful together.

KEYWORDS: marriage
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