Double Trouble

The drumbeat of wooden bridge planks flipping under our tires interrupts the hum of nature surrounding us. Protected by acres and acres of sturdy Iowa corn, we pass a herd of bearded goats grazing a meadow. Our tandem enables an intimate window to the earth if you can abide a sore behind and blazing sunburn. Freedom is rolling down the road along meandering creeks, listening to songbirds harmonize lovely melodies exclusively for us. Screaming down steep grades, crawling up steep grades, dodging potholes and aggressive red winged blackbirds, an obstacle course of sorts, made it through unscathed.

 

A few weeks back we passed road bikers on the Pacific Coast highway, true warriors burdened with hefty saddlebags draped over wheels stressed under the gruelling load. Pedaling the narrow white line on the edge, battling pelting rain and erratic drivers, climbing mountain passes. Definitely fearless, tempting fate riding on this twisted, congested route. I respect their determination and grit but do question their sanity.  

As a youngster I didn't learn to ride a bike, we didn't have much but as a tyke I didn't feel deprived, we were happy. I was thrilled when an old, broken tricycle showed up on the porch one morning, I hopped on, trying to keep up with the gang, my short legs pedaling madly. After a few days the handlebars went missing but I didn't care, deftly using old pliers, steering into sharp corners, keeping it upright, skidding my shoes to stop. I suspected my brothers had something to do with the disappearance, but can't be absolutely sure. As the last of thirteen children, many unsolved mysteries could be attributed to any one of us. I was raised by a pack of German Irish hoodlums, street smart and tough, and to this day I love every one of them. My sons and daughters-in-law have heard censored nuggets of my scandalous family history, nodding skeptically, the hoodlum part makes sense, but they still love me.

Years ago Paul convinced me it would be a great idea for us to check out a tandem bike. Hey, you know I can't ride a bike, right? A mere detail. At the time I was doubtful, even disregarding my lack of balance the idea of relinquishing complete control to Paul, my face just inches from his backside, seeing the world over his shoulder and around his torso, none of it necessarily appealing to me. Throwing caution, our mental health and years of a good marriage to the wind, Paul prevailed, we bought a tandem bike. Years later, against all odds and a little therapy, still married, still alive. Sure we've had some scrapes, chipped teeth, minor bruising, marginal fractures, a mild concussion, Paul reminisces we "put it in the rhubarb" once or twice. Despite a few bumps along the way I'm completely ok with feet up, filing my nails, reading novels, navigating from the back seat. Not quite a stretch limo, but absolutely my kind of ride.