It Takes Two
by Rietta Loch

Please read this first

I was a city girl. The only thing I rode on was a bus or a train. It was 1950 and I was 18 years old. With eyes open, I was looking forward to meeting a boy who could dance. What I ended up with was Frank, who had a bike.

He proudly told me he had made it himself, buying parts at local secondhand markets. "I'll teach you how to ride the bike," he announced. Anxious to please him, I agreed. He did not know my phobia. Blind panic attacked me at the thought of standing up on a chair. I suffered cold sweats climbing a ladder. This ludicrous agreement to get on a bike was true love on my part. In the nearest park, perched precariously on the machine, one hand on the handlebars, the other in a stranglehold around his neck, we set off.

The thought of my two feet being off the ground absolutely terrified me. He eventually disentangled himself and tentatively pushed the bike while loosely holding onto the saddle. I fell off. He bought a lady's saddle. I fell off. He bought pedal grips. I fell off.

Bruised and battered, I decided bikes and I did not get on. I tried, really I did. Often, the two of us would be on his bike, whizzing downhill in some outlying area. Policemen on their beat blowing whistles at us. We knew two people on one bike was against the law. We did not care. We were in love. I was quite happy to be the back half, like a pantomime horse.

We got married. Weekends were for cycling. I must admit I walked a lot. My rear end was less painful that way. One day, Frank came home to our one-roomed flat: "I've solved your problem," he said. I was trying to think which problem he was referring to. He struggled through the front door. On one shoulder was his own bike, on the other, a gigantic tandem frame. Considering he had climbed four flights of stairs with a gift we could share. I was touched. I thought possibly he was touched. Frank never guessed that cycling was not my immediate passion.

He lovingly bought parts for it. Spent hours cleaning it and oiling it. I didn't have the heart to tell him I did not think he would get it out the front door. As the tandem was given its last coat of paint I waited uneasily.

"We are going camping this weekend," Frank announced, oblivious to the fact that we had no tent or sleeping bags. Being naive city dwellers, these items did not enter our heads. The only time I had camped out previously was in front of a shop at sale time.

With implicit faith in my husband, I set out with him on our adventure. Pannier bags packed, we decided to travel down the west coast of Scotland, starting from our home in Glasgow. One small Primus stove, one rain cape, one torch, one frying pan and one billy can -- as you can see, we were really with it.

The attention was got was amazing. Wherever we travelled everyone stared at us. The tandem fascinated people. Some smiled, some whistled 'Daisy, Daisy' as we rode past. Wherever we stopped, people came over and talked to us. I got quite jealous. All they talked about was the tandem.

Our first night under the starts sounds romantic. It rained. We decided to sleep under a humpback bridge. There was a grassy riverbank. We would take water from the stream to make tea. The water could be used in those days. We settled ourselves for the night. Lying close into the curved wall of the bridge. The tandem had the cape over it. We did not want it to rust, Frank said.

It was very dark and extremely uncomfortable. Not being used to this inky blackness, I made a big mistake. I turned on the torch. Two inches from my face were hundreds of spiders. For a second they were paralysed by the light. Then they all moved at once, scurrying away into the darkness. I screamed and tried to jump away, hitting my head on the bridge.

I must have been in shock. I remember repeatedly moaning: "I want to go home, I want to go home." Sleep was out of the question. I stretched out at the river's edge. Drowning, I thought, was preferable to being covered in spiders.

The next day, red-eyed and exhausted, we only covered a few miles. The tandem was the main item of conversation whenever we stopped. I still wanted to go home.

"Tonight I am not sleeping under a bridge," I said forcefully. We slept in a field. Although it was early summer, that night there was a touch of frost. I insisted on having the cape to cover me this time. Cold, tired and sleepless, I lay wishing I had a boyfriend who danced.

It must have been about five in the morning. We left the field, heading for the main road. It was still dark. Then, suddenly, a pale orange glow appeared low in the sky. As it got brighter, hills appeared on the horizon, bathed in gold. I was witnessing my first sunrise. It was magnificent. The night frost made the sun a vivid reddish orange. Our stiffness and cold were forgotten. The sheer beauty of that sunrise was awesome. We both watched in silence until the sun cleared the horizon. Then together we both said: "Let's go home." We slept in our own comfortable bed for 12 solid hours.

40 years later I still cannot ride a bike solo. I have never seen another sunrise or gone camping. Did I miss something? Would I do it all again? Possibly, possibly not. If he had been a dancer, would I have fared any better? Would things have gone just as chaotic on the dance floor? I wonder.