"Look out!"

Our new bicycle built for two wobbled across the alley like an errant bowling ball. My husband, Steve, hit the brakes before we made a strike with our neighbor's trash cans.

He ripped off his helmet. "Weren't you ready?"

"Almost."

"I'll back it up. Then tell me when you're ready!"

I glowered. For two cents, I'd leave him without his backseat driver! Unfortunately, our empty-nest present to each other cost more than two cents. I forced myself back on.

"Ready now?"

"Ready!"

To the open road at last!

Unlike Daisy and her suitor in the 1890s song, "Bicycle Built for Two," Steve and

I have been together 30 years—sort of. Immersed in decades of work, 2 a.m. feedings, training bras, and teen drivers, we sometimes forgot each other's names ("Oh, yeah—I remember you. White dress, organ music …"). Now middle-aged, we hoped our tandem bicycle would make our Time Together dreams come true. Tender hours shared would accumulate with the miles on our cyclometer.

Instead, Steve and I found ourselves back in Marriage 101, re-learning lessons we thought we'd mastered many years before.

Take body image issues.

My husband wears brown clothing one day, navy the next. But when he rides, Steve dons eye-popping jerseys, a Star Wars-style helmet, and Spandex cycling shorts. In cold weather, he wears shiny red tights.

Discovering I was married to Captain America was one thing; sporting complementary Catwoman attire was definitely another.

"These shorts cut off my circulation!" I gawked in the mirror. "I'd shame the kids!"

"The kids aren't here. We're doing this for us. Wear them."

I thumped my rear. "I don't need padding!"

"The shorts are standard equipment." His eyes held a smile. "Besides, you look good." Thus, I had to re-learn the first lesson in marriage: I have to be flexible and willing to stretch—even if it involves Spandex.

After another gawk at myself, I thought about Steve's remark that he liked the way I looked. Since ultimately

I want to please my mate, I shed my baggy capris and embarked on our tandem adventure.

Our first mile caught me off guard. I saw nothing straight ahead but Steve! In this case, the shorts were essential equipment. Definitely. His muscular calves, pumping away, added to the excellent view.

He, on the other hand, could see nothing behind as he pedaled grueling, hilly stretches.

My aching legs begged me to stop. He'll never know if you take your feet off the pedals. Go on. Take a break.

No way, I thought. He'd fling me off at Dead Wife's Curve. Besides, look how hard he's working.

At that moment, we passed a female biker who guffawed and pointed at me: "Hey, you—start pedaling!"

"She'd quit on her partner," Steve said. "You wouldn't."

My man trusted me. I was truly touched.

But I had to trust him, too, since he controlled our direction. What if a crazed farmer roared his tractor into our path? I'd never see what hit us. Maybe I could have avoided it. But Steve had shown confidence in me. Could I do otherwise?

That's when I remembered the next marriage lesson: mutual trust and teamwork move partners ahead. If we fight each other about who's going to lead how, when, and where, we'll only spin our wheels. There will be times when he leads and times when I do. When the non-leading partner supports, encourages, follows, and keeps pedaling, we move a lot further down the path.

Panting, I grabbed for my water bottle. Out of reach!

I plunged again, nearly standing on my head.

"What are you doing?" Steve shouted.

The unforeseen shift of my weight as listed on my driver's license might have destabilized us. My actual poundage sent us careening across the road.

"Yell before you move!" Steve snapped.

Further on, we hit a huge pothole. I said nothing.