Did you ever see a bicycle-built-for-two ridden by only one person? It looks kind of like there's an invisible person riding on the back. The back pedals still go around, but there's nobody there.

It reminds me of the way my life used to be. It was like I had a nice big bike-for-two, but I certainly wasn't ready to share it. Every place I went, I rode all by myself.

No one could tell me what to do or where to go. And I liked it like that.

But then something stirred inside me. Or rather, something echoed through my hollow heart. I came to realize that the empty seat shouldn't stay empty. After all, tandem bikes are built for two.

Indeed, as the miles dragged by it became increasingly evident that I was spinning my wheels for no reason at all, and maybe, just maybe, that empty back seat had something to do with my empty heart.

So I began to consider the idea of picking up one of the many hitchhikers along the way.

Some were well-dressed.

Most were not.

Some called out in lyrical voices, even calling me by name. Many of them, simply by their disturbing appearance, provoked me to speed up and race by.

For a few, I slowed almost to a halt.

Collectively, they were short, tall, smiling, scowling, alluring and aloof. In their hands or on their backs were threadbare bags, suspicious-looking bundles, sleek briefcases, and gigantic trunks.

Some traveled with nothing at all.

One hitchhiker looked like a best friend I hadn't seen in years. Another wasn't trying to hitch a ride at all, but his hand-lettered sign told me he was quite eager to trade his single-seat racing bike for my twin-seated tandem.

I passed them all. I did not stop. And it began to look like my expedition would be solo after all.

But then, one day, on the crest of a slight hill, I did stop. For him . . .

-- excerpt from the opening pages of Once Upon a Tandem