Zwinder

I write this story in the hope that others may be informed about the possibility of romantic complications and betrayal found along the roadways of Watopia. I suspect our story may not be unique, although most who suffer through the shock and grief of infidelity do so in painful isolation. The emotional upheaval is at least as intense as when a loved one dies, but nobody is sending a card or flowers.

All social media has some risk of making “friends” who violate boundaries. Connecting digitally makes that easier by lowering inhibitions and giving a sense of anonymity. The shared passion of cyclists and the fantasy world of Zwift can make the risk even higher, because the Zwift community provides a different kind of departure from real life. It’s not just a screen, it’s not just words, it’s a place. An ethereal landscape where you can meet other people in real time and do an activity “together.”

The name “Watopia” is obviously modeled on “Utopia”, a perfect paradise. No traffic, road rage, flat tires, bad weather or other distractions such as spouses, jobs and the messiness and demands of a real life. It is such a nice place. How simple, how lovely, how free of reponsibilities. And it can be a private place to hide with someone in real time without ever leaving your house. There is no taking out the trash, walking the dog, doing the laundry, paying bills…no nuisances. Watopia and the other Zwift worlds can be a place to share a secret with whomever you “meet”, and those people have no burdensome expectations that you will hold up your end of a family or domestic or marital commitment. Attractively uncomplicated, until it’s not, for human nature is to eventually have expectations and want commitment.

Fantasy always seems better than reality, but when the two collide, like an ugly multi-person pileup on the road, the result can be devastating for all involved. Here is our story. I tell it as that of a married couple, but there were three people who were injured, two of them Zwift cyclists, and all of whom will bear the scars forever. To paraphrase from an excellent book on recovering from infidelity, (Not Just Friends by Dr. Shirley Glass), there are no winners in this cautionary tale, only survivors.

Once upon a time a cyclist who knew of too many serious accidents on the road and had a traumatic scare himself discovered the wonders of Zwift…a virtual reality world where he could ride, enjoying camaraderie and competition in a safe environment. It seemed like a real godsend, providing exercise and fun on the bike without the road hazards. His wife, a non-cyclist, was so relieved he had a way to do what he loved without the risk. She endorsed it and sang its praises to others, a real ambassador. That enthusiasm would be demolished, but that comes later.

Initially it was a bit lonely there in the man cave on the trainer, but eventually there were followers and followees, people he might never meet IRL, but with whom he developed routines, dialogue, banter and interest. Ride On. Kudos. Endorphins from the exercise as well as conversation and attention felt good. One connection PM’d that she admired his avatar’s ass. (When you build your avatar, is there a choice of asses?) Avatar admiration can get you everywhere, of course. Will you be there? On my ride? On my wheel? We are in the same group, and we are a couple in a way, with those his and hers green jerseys. Take a screenshot! There she is again. There he is again. The green jersey gal and the green jersey guy noticed each other, naturally. Regulars show up on group rides, and as friends do, they started looking for each other, planning rides together and communicating privately within rides as well as outside of them with emails and texts. Hey, you’re clever. Hey, you are, too. We have things in common, who knew? You seem to get me and I seem to get you. Who are you, green jersey gal? Where do you live, what do you do, who do you live with, where do you work, what is your favorite color…I mean besides green? Investigation was done, Internet searches were conducted. Identities were confirmed, as much as was possible. She had to reveal her real name, as she was hiding behind an alias on Zwift. Marital status was also confirmed and questioned, but the green jersey guy reassured the divorced cycling lady that it was OK to proceed, as his relationship had “problems” (as if there is a single one that doesn’t), and she found that explanation to be an acceptable and sufficient green light to go with her green jersey. It’s worth noting that at this point, while I did not know any marital problems included my husband’s integrity, she most certainly did.

Soon, long, revealing emails were composed, daily texts were sent, calls were made, more sharing was done. Getting to know you. “Dating” in a way. Communication became frequent, photos were exchanged, innuendos became overt and an emotional and sexy affair was established. It seemed safe enough because of the distance; she lived far away. Harmless fun, a distraction, a fantasy, where real life fades into the background and Ride Ons and winking emojis are clicked on before signing off. Ping, dopamine. Checking again. Any comments? Any messages? Any texts? What’s App with you right now? Want to ride today? What time shall we “meet”? See you on Thursday! There was no FaceTime or Skype, he said, however, because “that would have made it too real.” Even then he recognized that this was a fantasy, and doing things that made it “too real” would take away from the allure and perfection of it all.

But soon, the fantasy world and attention from a virtual relationship started to become more important than real life, and almost as demanding. The secret took on a life of its own and started to compete for time and energy that were already in limited supply. Expectations of prompt replies and scheduled phone calls were established and met. The days were peppered with messages and the drive home from work became the designated phone call time before putting on a straight face for plain, old, predictable family time, provided in just enough quantity so that yet another trainer session would not arouse suspicion. Therapeutic early morning emails and more Zwift rides to “be together” took precedence over needed sleep. Obsession was fueled by secrecy, as it always is. Zwifting became the covert meeting place. Meet me on this ride, meet me for a private ride, I am “on my way” to my trainer, where I will “see” you then. It was certainly more exciting than the everyday routine and the familiar.

“Send pics” seems so cliche, but it happened. Filtered photos of the equipment, including but definitely not limited to the bicycles, were exchanged. A shared passion for cycling devolved into shared romantic passion, expanding to fill an imaginary, uninhibited space where boldness and daring eroticism could flourish. But avatars and edited selfies can only resemble a real person in superficial ways. Conversations conducted from a distance can only convey so much of who a person really is. A lot of what was real was bound to be lost, but Innsbruck Infatuation squashed all rational thought, as infatuation tends to do. Eventually the sexual tension and idealized images were coming, coming, coming to a breathless, tangled desire to comsummate the relationship in a bed. A real one.

There are no hook-up hotels on the byways of Zwift, although some would pay a handsome rate for hourly or weekend reservations. Maybe if sightseeing with walking hand-in-virtual-hand and virtual sex had been available on Zwift, the utter chaos and devastation of infidelity IRL could have been avoided. On the other hand, an intense and clandestine virtual and digital connection can be a dark secret all by itself and is but slightly less problematic than in-person screwing around. Emotional affairs, even when they don’t eventually become physical, can be as destructive in every way except the infections and need for contraception. Especially for women, hope and eagerness for more almost always develop over time.

Thus, a plan was hatched, an invitation was extended. “I’d like to meet you IRL.” A cycling event she suggested in her area would have no cover, but a legitimate business meeting he had in a neutral city accessible to both would certainly do. With only a time zone and a commercial flight to consider, arrangements were made in no time. Itineraries were exchanged and stagecraft was initiated. A limo was sent to deliver green jersey gal to the hotel, where a key was left at the desk and the room was prepared for her arrival. The scene was created with great care. Flowers, wine and a Zwift kit in ladies’ size M, for Mistress. How romantic is that?!? She eventually sent it back to the gift-giver with jilted indignation, but that comes later.

Programmers couldn’t have done it any better. She was to arrive, let herself in, prepare herself for the coupling, then summon him to enter, on cue. The anticipation was intense, the best kind of aphrodisiac. “I can’t wait to be with you!” “Get up here to the room!” The scene was prepared for the Hollywood sex that was sure to materialize IRL, as promised and brazenly described. Which it did. Do Not Disturb. High Intensity Intervals. Wahoo! But the housekeepers had to get in at some point, even athletes need to recover, and there was a city tour, a museum and two Open Tables to give a break to the Open Legs. Not to mention that the Universe was speaking…condoning this liaison with a real ferris wheel and an aquarium to experience, a Watopian backdrop come true. This was meant to be! Green jersey gal even insisted on a couple’s selfie with the scenic city backdrop, thinking this weekend was the beginning of the rest of her life. Surely they would be Zwifting on side-by-side trainers and cycling into a real sunset together, a screenshot come true.

Alas, the end of the weekend grew nigh, and a driver took the twosome to the airport together; a somber journey, for the anticipation was gone, the make-believe space was left behind and real life beckoned again. Cry me a river, there were tears and an “au revoir”, with a translation, even, for the green jersey guy. Until we meet again. But it turned out to be goodbye instead of au revoir, for the fantasy had been busted wide open. IRL was disappointing compared to the idealized magic he had imagined. Perfection in the form of an airbrushed, uncomplicated cyclist woman who would adoringly be on the wheel of his life was not to be. He would be dropping off the ride, so to speak. Avatar, avatar, wherefore are thou, avatar?

Yep, he was an asshole, and he admits it. The screen and the phone and the virtual reality world had not allowed for any real assessment of compatibility—emotional, physical or practical. And he would be trading a life of known and legitimate expectations for the new ones she had been formulating all along. The finish line of this bumpy Zwift ride was marked with a gauntlet of red flags, and he was conflicted all the way home. He thought the attention and intrigue had been great, not to mention hotel sex with a new, dramatic partner. But he realized he would only trade one set of problems for another and was unwilling to risk the maelstrom of pain that would be inflicted upon his unsuspecting wife, his children, his friends, himself and his entire life in exchange for uncertain and possibly tumultuous tomorrows with this Zwinder person, who was not so uncomplicated after all. And what would he tell the people in his real life about how they met? “I snuck around in a virtual cycling program, established an emotional affair with someone I never met in person, we then spent a weekend together and now I am leaving my family for her”? The whole thing was preposterous, but the green jersey duo had been oblivious to the utter absurdity of what they were doing. She reminded him to put his wedding ring back on before they parted ways (such a considerate co-conspirator), as if taking it off had somehow suspended his vows and putting it back on reinstated them. The gesture was symbolic of the transition from the imaginary to the real, though they were not seeing it that way at the time. He felt conflicted about that as well. No clear answers, no perfect person, just disillusionment and confusion about both the weekend and returning home to a wife and a life that were missing something.

Green jersey gal, she was angry. With the mother of all ironies, “deceived” was what she accused him of having done to her when he finally had the guts and decency to let her know (by email, so maybe not that gutsy or decent) there would be no revoir. That’s right, she accused him of having deceived her, as if she didn’t know he was capable of it. She had been researching a job and a move, expecting him to break the news to his wife. And he wasn’t going to do it. Shocking. Heavy sigh. Any outsider could have predicted a sorry outcome. Green jersey guy, he apologized, said he couldn’t give her what she wanted, but it had been great getting to know her, and all of that. Thanks for the memories, and all of that. Maybe we can still “ride” together?” Surely we can still be “friends?” I will continue to give you Ride Ons, of course.

Ladies, can you hear it? Can you feel it? I could. Can you stand it? I could not. Believe it or not, my utter desolation and unmanageable inner turmoil when I found out about this Zwinder tale was actually accompanied by indignation on her behalf for what this man had done. For how he had treated not only me, but her. Even knowing that she had volunteered for her role, my soul-shredding grief wasn’t just for myself and my husband, and my incandescent anger was buffered by some compassion for this vulnerable woman who fell for a Watopian delusion. They both did. They both participated. They both manipulated. They both crashed, and the carnage for them as well as me was as bad as broken bones and macerated, bloody road rash. Wreckage hardly begins to describe what I felt in the hours, days and weeks following the revelation of the deception that had been perpetrated against me and our marriage, right under my nose, in our home, in the cycle studio where my husband had made a new “friend” on Zwift.

It was a twisted, terrible turn of events that led to the revelation, or “D-Day” in affair recovery lingo. There was another cycling tragedy in our town, this time involving a good friend of ours…the news of which was relayed to green jersey gal by my grieving husband months after their break-up…that resulted in a late-night cell phone reply when he was asleep and I was in the kitchen, his phone pinging and displaying her sympathetic and unmistakably intimate condolence message on the screen. What is this? Oh, Jesus, what is this?

The postscript is in evolution, but at this time we are recovering and working so hard on repairing what went wrong over a period of years. My husband takes 100% responsibility for his decisions. He is trying to figure out what allowed him to violate so many of what we both thought were his values. Maybe he is taking it back a step further to figure out what his values even are, or what he would like them to be.

The introspection is tough. The light of day is harsh and makes us want to hide. The revelations are nearly impossible to bear, and sometimes I think I cannot hold up. My husband’s shame can feel overwhelming to him. But one thing is certain: as difficult as all of this is, secrets like this are more destructive when kept than when revealed. Our recovery efforts are costly in every way imaginable, but we are willing to pay the price of the hardest thing we will ever do to save the most important thing we ever had but neglected, each other. This shit is not for the faint of heart, and without skilled and compassionate therapists, humility from both of us, a few good self-help books and willingness to lay bare the details of the affair (the calendar, conversations, emails, texts, credit card bills, screenshots, Zwift and Strava comments, photos, plans, Internet search history and every other ugly, excruciating part), we would be divorced by now. I find it important that this other woman not know anything I don’t know. Bedroom mechanics aside (it is not recommended to inquire about those, and mostly I have not, but I do know some details and the movie reels in my brain are relentless sucker punches, over and over again), I know it all. I couldn’t begin to understand what this relationship meant or what I was being asked to forgive if I didn’t, and the complete demolition of the idealized experience requires full disclosure. I wonder if the green jersey gal would feel betrayed, as she felt deceived, by my husband about that…their secrets, her secrets, life story, insecurities, faults, failures, vulnerabilities and everything she said and sent in all those communications, including those clever photos…have now been exposed to me. I know them and I feel entitled to them. The digital trail lasts forever, which is something everyone should remember, along with the fact that feeling special to someone whose dishonesty you condone and encourage is likely to leave you among the deceived and betrayed.

To be fair, I am also aware of what made her attractive, other than her cycling bonafides and brash presentation of a sexual calling card, including her intellect and sense of humor. Some of the first words out of my husband’s mouth about her to me when confronted were “you would like her.” Not. Kidding. In hindsight, though not in the moment, that comment was strangely comforting and perhaps the biggest compliment he could give her when it was all said and done. He feels my potentially liking someone is high praise and wanted me to know he didn’t screw around with just anyone. She has redeeming qualities, notwithstanding the dysfunction that led her to pursue an affair with a married man and the idiocy that led her to position herself in the foreign-country hotel room of a man she’d never actually met. My husband has now been able to explain, though, that the most attractive thing about her had nothing to do with her personality or physical attributes. Neither of those had been accurately disclosed before the Meet Up anyway, and neither of those was part of his “why.” It was about the attention, the uncomplicated fantasy world she inhabited with him and the escapism and eroticism that are cooked up when marinated in the sauce of secrecy. Codependency was the real name of the game, since he was attracted to her for what she was doing, not for who she was, and I’m sure the same was true for her. Ultimately the affair partner’s single most important characteristic was her willingness to participate. She was not the first Zwift female cyclist my husband “approached”, but she was the first one to say yes. Had it not been her, it would have been somebody else. When I asked him a few weeks after the revelation if he missed her, his honest and insightful answer was “I miss the idea of her.” That loss was one among many that we were asked to write down for our wise couple’s therapist, a valuable exercise.

Many wives would have thrown in the towel and thrown his sorry ass to the curb, and I would be justified if I did. My husband finds it amazing every single day that I did not pile his belongings, especially that fucking bike trainer, in the front yard and get a lawyer. The truth is stranger than fiction, and nobody would believe me, I tell him.

But it turns out we still love each other, our shared history and the life we have built over many years. Nearly losing all of that brought us both down to earth with crushing clarity. We are both willing to dissect our roles and the external factors that led to this crisis. Even if the road back from it will be long and winding, we have decided to start down it together instead of apart. Once I got up off the floor (it took days), once I was able to breathe (it took weeks, plus medication), I found myself on my knees with despair about how much jeopardy my husband had obliviously put our family in, how much worse it might have been and gratitude that it was not. Sleeping without a pill and regaining the 10 pounds I had lost in two weeks would take much longer. In the midst of all that, I found an unexpected and rock-solid optimism that we could find in this trauma a way forward, together. I believe we will make it. Stamina and endurance will come in handy, and we both have those.

My husband’s Zwift and Strava photos are now of the two of us. He mentions me in comments to others. I am privy to who is on the rides, who won the green, how it went. He shares all of that with me now, and I am interested. He shows me how it all works and I am always welcome in the studio when he is on a ride. Maybe I will even try it one day. I am back to being an ambassador for the platform because it keeps him safe from road hazards and for that I am grateful.

People who rally around a shared passion, whether IRL or virtually, especially when their partner does not participate, are at risk for tempting friendships that can threaten even the healthiest of commitments. Serious cyclists tend to be intense in the base case; obsessive, even, and extra susceptible to flattery from those who “get” them in the cycling world. Since group cycling is often a co-ed sport, there will always be those who see the peloton as a mating marketplace. IRL as well as virtually, we have seen a number of single women who have a reputation for attaching themselves to mostly married, mostly male bike groups, like so many spare parts…looking, flirting, casting their lines. You’ve seen it, too, from both women and men, but objectively the worst offenders are the gals.

To protect your primary relationship from outsiders, beware of social media hiding places with the potential for enticing and clandestine “friendships.” If you would not want your spouse or partner to see who you are always riding with, who you do Meet Ups with, who gives you Ride Ons and Kudos, what flirtations are in the comments section; if you are protective and secretive about time spent with specific Zwift friends and want to keep them on the DL lest your real life intrude, you have a problem. If you think and act as if what your spouse doesn’t know about your virtual friends won’t hurt her or that he can’t possibly understand you the way a Zwinder pal does, you are already being unfaithful. If sexual innuendo or content becomes part of any messaging, you are sliding sideways, no matter how hard you try to convince yourself of the harmlessness of it.

The Zwifting twosome had to divvy up their former group rides so as to avoid each other. I’ll take this one, you take that one…like a warped players’ divorce decree. He has to check the roster for new rides he is considering, to be sure she is not going to be “there.” One time there was an unfortunate, oblivious sign-up and sighting, and the PM was awkward, to put it mildly. “Kindly leave this ride, it is mine you awful bastard.” “Oops, so sorry, madam.” Unfollow is possible on Zwift, although Blocking is not, yet. It would be good to have that capability. In case the programmers are wondering why it is important to have that option, perhaps this story will provide needed insight. (Update: a few weeks after this was originally posted, “Block” became available. Coincidence or not, it’s about time.) I know some Zwifters, especially the women, would like to be able to block other riders who seem to stalk or comment inappropriately.

In the meantime, dear cyclists, take heed. Eyes wide open to flirting and innuendo. Beware of looking more forward to your virtual than real-life experiences and of prioritizing screen time over real time. Surround yourself with in-person cycling buddies who will keep you accountable and honest. Respect boundaries. Consider how your spouse or partner would feel if they saw your online persona and interactions; would they even recognize the person you are there? Watch out for those winking emojis. They can denote trouble coming if you are married or otherwise committed and someone is using them a lot, vying for your virtual attention and flattering you. Beware of exchanging phone numbers, email addresses and personal information if you are not seeking an entanglement or to lead someone on or give the wrong impression or slip down that Watopian slope, away from your real life and toward disaster. Our marriage is likely to survive, but plenty of commitments would not.

If you are a betrayed partner, please remember that what happened is not your fault. No matter the marital dynamic, you are not to blame for your partner’s decisions or how they chose to handle whatever they were dealing with in their life. Understand that affairs usually happen in the context of three things that the betrayer is immersed in: loss or trauma (look back over a 2-year time line), poor coping skills/not doing well emotionally (yep, take it back to childhood and patterns that were established way, way before you ever met), and a strained or disconnected primary relationship. Two thirds of the the “why” an affair happens has absolutely nothing to do with the betrayed partner. Within the one-third that does, you are only responsible for your half of the dynamic; there is a very small percentage of the reason this happened that you had any part in whatsoever. I hope that perspective is helpful; I remind myself of it regularly, especially on the difficult days.

For those affected by sexual and emotional infidelity, I recommend several especially helpful books: Not Just Friends by Dr. Shirley Glass; After the Affair and How Can I Forgive You, both by Janis A. Spring; How to Help Your Spouse Heal from Your Affair by Linda J. MacDonald and Blindsided by His Betrayal by Caroline Madden.

We recommend the Gottman Institute (Gottman.com) for resources, including books and specially trained therapists who can help with communication, attunement and avoidance of betrayal of all kinds. The single most helpful resource overall has been the Affair Recovery organization (Affairrecovery.com). This group offers information, (their Recovery Library is outstanding), support, courses and counseling for both couples and individuals, whether betrayed or unfaithful. Betrayal Trauma is a specific kind of wound and pain, so trauma and infidelity expertise is absolutely critical when choosing help. On that note, I will bid you a Ride On, in the most platonic and sincere way possible.