Crossing the Yarden

By Yarden Frankl

Bicycle Ride

Many years ago, I was addicted to bicycle riding. What started as long Sunday morning rides with my father became United States Cycling Federation Races. There were days when I would be in the saddle from dawn until after dusk. I never tired from seeing new places, and my only fear was running out of water.

I grew up, went to college, got married, had kids…. The usual. Until a month ago, I had not been on a bike for decades. Sure I watched the Tour De France from my couch, but that hardly qualifies as serious exercise.

I bought a bike in Talpiot the other week. I could not have dreamed of a better way to see the area in which I live. A few times each week, I ride down Derech Avot, the Path of the Patriarchs. This road, little more than a stone filled path full of holes, is a road that was here long before I was. Long before there were Palestinians, Gush Etzion or a State of Israel. The Roman mile markers still stand bringing the road back two thousand years. The Mikvaot are there too, the stopping off place for pilgrims heading to Jerusalem even earlier. The experts tell us that this hilly route was the one that Avraham, the very first Jew, used when he went to sacrifice his son after hearing the voice of G-D.

You might say that such a road, used in the primal story of the primary character of the Jewish religion belongs behind a plate of glass, maybe in a museum somewhere. Yet here it is, mud holes and all awaiting the wheels of me on my mountain bike.

The route is not just historical, it is breathtakingly beautiful. When your mind takes a break from pondering the Biblical nature of the scene, you can flash forward to 1948 and imagine the desperate battle for Gush Etzion that took place in the surrounding hills. Where was the spot where the 35 Palmach volunteers fell trying to relieve the cruel siege of Kfar Etzion? Did the armored convey which had made it to the Kibbutz pass by this way before being ambushed? What was it like in the days before we built the modern settlements that now dot the Gush Etzion hills and make life livable for those of us who come from more sheltered environments. Looking out over the amazing landscape, you can really picture yourself living in the age before delivered pizza.

As you ride, you start to think about the future of this beautiful area. Will the Gush fall in battle again? Or will it eventually be handed to our enemies without even a fight? If only I could take everyone in the country with me on a ride, I am sure that the spiritual, historical, and just plain beautiful environment would win them over.

With a friend, I rode past Derech Avot, past Rosh Tzurim, down a steep, windy path. It was a beautiful ride but at one point we had to turn back. It was not from fatigue or mechanical failure that we stopped our ride, just the fact that to keep going we would end up in Nehalin. How tragic that with all this beauty, we must live with danger just a few kilometers away. How ironic that our Arab neighbors have absolutely nothing to fear in visiting a Yishuv, while we must be very careful not to take the wrong turn on our bikes.

It takes a while to get used to the fact that our enemies are so close. Those who have lived here longer tell me they don't even hear the Muzin's call that often wakes me up at 4:30 in the morning. Then they point out that it hasn't always been this way. There was a time when a bike ride to Bethlehem was not so unusual.

Living in Israel, living in the Gush, is to be constantly surrounded by stunning beauty while not forgetting the ironic complexities that make the Gush so much more than just a ride in the park.

I have to finish up the column. No, it's not time for another ride. I have to go do shmirah now.

Shabbat Shalom from our blessed nation.

© 2006 Yarden Frankl