A Journey

When the leaflet landed on my desk that June day, I was 44 and
hopelessly aware that my nice comfortable middle-class life was coming
apart at the seams. The leaflet used enticing words like 'travel the
green valley of the Jordan' and 'see a new sunrise from a Bedouin tent'
How could I not be tempted? The stale taste in my mouth had been
offered the sweetest of sweeteners.

It was 1995, and right at the birth of the 'adventure' fundraisers. I
had visited very few foreign countries, the main inhibitor being
financial. Here before my eyes was an offer of the most exciting
variety, the opportunity to cycle from Nazareth to Jerusalem and raise
money for the homeless while I enjoyed what must surely be the holiday
experience of a lifetime. I knew that something had to change
dramatically in my life - in polar terms this could not be more
different. True, I hadn't a clue how I would raise the required ?2000.
True the thought of cycling 250 miles through a distant land with a
group of strangers felt terrifying to quiet, stay-at-home me ????.. and
I didn't even own a bicycle! The trip was sold to me under the enticing
label of pilgrimage, and the idea of cycling my own personal journey to
my own personal Jerusalem presented itself to me like the perfect
solution to ease if not vanquish my present ills.

On a daily basis I denied any interest in the venture. My colleagues
smiled, and plied me with support, money and suggestions on how to get
fit. November saw me signed up, committed - and wondering if I had lost
my mind.

A Scottish winter is not the best time to choose to take exercise, but
I knew that if this trip was going to be worth it I had to put in a lot
of effort first. I played badminton. I went to the gym. I walked the
dog till he begged me for mercy. I even borrowed a bicycle and
discovered that the roads around where I live are all uphill.

Early March found me saying goodbye to my family, and wondering if it
was too late to back out. As the train set off in a blizzard I was
conscious of my suitcase full of shorts and T shirts, and the beaming
and proud faces of my 3 children. I couldn't let them down.

It was something of a relief to reach Gatwick that evening and meet up
with around 70 other 'Big Bike Riders'. I was also happy to see that I
was by no means the oldest person on the trip. The ages for both sexes
ranged from 18 year olds to the lean mean cycling enthusiasts in their
70s. I was to discover over the next week that their reasons for being
there were as varied as their ages.

We were flown to Tel Aviv by El Al airlines - a most efficient company,
which meant that they grilled us individually at the airport, and me in
particular, when I foolishly admitted to carrying a borrowed holdall.
Visions of spending my week in an English jail rather than the Israeli
sunshine swam before me. We landed in Tel Aviv in the middle of the
night, and were transported, via Ben Gurion to a hotel on the shores of
the Sea of Galilee. The names flashing by on the signposts were
strange, beautiful and evocative - only words on a map to me until now.
As we alighted from the bus, we were greeted by smiling children with
smooth olive skin and dark eyes, who said, "Shalom. Welcome to Israel."
I experienced an overwhelming rush of adrenalin and thought, "I'm
really doing this!"

Breakfast was strange on my British tongue - many varieties of fish,
some raw, salad, cheese, coleslaw and dips. After a very welcome sleep,
we were fitted out with out bicycles: to be both out closest friends
and our worst enemies over the next 5 days. Some riders grew so
attached to their mounts that they bought them and took them back home
at the end of the trip!

As I rode tentatively round the grounds I became aware of a profusion
of bright flowers. Mimosa grew wild, and although it was early March,
hibiscus and bougainvillea were in full bloom. In and out of the
flowers darted brilliant blue birds - surely this was paradise?

I was starting to get to know some of my fellow bikers. It was
fascinating how quickly the different personalities came to the fore:
the mad, the bad, the funny, the friendly, the caring the kind - I was
to meet them all, and draw strength and laughter from their support
along the way, and often in the least expected ways..

After further rest we visited Tabga, the scene of the loaves and fishes
miracle in the bible. In this high dusty land of Israel it was
impossible not to be influenced by a sense of pilgrimage, ancient
history, and the power of the past. Whatever your colour or creed,
walking in the bible lands was to be a moving experience for all of us.
We then sailed on the Sea of Galilee, and looking out over the calm,
glassy waters, it seemed both believable and possible to picture
another miracle happening there.

Next morning saw the real beginning of the adventure. It was hard to
see our bags being taken off in the support van, leaving us with
essentials: sun cream, sun glasses, a camera - and that bike. As the
only Scot in the group I wore a rosette in my clan tartan, and sported
two Scottish flags on my bicycle. Before we left the hotel grounds,
someone managed to fall off his bike, earning him that day's 'maillot
jaune' in true Tour de France style.

Early cycling was easy and steady, our stops only to take in
high-energy food: apples, nuts, dates and most importantly, bananas. A
long ride through a Roman town brought us to Sachne Springs. Lunch, and
the chance to try out the lagoon-blue, naturally heated waters gave us
rest and re-charging time. On through groves of avocados, and mile
after mile of heady orange and grapefruit blossom. We saw emus and
wolves: we learned about our fellow travellers: we cycled.

That night was spent at a working kibbutz, Kfar Rupin. Kibbutz life is
based on the principle of sharing everything: skills, labour,
commodities. Cars are shared: children are educated and cared for
communally. Many felt that this was a shrinking lifestyle, but I felt a
great sense of community and happiness there.

My first day was over without mishap: no sneaky rides in the van: new
friends who seemed to value my company and what I had to say. I knew
that day 2 would be even more testing, as we discovered our strengths -
and our aches.

'Mr Motivator' led us through group exercises at 6 the next morning. In
spite of death threats to him, we came to know the value of limbering
up, although someone suggested that we should re-define the word
'holiday'.

Ever onwards into day 2, following the lush valley of the Jordan. This
river is attributed with healing powers, and as we sat nearby for our
first fruit stop, it was certainly easing to the eye and to the soul.
The road from there was very straight, and as the sun beat down on one
arm, one leg and my shoulder, my spirits and my energy started to flag,
but it wasn't long before a fellow biker drew alongside and took my
mind off my struggles.

Lunch was at a crocodile farm where we all thought it was funny to call
out for "a crocodile sandwich, and make it snappy." Although I
suggested that someone should demonstrate escape across their backs,
James Bond style, no one came forward.

That day we experienced some off-road riding - now I knew why they had
recommended padded shorts for the journey. One cyclist told me that I
had helped him through that part of the day by kindly groaning every
time I hit a bump, so that he knew how to avoid the roughest
places!

Sadly, trouble had flared up in Jericho, and we were refused access to
the legendary city. We could see it in the distance, but no amount of
singing/shouting etc made anything happen to the walls. That night we
were told that we had cycled 60 miles. Only 60? I felt proud of my
achievement.

The following morning found me low in spirits when I discovered the
loss of my sunglasses, timed nicely with my camera refusing to work. In
spite of his daily aim to be first home (he was the guy who was usually
going out for a run when I reached the destination each night!) another
rider stayed with me for the whole day, promised me copies of any
missed photos, and never made me feel I was holding him up - funny how
the help I denied I needed with my home life was so welcome over
here!

Killer Hill was next, and they hadn't lied about it. What I didn't
expect was how one young girl would get to the top, park her bike, and
then run up and down several times as she encouraged her purple-faced
companions to make it to the top! Next stop the Dead Sea, where the
concentration of salt in the water had healing powers, and also meant
that you could float without drowning (me) and lie in the water and
read the paper (the others)

Our visit to a Bedouin camp that night was truly another world,
although I think the pungent aroma of the animal-skin tents will stay
with me forever. They welcomed us with freshly ground coffee, and I
learned that each tribe could be identified from afar by the musical
chimes of their mortar and pestle. I also learned that any visitor
would be welcomed and fed, no questions asked, for 3 days, at which
point he was obliged to state his business or move on.

Unfortunately, the following morning I woke up feeling unwell. I knew
we had a big day ahead and I was determined not to miss out. One of the
Israeli guides became aware of my lustre lack, and rode beside me,
telling me how he had lived for a while in Scotland, but how it is
every Israeli's dream to go home - and he did. Another ordeal was ahead
of me - a cable car up to Massada. I was truly terrified of heights,
but would in no way compromise my visit. I was surprising myself more
and more as the week went on.

A visit to the fort of Massada is a moving experience. This was the
last stronghold of the Jews against the Romans. When all was lost for
them they committed suicide rather than die at the hands of the Romans.
The story reminded me of the Scots and their grim determination - maybe
I was more like them than I thought? The fort is still a symbol of
freedom to the Israelis.

That night we had a hilarious quiz night, where I surprised myself by
actually being an asset to my team. However the highlight of the
evening was a late night piano session at the kibbutz. A beautiful,
smouldering brown-eyed Israeli played his songs for us, and we sang
ours for him. A real Casablanca moment.

Day 5 and our last day of cycling started with a mad downhill race.
Some of us got up to 40 m.p.h. and were overtaking cars. We lunched in
the woody lands below Jerusalem - no-one could sit still: we all had a
sense of 'nearly there'.

As a contrast to the morning, this last afternoon of cycling was a
gruelling ride; all uphill, past where David fought Goliath, and into
the golden city of Jerusalem. Nothing could have prepared me for that
moment of absolute euphoria. Jerusalem - the pinnacle of my endeavours.
The very word had a magical sound.We really began to understand the
meaning of pilgrimage, and emotions were running high. In Jerusalem we
re-grouped and rode through the city to cheering, clapping and people
waving both British and Israeli flags - and not a few tears. Our
marathon was over.

I had made it - no lifts, no days off - all the way to Jerusalem. I had
cried a little, laughed a lot, and made some good, lasting friends. I
had seen sights and sounds that would echo in my head forever. I had
memories of kindness, of sharing, and of an overwhelmingly beautiful
country. I surprised myself with my endurance: I amazed myself as a
survivor. I recognised in me a strong woman, a woman with a spirit of
adventure - a woman I had not known existed.

My problems back home would still be there, and though what I had
learned about myself over the last week might not save my
disintegrating marriage, it would, I knew, help to carry me forward to
a better place.