I am not kidding, but last Saturday, together with 10,000 of my peers, I rode next to Armageddon. The real Armageddon. I even have a picture to prove it.

All right, i know you think that Armageddon is this terrible place where the final battle will take place, but really it is just an old ruin at the top of a mountain.

The question is, what was i doing with 10,000 other bikes? Well, it was like a bike Woodstock and we all came to raise money for some charity event where our masters – poor sods – were to pedal for 55 kms in the heat of the day. For them it was a day of sweat blood and tears, for us, bikes, it was a day of socialization and fraternization.

And there was blood. At a certain point, my master crossed wheels with a racer and down he went onto the macadam, his arm and knee all red from blood. But don’t you fret, I was OK and that is what is important. Humans are self healing and time will erase all marks, whereas the smallest hole in our wheels will disable us.

And for the first time in my life, i saw real Bedouin bikes that had traveled all the way from the desert to participate in the event. They were all blue but they assured me that it had nothing to do with their mood, it was just a fluke.

10,000 bikes take a lot of space and the police was kind enough to block all roads, and even so, there were accidents and mishaps, but thanks to the human operators (our masters), all went smoothly.

Three hours after the start, we were back at the compound, comparing notes. Despite his painful fall, my master managed to be in the first couple of thousands, which, considering his ancient age, is not bad at all.

Living in the Middle East, even a bike cannot stay away from  politics. Or maybe it is just me. Be that as it may, I am one worried bike. You think that all we care for is a new pair of tires or some ornament for our handlebars, but you’d be surprised at the number of bikes who live in anguish. Hostilities are never good and I have often seen the result in the mangled body of a fellow bike whose shed has caved under a well aimed flying missile. And I don’t need to talk about the plight of Gazan bikes who – because of the blockade, cannot get new tires.

Now, the hot topic is Jerusalem. This beautiful but tragic city is being disputed by Jews and Arabs and I don’t see anything good coming out of this dispute.

We bikes do not have “holy places” and it is therefore difficult for me to comprehend this obsession you humans have about places and things. I wonder what would Gandhi say about this. Or Jesus Christ. but I suspect that either of these wide men would have found the right words to defuse the dispute. After all, you all believe  in one creator, which makes you brothers. would you fight your brother for the right to say “she is all mine”?

If you don’t learn to share,  I predict the end will be bitter.

My owner thinks it is best not to fight for stones and that holiness doesn’t belong to one place, and at the risk of losing his right hand, he is willing to forget Jerusalem if it means that it would spare his fellow humans of yet another man made tragedy.

And if he is willing to let his right hand wither, I am willing to let my right tire wither. Out of solidarity.

You might ask what has this got to do with bicycles? After all, I an not a historian. In fact I am not even Human and logically, your affairs should be of no concern to me.

And yet, there are a couple of points that are of interest to me, as a bike. The first is that today, what is used to be a wall of separation has been largely turned into a bike path. What bike can be indifferent to such a turn of affairs? But the salient point, to me, is that  I live some 10 miles from another wall, not less infamous than the Berlin wall, a wall built on the exact premise as the Berlin wall, which says that walls solve problems, and they do not. They did not stop the Mongols in China, they did not stop the Germans in France and they did not stop the Egyptians at the Suez canal.

Hiding behind walls is a very Human trait, but of course it is a chimera. And I find it ironic that the very week were humanity at large is rejoicing over that memorable event, two decades ago, when people took their fate in their hands and tore down the Berlin wall, the same thing, albeit on a smaller scale, happened to my wall.  Protesters managed – twice – to dismantle sections of the Separation wall and thus prove my point, that walls are not the answer. In fact, they might be a part of the problem.

Us, bikes, like the mechanical horses that we are – love open land. We thrive in the sense of freedom an open land gives us and we firmly believe  Humans should not create obstacles whose sole purpose is cut off sections of humanity from each other.

If bikes had religion, I would be praying for tearing down all barriers  between Humans, and of course between bikes.

When asked why bikes, their reply was simple: Bicycles are the symbol of freedom, a statement I totally agree with. I will go one step further: Bicycles are a symbol of peace.

Let us consider: a bicycle, once manufactured, consumes very little  resources: tires, pneumatic tubes, a saddle here and there. All of these are made of natural products and a little energy. In other words, the total carbon print of a bicycle during its life span is minuscule.

What has this got to do with global peace? Simple: most wars are caused by a scramble for resources, ergo, the less resources needed the better is it for the cause of peace. Imagine that our oil consumption would drop dramatically, what would it do to the middle east? less tension, less money to fuel wars, not to speak of the impact on the environment, which in itself is dangerous. See what the lack of water did to Sudan and other desert countries.

So, to sum it up, the more bikes there are, the better you humans will feel. Less obese people, less pollution, less resources squandered. Why can’t you get it?

Well, I am bound to be ain’t I? I mean, I am a bike for Pete’s sake. I have nothing to do with your technology and progress and as far as I am concerned, you could have put a stop to your inventive madness as soon as you were done inventing us, bikes.

 Bikes are reactionary, almost by design. It is simply hard to improve on perfection, and our way of thinking is that leave well enough alone, if you see what I mean. Oh, I am not saying I am not glad when I hear of another gadget for me or my master, a gadget that might improve his or my quality of life, but I could easily live without it. You know my position on cars but cars are just the tip of the iceberg. To put it bluntly, you cannot afford to continue this trend. And there are too many of you and too little of us.

 When I say I am a Luddite, I am saying it in the 21st century sense. I am not about to storm high tech companies and smash bright brains (the 21st century equivalent of the milling machine of the 19^th century) and revolving robots. The first Luddites were protecting their jobs, or so they thought. Today, the modern Luddite must aspire for a moratorium on growth. We have gone far enough and it is time to take some steps back. If I was joking earlier about too many of you and too little of us, then I promise you I am serious when I say too many of you and too little water. And really, water, is just another tip of the iceberg. what is really needed is a moratorium of population growth, shifting of resources towards sustainability, changing people’s perceptions, this sort of things.

Being a bike I am not afraid of the New Luddism. As long as we rely on human legs (and lungs), we are safe. So we won’t all have pneumatic brakes and some of us will be heavy and ungainly, but we can survive everything, from energy crises to ecological disasters. So, if I am not worrying about myself and my kin, who am I worried about? You, humans, of course.

 Because without you, we are just a piece of useless machinery, albeit a very elegant one.

 So please, for the sake of our future together, do something to stop your inexorable march towards the abyss.

You must understand, bikes are creatures of habits. We (usually) like our owners and have no desire to change them. Especially not by being stolen. We call it, Change of Ownership by Theft, and it is never pleasant. In fact, it is quite traumatic.

So, when the police came up with the scheme of using a decoy with a sophisticated tracking device (and i keep wondering if the decoy volunteere for teh task),all of us bikes held our (metaphorical) fingers. and you have no idea of the relief we felt when the police actually managed to track it to a warehouse, where eight of us were held captives.

And still, I find it a little offensive. All this business of stealing us or fitting us with tracking devices as if we were mere cars is unnerving. We are better than cars and should be treated as such. Cars don’t love you, you know. We do.

To sum it up, kudos to the police for its initiative and boo to the thieves who treat us as mere merchandise. Remember, the next time you see a bike and think you cat take it from its loved ones, it might be a bike undercover that will lead you straight to the arms of our ever so vigilant police.

Don’t say you weren’t warned.

This is a strip of land that follows the Mediterranean Sea and since the beginning of time, joined Europe and Africa.

So, when we packed water, fruit and energy bars (a waste of money, if you ask me), got my tires pumped and the odometer zeroed, I was curious. Usually, our preparations are much shorter: a thumb checking air pressure and off we go.

So, I did some sniffing (meaning I spoke with those that know-i.e. the home computer who googles for me). Goggle earth is a nice way to get a feel of the land but gives you no idea about the historical importance of geographic locations. My master, however, is a wannabe historian and prides himself in knowing the local history. Plus, he talks a lot. Usually I get a clue of what is in store when he mumbles incoherently.

Anyway, a smart search revealed to me that this stretch of road we were about to embark on, has been walked or ridden by illustrious feet or hooves. Of course, I was thrilled to follow in the path of Bucephalus, Alexander’s horse, or Ramses’ chariot on his way to the Orontes.

In fact, this stretch of road has probably seen more historical figures than any other in the world. As we crossed the Alexander river bridge, I was reminded of the Macedonian leader receiving a blessing from the High Priest of Jerusalem and from the Carmel range in the distance, I could imagine Saladin watching his men battling King Richard Lionheart’s army, and again, I was reminded that the noble Saladin sent the king a fresh horse (can you imagine something like this happening today?) to relieve the king’s tired mount. It was easy to imagine Napoleon’s army marching towards Acre or General Allenby riding proudly towards Meggido (What you know as Armageddon).

The day was hot and my master’s sweat poured on me like a monsoon, and I could not help but thinking of Napoleon’s columns marching on this very road (un-macadamized, of course), sweating under their wool coats and shiny buttons, cursing silently their proud General, embarked on his folly.

And as we rode in this narrow corridor, the shimmering sea on our left, the low hills on our right, the mighty shadows of these generals and leaders who have fashioned your history stretched ahead of us, humbling master and bike alike.

After all, who can compete with the Ramses’ chariots or Bucephalus’ hooves? Certainly not me.

But the question remains. If I was a car….what kind of a car would I be? This question was on my mind yesterday when my master and I were returning home from a long trip to my master’s brother-who lives on top of a mountain-and back. We were nearing our town when a racer, mounted by a young, helmet less rider, passed us by, all thin tubes and narrow wheels, all sleek efficiency, while, we, my master and I, riding ponderously, my thick wheels soiled, my rack loaded, my master’s strokes slow and methodical, presenting a diametrically opposite image. If he’d been a horse, that sleek racer would have undoubtedly been  an Arabian. And myself? I don’t know enough about horses to tell. I am built both for strength and speed. i can equally well negotiate a mountain trail or an urban thoroughfare. A mule? Perhaps. But all bikes are “mules” when you come to think of it.

But we are not discussing horses here, are we? That flighty bike would have been – again without the shadow of a doubt, a roadster. a sleek little two-doors, built for speed and looks. As I pointed out, I was built for endurance. A Jeep? Possibly. but not like those so-called SUV’s, city folks buy to take their kids to the kindergarten. No, a real jeep, one that seeks thrills and adventure, one that takes punishment and gets splattered with mud, one who would take a lot of sweat from a laboring master, one that will seek a path where none is to be seen. This is the kind of bike I am.

Speaking of Jeeps, I myself  am an upgrade from a Jeep Apache my master and boss owned before me. He sold it to a friend who had a Giant and I like to believe he is happy.

I an happy to by my master’s jeep.

So now, let us check the numbers. A 110 km ride. How much carbon would Mizzy II (the family car) release to the atmosphere? Let us say 150 grams per km. That’s a lot of carbon, if you ask me. moving a car weighing over a ton to move 66 kg and change is vastly different than fifteen kilos move 66 kg and change.

If you were a bike, what kind of a bike would you be?

A God in the Flesh

In as much as we, bikes, do not have a mythology, had we have one,  Lance Armstrong would be our chief God.

No, we do not pray and we do not offer sacrifices, but we know that our co-existence depends largely on your admiration of our God and his exploits. Come on, the man will soon need finger transplants to be able to count his trophies, and it would take an Indian laundry to handle his yellow shirts.

It is thanks to you and men like you, Mr. Armstrong, that today Bikes are “in” and i feel I speak for many Bikes by saying you are worthy of our adoration. I should know, Mr Armstrong, because I share my thoughts with other Bikes.

One subject troubles me, Mr Armstrong and it is the treatment you get from the French. I don’t like it one bit. What is is with them? Why can’t they accept you as the true Master.

If there was a Tour d’es Etats Unis, and Michel Dutronc (no relation) had won it seven times, would he be framed for illegal abuse of forbidden substances, or would he be applauded, even offered a role in Hollywood and perhaps even a talk show. Would Americans not say “zis Frenchman, he has the thighs of their proverbial frogs. “?

So why can’t French be gracious and accept your Uniqueness, not to be envied, but revered, not to see it as humiliating, but to see it as uplifting.

Because Mr Armstrong, you are a Man, and us Bikes have learned to respect you as our rightful makers and masters, and among your Men, you are one of exceptional ability.

May you don the yellow shirt till the end.

Iggy the Bike

p.s: You are mentioned in my autobiography. Where do I send the copy?

My boss in thongs

I will tell you so what. That was a rally to protest various laws pertaining to bike riding, and that riders and rollers were required to come wearing thongs. As a bike,  I am all in favor of more people riding and it seems that helmets are not very popular. Personally, I don’t like the “helmet law” that passed here a couple of years ago. It is contrary to the spirit of freedom we bikes represent. And I am pleased my boss thinks the same (it’s great to have a nice boss, when you are a bike). So, some 200 people, half of them on roller blades, gathered around the Tel Aviv cinematheque for a pageant of bikes, rollers, twinkling lights and outrageous costumes. There was a real giant on a giant bike (and not a Giant like me, simply a very tall man on a really tall bike), a roller with an orange cape and a Viking, complete with horned helmet and blond braids, wearing a thong.

The gentle giant

The word must have passed along, because the place was crawling with media people, all toting heavy video equipment, all vying for the thong-wearing riders and

Orange cape and Viking

rollers. My boss was interviewed by Reuters (and guess what? not one words about his faithful Iggy), and he cut a fine figure, with the words “down with the helmet law’ scrawled on his manly chest. His words about ‘freedom of riding as we please’ were music to my metaphorical ears and I must admit, he made me very proud. I taught him well. And so, preceded by Police escort (alas, not on bikes but on ugly, smoke belching motorcycles – those traitors to the bike family) and a gaggle of “security” people on rollers, we set out of the cinematheque yard, complete with flares and all sorts of twinkling lights, into Tel Aviv’s night traffic.

Flare bearing rider

We rode along caffe-lined avenues, the promenade (where one roller was hit by a car, without any nefarious results), into dark, twisting and narroiw streets, to the cheers of the people crowding teh streets. The music was blaring, the rollers were dancing on their swishing blades, and everyone was in great mood.

Black and White

Everyone’s attention, from riders to bystanders, was stolen by a rather good looking female of the species who opted for the literal definition of ‘thong riding’ and rode topless. Maybe one day someone will explain to me your fascination with mamary glands. After a rather long ride, the procession ended in Hayarkon St. where humans gathered to end the night with mugs of beer and loud music. Us bikes, left to our devices, shared our experience, and we all agreed it had been a very good evening.

Everyone happy

Rolling down the Avenue

Roller in green shirt

Scrawling protest slogans

Quenching thirst in a dark street