D.F.L.

“I’m broken,” I tell Tamar. My breath is ragged. My heart races. “I can’t do this anymore.” 

“You don’t have to,” she replies. 

I jump off my bike and sit down by the side of the trail. Digging my fingernails into my skin, I draw blood to distract from the pain. 

Tamar stops her bike and waits. 

We are riding up Mount Carmella in Central Israel with a motley crew called the Fun Bikers. They are mostly middle-age men in Lycra with big bellies and even bigger hearts. They tease each other in Hebrew. I usually nod along, straining to catch familiar words. If nothing else, I am building up my bicycle related Hebrew vocabulary. 

Tamar and I ride with the group every Saturday. Despite the Fun Bikers moniker, these trips are anything but fun. The rides last four to five hours up punishing climbs and down steep descents. 

As a former bike racer, I’m used to tough rides. I’m used to aching legs and lungs, racing beyond the point of exhaustion. I used to welcome the pain blitz and the sweet endorphin release. I considered it a badge of honor, a way to show toughness. 

But this has been a difficult year. I arrived twelve months ago to take care of my elderly parents during the beginning of the pandemic. Two days after my arrival, my father was diagnosed with lymphoma and passed away six months later on his birthday. Two months after his death, my mother was diagnosed with sarcoma, an aggressive cancer that has attached itself to her chest wall. My sister and I are now her caretakers. 

As a result of the accumulated stress and my fondness for carbohydrates, my once lean frame has become flabby. I bike the same routes I did a few years ago when I visited Israel, but it’s twice as hard to haul my heavier body over the mountains. I’m saddled with excess weight and a thick Grief I don’t know how to shed. 

“Why do you care so much?” A friend asked me. She reminded me that ten years from now, I’m not going to remember how fast I was on a particular hill. Instead, I should focus on quality time with my ailing mother. “Those are the memories you’ll cherish.” 

***

This particular Saturday morning, my friend Tamar picks me up at my house at six am.

“How do you feel?” she asks.

“The usual, “ I reply. “Nightmares. Can’t sleep before the ride.”

“Why do you keep going?” she asks.

I don’t yet know the answer.

I watch the weak morning sun poke over the horizon as we drive down Route 1 to the Eshta’ol gas station: our meeting place. Golden light bathes the empty roads. I’m happy to be up at this hour to catch the sunrise, but there’s dread in my stomach.

Tamar parks in the gravel lot full of bikers getting ready for their journeys. I find the Fun Bikers. Today, there are nine of us ranging from Shachar in his early twenties, to Yossi over seventy. 

“Boker Tov. Ma’nishma?” Good morning, how are you? Natan, the ride leader greets us.

“Beseder, veh atah?” Good, and you? I say, using up the extent of my Hebrew.

Natan gathers us and describes the day’s route.

“What’s he saying?” I elbow Tamar.

“We go up a lot of mountains.”

“And?”

“More mountains.”

Tamar is never precise about translating Natan’s instructions, so I only have a vague idea of where we are headed. It’s frustrating because I like to know the route so I can gauge how much power to conserve. But with the language difference, I have to get used to not knowing what is always happening.

We ride out of the gas station and onto the steep sidewalk. I pedal quickly, afraid to fall in last place. We turn onto the rocky trail. I am not warmed up; my legs feel stiff. I tell myself to keep going. Things will feel easier. 

Three riders, Shlomo, Silva, and Yossi, break out of our pack and push forward. Shlomo is lean and fast, while Silva and Yossi ride electric bikes which gives them an advantage. They surge without effort. I am jealous.

Natan and Tamar laugh and make jokes, not winded by the ascent. The other three riders, Shachar, Gil, and Rami breathe heavily as we struggle up the mountain. I’m already out of breath and wonder how I will last.

Climbing quickly is a simple weight equation. The less you weigh the faster you climb. 

I used to be named “mountain goat” because I could summit even the toughest terrain. I half-joked that I gleaned my climbing skills from my Kurdish Jewish ancestors who lived in the mountains of Northern Iraq. My grandfather, who traveled across this terrain selling spices and playing the Iraqi flute, was known for his tenacity. My father inherited this tenacity and iron quads. I like to think I inherited these traits as well.  

***

Today, my legs and lungs burn, but I spin quickly to keep up with the group. Every fiber in my body screams at me to stop. I distract myself from the pain by admiring the view. I’m surrounded by lush Jerusalem hills, the sun slanting against the pines.

I can do this, I tell myself. But I’m fighting demons, fighting voices that tell me how much I hate this ride, how much I hate putting myself in this painful position. There are no endorphins, just my exhausted body and a fear that this climb will last forever.

Natan and Tamar push ahead. I try keeping up with them but cannot. I watch them become specks in the distance. I ride with the “slower” riders now: Shachar, Gil, and Rami. I tell myself to be content. At least I’m not last. But my discontentment bubbles up, and I want to quit this ride. I want to be done with Israel, with the pandemic, with Grief.

The path winds around the mountain, and I keep hoping the next corner will reveal the top. Instead, there are only more inclines. I grip the handlebars and force my legs to spin even faster. 

I finally reach the top of the hill where the faster riders wait. They give me the thumbs up. I chug water and take an electrolyte tablet, hoping this will give me more energy. I take photos of everyone. I’m known as the ride photographer because I shoot decent photos. I figure if I cannot communicate with the riders in Hebrew, at least I can do so through pictures.

After five minutes, we cycle down the mountain. The group races ahead of me, while I clutch my brakes. I know the safest way to get down a hill is to relax and go with the flow. To let the mountain carry you. I overthink everything. I descend slowly and awkwardly, like an ugly duckling. I can’t enjoy the flow, the adrenaline rush. I reach terrain I don’t want to ride and walk down the rest of the hill. I feel ashamed at my lack of bike skills.

At the bottom of the downhill, the Fun Bikers wait for me to finish. I’m fifteen minutes slower than everyone else. They greet me with smiles. 

I wish I weren’t so competitive. I wish I didn’t have to prove my self-worth with each pedal stroke. I feel at a disadvantage for being a foreigner, for not understanding the language or culture. In the past, it didn’t matter if I couldn’t understand simple Hebrew sentences because at least I could climb like a gazelle. 

With this challenging year and my weight gain, I feel like climbing is yet another thing taken from me. 

***

We ride up the second climb, the famed and feared Carmella mountain: one of the steepest mountains in the area. This is the route where bike racers train, summiting the peak multiple times as they suffer.

My breath is labored once again and my legs feel rubbery. I try to distract myself by counting to groups of eight. I tell myself to have gratitude for the warm sun, for the wildflowers beginning to bloom. I tell myself to hold on, but I burned “all my matches” (as racers say) in the first bike effort. I don’t have much to give. I’m unable to keep up with everyone. Soon, everyone passes me. I am now D.F.L. Or, as we call it in the bike racing world, Dead Fucking Last.

This is not new. I have been D.F.L. many times. As a child, I was on the swim team but so slow, they always stuck me in the “unofficial lane” where scores didn’t count. In high school, I raced track and always finished last. My team used to chant “McDonalds, McDonalds,” hoping to motivate me. The sooner I finished, the sooner we could board the bus to our favorite post-race dinner location. When bike racing as an adult, I finished last in countless races. Even though I was fast on hills, I was a slow, outmatched sprinter.

Today, I am Dead Fucking Last on Mount Carmella. I dig deep yet again but have nothing left to give.

My friend Tamar circles back down to see where I am. 

“Are you okay?”

Her question opens the floodgates, as if she’s given me permission to admit how I feel. 

“I’m broken,” I tell her. “I can’t do this anymore.”

I tell her to go on ahead. I’ll find my way back home. I want to curl up in a ball by the side of the road and forget this day, this week, this year.

Tamar refuses to leave. 

Ignoring her, I walk my bike up the hill, hearing the crunch of my cleats on the rocky ground. I finally feel at peace now that I am not forcing myself. I admit I’ve hit my limit. I am only human. Tamar walks besides me.

We summit the hill, where the Fun Bikers enjoy their mid-ride picnic. Yossi has brought sweet coffee and hamantaschen cookies for everyone. Tamar distributes nuts and dates. I reach into my bag and hand out raw Gobi berry treats, procured from the local organic food store. The Fun Bikers eye my treats with suspicion, but a few brave souls try some. 

“Tayeem.” Tasty. Silva nods with approval.

I shut my eyes as the sun beats down on my face. I pretend I’m a cat, content. I try not to think about the rest of the ride. Tamar assures me it’s all downhill. I tell myself I can do this.

***

The next day, Tamar drives me to the bike store where I buy an indoor trainer. It is a way for me to continue training, but with more control. I won’t have to bike up the massive hills. I can be indoors while I take care of my mother. 

This is an imperfect solution for an imperfect world. We are still in the middle of a pandemic. My mother is still sick. I am still afraid of biking. But at least I’m working towards making myself whole. 

Ronit Bezalel is a writer, filmmaker, and photographer based in Chicago and Israel. She tells stories about communities and connections. About underdogs and those in the margins. Born in England, her family moved to the States when she was seven. Growing up Jewish and queer in rural America with British and Israeli immigrant parents, Bezalel experienced firsthand what it’s like to be an outsider. Her outsider perspective has helped shape her as a storyteller. Her flash non-fiction piece “Quarantine is a State of Mind” was published in the most recent IO Literary Journal. She holds an MFA from Columbia College Chicago and a BA from McGill University in Montreal.