Shalom, Israel!

By Jim Hendrickson

This book is a narrative of my 5½-month bicycle journey from Bellingham, Washington (state) to Israel aboard a custom-made, long-wheeled-based recumbent. In this book you'll learn about the many adventures and misadventures I experienced on this 7,000-mile trip through eleven American states and eight foreign countries. The book concludes with a list of equipment that I took on the journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jim Hendrickson
• Release date: Feb 24, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524226435

Jim Hendrickson

Jim Hendrickson is a retired Professor of Spanish and English as a Second Language. He speaks English, Spanish, French, German, Italian and Portuguese. He has taught elementary school, high school, adult education, community college, college, and university in seven states. He worked as a Teaching Fellow at Harvard University, a Senior Fulbright Lecturer in Bolivia and Chile, and a Language Consultant for the United States Peace Corps in Belize.  Jim has received many teaching and publishing awards including the Distinguished Faculty Award at Lansing Community College in Michigan, the Stephen A. Freeman Award for authoring the best article on teaching techniques to have appeared in a professional journal in 1980, and an award for writing the best article published in The Modern Language Journal in 1978. Jim has traveled in over 150 countries and is an avid long-distance tour bicyclist. He has cycled extensively in the United States, as well as in Europe, Africa, Australia, and on various islands in Oceania. He has presented over 500 travelogues in many schools, churches, libraries, museums, senior and community centers, city auditoriums, as well as on radio and television shows, and has been featured in numerous American and international newspapers. Jim has published more than 60 foreign language textbooks including The Spice of Life (Harcourt), Our Global Village (Harcourt), Poco a poco (Heinle & Heinle), Intercambios (Heinle & Heinle), Nuevas dimensiones (Heinle & Heinle), and Nuevas alturas (Heinle & Heinle). One of his best-selling books, Poco a poco, has been reconfigured into a best-selling book, Plazas: Lugar de Encuentros (Heinle & Heinle). He is also the author of another best seller: Spanish Grammar Flipper (Christopher Lee). Jim has also published articles on psycholinguistics in Foreign Language Annals, TESOL Quarterly, The Modern Language Journal, The Canadian Modern Language Review, and Hispania. Jim has published the following thirteen travel ebooks about his adventures and misadventures: Like a Leaf on a River, North to Alaska!, Vagabond on a Bicycle, Travel is my Passion, Shalom, Israel!, RVing to the Land of the Midnight Sun, Heaven on Earth, Around the World in Thin Slices, South Pacific Odyssey, My Endless Pursuit of Travel, Baja Adventure!, Strange Tales of Jefferson County, and Footloose in Southern South America.

Book preview

1

Washington State

On an early morning in mid-June, I awoke from a good night's sleep, peeked out of my bedroom window, and saw a sullen, overcast sky－not the ideal weather for beginning a long-distance bicycle trip. As an optimist, I tried to see the brighter side of that day: I was about to begin a journey of nearly six months to Israel aboard my new recumbent.

After breakfast, I phoned Bob, a friend who asked me to call him before I left my home in Bellingham, Washington.

I'll be over in twenty minutes, he said cheerfully.

Bob, a short, very active, and spry 73-year-old man had long thin gray hairs that sprouted haphazardly from both sides of his balding head. His smile revealed many missing teeth and one large broken tooth glancing downward from his upper gums. Within twenty minutes, Bob drove up in his red compact car.

Good morning, Jim, he said, smiling as he got out. How are you feeling?

Just great, Bob, I replied. I just locked up the house. I'm all set to go.

Great! Do you mind if I follow you down the road for a while? he asked.

No, it's okay, I answered.

I mounted my recumbent and slowly pedaled out of my driveway. A young neighbor, who was fetching the local newspaper on his front porch, waved to me. He knew that I was beginning a 7,000-mile journey on a bike from Bellingham to Israel.

Good luck, he shouted. Thanks, I said, and waved back.

I looked into my rearview mirror and saw Bob following closely behind me as his car's orange flashers blinked on and off, offering me a bit of protection in morning rush-hour traffic. I was on my way to Israel with an escort!

I coasted north down Britton Road, turned east onto Mount Baker Highway, and rode on the wide shoulder of the road for safety's sake. I looked into my rearview mirror and saw Bob following slowly about 50 feet behind me. Although traffic was light, the speed limit was 55 miles per hour, and every time a motor vehicle zoomed by me, I winced. I was afraid that if Bob continued following me so closely, an accident might occur, so I stopped my bike, dismounted, and walked back to his car.

What's the matter? he asked.

Bob, I said. This is dangerous. I think it's better not to follow me anymore. An accident could easily happen with these cars and trucks whizzing by so fast.

Okay, Jim. Well, have a safe trip! I'll see you when you get back, he said and waved goodbye.

Thanks, I answered, waving back. I'll see you in December.

I remounted my recumbent and looked into my rearview mirror. Bob made a U-turn, picked up speed, and soon disappeared down the highway. I continued pedaling at a leisurely pace, but ten minutes later, I heard a loud horn beep behind me. In my rearview mirror, I saw a red pickup truck that slowed and then stopped. I recognized the vehicle immediately: It belonged to my friend Ralph, a tall man in his early seventies who always seems to have a smile on his face. I stopped my recumbent as Ralph got out of his pickup.

Hi, Jim. How ya doing? he asked smiling.

Hi, Ralph, I answered. Oh, just fine. Boy, I'm surprised to see you!"

Yeah. Well, I just thought I'd come by your house and see you off this morning, but you had already left. You told me you'd be pedaling down Mount Baker Highway, so I drove down here because I thought maybe I'd see you.

Thanks, I answered.

Ralph and I chatted briefly before we said goodbye.

I continued spinning my wheels eastward and, eventually, I turned south onto Highway 9. Soon my bicycle chain began slipping in the rear derailleur. I stopped a few times to adjust the derailleur, but the chain continued to slip. Oh, no! I thought. Bike trouble. And I just started my trip!

I rode to Sedro-Wooley, a small town where I got lost. I stopped at a campground and asked a middle-aged man for directions to the bridge over the Skagit River.

You should have turned right up at the corner. By the way, where ya heading?

To Israel, I replied.

Huh? To Israel? You mean Israel like in the Bible?"

Yup.

Wow, man! Well, just keep going that away, he said, pointing east.

I thanked the fellow, turned around my bike, and followed his directions. I crossed the bridge over the Skagit River and began pedaling eastward along the South Skagit Highway toward Israel－like in the Bible. The road gradually inclined uphill, so I had to push down harder on my pedals. As the gradient became steeper, my bicycle chain slipped more often. I hoped that it wasn't a major problem because there was no bike shop nearby. I had only a rudimentary knowledge of bicycle repairs, which I learned at a six-hour workshop several weeks before my departure. But I remembered almost nothing about how to adjust a rear derailleur.

I followed the Skagit River for many miles, and finally crossed over it in the town of Concrete. From there, I turned right onto Highway 20 and continued riding eastward through the Northern Cascade Mountains. Soon it began to rain sporadically, so I stopped to put on my Gore-Tex rain jacket and helmet cover, then continued pedaling slowly uphill. My chain continued to slip again and again. Each time it slipped, I became more frustrated and concerned.

In Rockport, I bought an ice cream cone and took a ten-minute break. Farther down the road in Marblemount, I stopped again at a grocery store and bought some oranges, a small package of Kool-Aid mix, and a pint of chocolate milk. As I drank the milk outside the store, I chatted with a young couple waiting beside the highway to catch a ride eastward. They were hitchhiking with their golden retriever dog to North Cascade National Park where they planned to hike and camp for one week. They both bore a huge backpack loaded with clothes, food, and camping equipment.

As I continued cycling, someone upstairs turned on the rain tap again, so I stopped to attach my Gore-Tex hood to my rain jacket, pulled the hood over my head, and donned my helmet. Now I felt warm and dry as I pedaled my bike in a sheer downpour. The rain ceased by the time I reached Newhalem Campground, where I had planned to spend the night.

After pitching my tent on the wet grass, I set up a small camping stove on a picnic table and prepared two packages of noodle soup thickened with a can of tuna for protein. After gobbling down the delicious blend, I snacked on a peanut butter brownie and a Diet Cherry Coke. The campground had no shower facilities, so I washed up in the men's room after supper.

Just before dark, I crawled into my tent, zipped the door shut, and snuggled into my sleeping bag. It felt wonderful to stretch out after a long, hard day of pedaling 290 pounds of man, bicycle, and gear for 80 miles on the first day of my journey to the Holy Land.

I woke up at six o'clock the next morning, knowing that I had to climb over two gigantic mountain passes that day. As I emerged from my tent, large raindrops from nearby tree branches fell on my head. It seemed that the campground did have shower facilities after all! For breakfast, I ate three oranges and a peanut butter sandwich. Afterward, I took down and packed my wet tent, attached my gear to the recumbent racks, and left in the rain.

Just outside Newhalem, I began ascending a very steep hill. Almost immediately, my bicycle chain slipped off the small rubber wheel that supported the chain and guided it to the rear sprocket. I stopped often to replace the chain over the rubber wheel. But after pedaling only a hundred feet, the chain slipped off again. Each time that happened, I became more frustrated.

At one point, as I stood by the roadside pondering a solution to my dilemma, two middle-aged tour cyclists stopped to ask if they could help me, but, unfortunately, the fellows had no suggestions for solving my mechanical problem.

Suddenly, I had an idea. I unhooked the two small panniers from the rack under my seat and attached them to the rack over the front wheel. Then I lifted the chain off the top of the rubber wheel, which was causing the chain to rub against the rack. I removed the rack from under the seat and tied it atop my camping equipment over the rear wheel.

This remedy worked fairly well, but it created two new problems. In my lowest gear, the chain rubbed against the rear tire in a few places because the rubber wheel no longer guided the chain. Also, the weight of the loaded panniers on each side of the front wheel adversely affected my ability to steer the recumbent, especially when I pedaled it uphill. Despite these annoying problems, I continued cycling eastward.

The ride to the summit of the 4,855-foot Rainy Pass was miserable because the grade was steep, my bicycle was difficult to steer, and the rain continued to drench me. I stopped many times to rest alongside the highway, and, although I was uncertain that I would reach the summit, I continued to move forward. Occasionally, I dismounted and simply pushed my heavy rig.

Soon I became very tired, and I heard a voice within me whispering, Jim, turn back. Go back home and get your mountain bike. Or better yet, drive your car to the East Coast.

Another inner voice disagreed and murmured, No, Jim. Keep going on your recumbent. You'll make it. Just take it slow and easy. You will make it to the top of Rainy Pass.

My optimistic nature persuaded me to follow the advice of the second voice, and it rewarded me for my efforts when I finally reached the chilly summit of Rainy Pass. Whew! I took a short break, put on my arm warmers, ate an energy bar, and coasted downhill for more than a mile in a drizzle.

A greater challenge loomed just ahead of me: the ascent to Washington Pass at 5,477 feet. I applied the same mountain-climbing strategy to conquer that pass as I had done to summit Rainy Pass. I pedaled hard, occasionally dismounting, and pushed my bike forward. I took frequent half-minute breaks and talked aloud to myself several times, saying, You can make it, Jim. You're not a quitter. You're a survivor. Just keep going forward a bit at a time. Don't worry, you'll make it to the summit. As I verbalized these thoughts, I also visualized myself standing beside my recumbent at the summit of Washington Pass.

A car ahead of me suddenly slowed down, pulled off to the shoulder of the highway, and stopped. A middle-aged man quickly got out of the car with a camera in one hand. As I continued struggling uphill, he took several pictures of me while I managed a slight smile.

How's it going? he asked with a British accent.

Oh, it's going slowly, I replied with a tone of frustration in my voice.

Hang in there, he said. You'll make it.

Thanks, I replied, and continued my struggle.

Soon I became so tired that I felt faint. I knew that I needed some energy immediately, so I stopped and ate another energy bar as well as a chocolate-peanut butter pastry. Within a few minutes, I felt better and pressed on.

As the rain continued to fall, I finally managed to shove my two-wheeled steel mule up to the top of Washington Pass. Gravity rewarded me for my heroic efforts as I coasted downhill at a fast pace for nearly ten miles. I braked often to slow my heavy rig to a manageable clip, and felt fortunate that I had invested in a disk brake on my rear wheel because it helped me control my speed.

The cold wind and steady drizzle beat against my face and made my entire body shiver. Although I was wearing cycling gloves with glove liners, my fingers became numb. As I approached the town of Mazama, the drizzle stopped, the wind diminished, and the temperature rose, but my body continued shaking. I pedaled to the Mazama Store, which I imagined to be a heavenly oasis of warmth and comfort. I locked my bike, walked into the store, and ordered a large cup of coffee and an oat bran muffin. With each sip of the very hot coffee, I began to thaw out.

As I was leaving the store, the sun came out and warmed my body even more than the coffee. I pedaled confidently through a valley of low-rolling hills and vast green meadows. But all was not well: several times my chain slipped in my rear derailleur. Fortunately, my map indicated there was a bicycle shop in nearby Winthrop.

When I arrived in town, I checked into the Pine-Near RV Park, pitched my tent, took a hot shower, and walked to a restaurant where I treated myself to a well-deserved supper of fettuccine with pine nuts, and a cold beer. As I sat there enjoying my delicious meal, I thought about the day's events. Climbing two mountain passes, enduring freezing rains with fierce winds, and coping with my bicycle's mechanical problems had taken their toll on my body and mind. I was physically and emotionally exhausted. I knew that I had pushed myself too hard during the first two days of my journey, so I decided to take a rest day in Winthrop.

In camp the next morning I recognized the fellow who had taken my picture at Washington Pass.

Morning! I said. Do you remember me?

Good morning! Of course, I do, he said cheerfully. I'm glad you made it to Winthrop. By the way, my name is George Morris from England. Would you like a cup of tea? My trailer is just over there.

Sure. Thank you, I said. My name is Jim Hendrickson. I'm from Bellingham.

George invited me into his small white travel trailer parked near my campsite. While I sat in the tiny kitchen-living room, he told me that he and his wife had visited Winthrop the previous year while on holiday.

I liked this charming western-style town so much that I wanted to return here again, he said. I'm a mechanical engineer. I like to fix up all sorts of machines. At the Shafer Museum there across the street, they've got loads of old farm equipment that I could repair. I told the museum curator that I'd be delighted to repair it at no cost. I just needed a simple place to stay for a month. The curator concurred, so I flew to Seattle and rented a car at my expense. He arranged for me to stay in this little trailer.

While George served us tea, I told him a bit about myself and discussed the mechanical problems that I was having with my recumbent. He gave me some suggestions for solving those troubles and drew rough sketches on a piece of paper to show me exactly what he meant. George and I chatted for a half hour until a friend drove by to pick him up. They were going into the countryside to repair a windmill. I thanked my British friend for the morning tea and his advice and said goodbye.

At my campsite, I washed out some cycling clothes, then rode to a grocery store and bought a cherry oat muffin and a pint of milk for breakfast. My main mission for the day was to have my recumbent repaired at the local bicycle shop called Winthrop Mountain Sports. I cycled to the shop where I explained my bicycle problem to a mechanic, a fellow in his mid-twenties.

I'll see what I can do, he said. Come back in a few hours.

Okay. I really appreciate it. I'm on my way to Israel, and this is only the second day of my trip.

Wow! All the way to Israel? That's really something!

To kill time, I began exploring Winthrop where I met some very friendly residents such as Dixie who worked at Winthrop Motors. At no charge, she faxed my first trip report to a Bellingham radio station, where an employee would read it over the air in a ten-minute segment called Letters from Jim, which would be a weekly broadcast. In that way, thousands of listeners could follow the progress of my bicycle journey to Israel. I also met a friendly woman who worked in the Winthrop Visitor's Information Center and gave me a few brochures of places to visit in town. At Smitty's Tire & Appliance store, I met Carol, who wrote articles for the local newspaper, the Methow Valley News. She interviewed me about my trip for an article in her paper. Finally, at a curio shop, I introduced myself to Mary, who I had seen returning to a mobile home near my campsite.

My husband and I live in Southern California during the winter, she explained. We come here in the summer to run this little shop. We really love Winthrop.

In the afternoon, I returned to the bicycle shop and learned that the mechanic had good news for me. He had adjusted the rear derailleur on my recumbent, realigned the steering stem, and replaced the small rubber wheel with part of a rear derailleur from another bicycle. This last item was truly ingenious. Now, instead of the chain riding atop the rubber wheel, it rolled between two sealed cogs that held the chain firmly in place. The total cost to repair my recumbent was a bargain for $26.90. Thoroughly delighted with the mechanic's ingenuity and hard work, I shook his hand and thanked him profusely. Indeed, I was a very happy camper.

I broke camp the next morning, packed up my bicycle, and rode to a grocery store where I bought a breakfast of oatmeal cookies and orange juice, and consumed them on the premises. I rode eastward on Highway 20 beside the Methow River, through the town of Twisp, and up the 4,020-foot Loup Pass. It was quite a climb, but my bicycle chain never slipped once, for which I was extremely grateful.

At the summit, I met two middle-aged fellows on bicycles, who were part of a group of nine cyclists on a cross-country tour offered by Bike America. They had begun their