‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  The thought often saddens me that my father did not live to enjoy his grand children. Living close to mine, being with them, watching them grow, is a great joy.’  I’™m just that lucky.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  My wife and I live in the still small city of Ra’™anana. I do most of my local running around by bike and when Assaf, my youngest grandchild’  – I have four, two girls, two boys ‘“ turned eleven he found himself with a grand gift – his first ‘œbig-boy’™s bike’. What could have been more natural then for me to say, ‘œCome winter, my dear boy, we are going to have a whale of a time. We’™ll ride through the rough; through orange and grapefruit groves, pick of the juiciest and laugh and scream so all will think we’™re mad!’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œYeah Grandpa, that’™ll be wonderful! But why not today? Why not now?’’  Such a retort was only to be expected.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œToo damn hot my son,’ (for no reason at all I call my two grandsons that) ‘œFar too damn hot for an adventure ride ‘“ for’  me, anyway.’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  I always look forward to the coming of winter and now I had a reason to do so. So I was happy when some five months later, Assaf, eyes sparkling, says: ‘œRemember our adventure ride you promised? It’™s not too hot any more.’  Let’™s go! Come on, Grandpa.’  Let’™s go!’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Well, though December’™s end was approaching I was not going to tell the lad that I also had hoped that some rain would have fallen making firm the sand of the fields. But the rains this year had simply failed. It would not have been fair and, anyway, I relished the idea of a ride into the ‘œwilds’ with my grandson.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  The day was chilly ‘“ the air invigorating. ‘œCome on, then, son. We’™ll go. We may even find a juicy orange or grapefruit. Your hot-rod ready?’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  I suppose it’™s something to do with my mental make up but my age automatically switches to match immediate circumstances. In this case I become an eleven-year-old. With a piercing war cry, we race each other down the stairs, I with an additional advantage of sliding down the banisters ‘“ a thing Assaf has not yet learned to do. I grab my Raleigh racer and was outside the gate in a flat fifteen seconds. We’™re off and heading south to a Kibutz only about two miles from us.’  I look forward to be off the road and into the fields; away from the dangers of nervous drivers.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  We were soon able to turn off the asphalt and head down a’  track behind a row of villas. In it the corrugations vary from bone-shakers to dromedary humps.’  We scream at each other in delight I not caring a whit what any hearer may think. Passing the rear side of someone’™s plot, a yellow flash hanging over the wall catches my eye; a grapefruit! ‘œWait! Wait! We simply must try this.’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  My legs straddling the crossbar and penknife in hand, the rind begins falling. With a section of the fruit to both of us, Assaf is the first to dig his teeth into the succulent flesh.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  An expression of surprise passes over his face which quickly turns to distaste. An oddball I thought as I take my first bite and realise the reason for Assaf’™s suprise.’  It’™s a lemon!
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  I actually like lemons so I carry on munching but finish only half of the fruit. ‘œI’™ve never seen such a big lemon, have you?’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œNaahh ‘“ throw it ‘“ let’™s go,’ came his down to earth response. I do, and with a belly laugh at the unexpected, we ride noisily on.’  A small herd of some ten grazing sheep is disturbed by our coming and run into an enclosure. In it we see a goat, a horse, some chickens – and a man I happen to know well. I wave and after a few pleasantries,’  we move on. Running beside a grove, a pathway beckons. It turns out to be of deep sand. Our wheels sink into it and we find ourselves foot- slogging, coaxing and pushing our bikes up a steep incline.’  The young boy, delighted, begins racing up the hill.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  I have not yet said, that for all his eleven and a half years; this pug at birth, weighing then only one and one quarter kilos has grown into a tough fellow – an important member of the school football team.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Puffing a little – after all, I’™ve been around this globe for something over three score and ten years ‘“ I, too, arrive at the crest of the hill. There we are greeted by bees that seem to be humming a war chant.’  I point to some beehives beside the orange grove and feel that perhaps Winny The Pooh might help in this situation.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œIf we had a couple of balloons,’ I say to Assaf, we could float over the hives and land on the other side.’  You don’™t just happen to have a couple of balloons on you by any chance?’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Assaf looks suspiciously at the hives. ‘œLet’s go back,’ he says, his eyes a little wide. He’™s a pragmatic guy, usually coming straight to the most obvious solution.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œI wonder what Pooh would do in such a circumstance,’ I say. ‘œI think I know. Well pretend we don’™t know they are there. Look the other way ‘“ at those clouds.’  They’™re clever, bees are. They’™ll feel sure we’™re interested in the clouds and not in their honey.’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  With that, and my eyes firmly fixed in the direction of the clouds to the west, I lead the way on foot through the still deep sand.’  Assaf follows at some distance waiting to see whether my assumption of Pooh’™s theory will be understood by the bees.’ 
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  We shuffle forward. A few question marks are quizzically’  buzzing around my head. We make it without incident, however, and in justifiable relief begin laughing. ‘œYou see,’ I say, ‘œa lesson from Pooh. But actually you never can tell with bees; when they will or won’™t understand ones real intentions.’

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  My thoughts turn back to whether the sinking sand will ever become a firm pathway again. Another grove is on our left and this time a ‘œtruly grapefruit’ beckons.’  ‘œCome on. Lets have a break.’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  The sweet juice wets our hands and runs deliciously from the corners of our mouths to drip from our chins. ‘œGreat,’ we shout and start again towards the next crest. A field of wild grasses and weeds stretches to our right where some horses are grazing. So far we had walked about a mile and after the next dip we spy, half way up the next rise, another cluster of hives. This time about twenty of them.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œLet’s think Pooh again,’ I say to Assaf. ‘œI know’, I say, ‘œthe sun is setting. Bees are never busy in twilight. They’™ll be in their hives doing housework.’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œAssaf’™s look of suspicion was genuine. ‘œYou said before that you never can tell with bees,’ he reminds me. ‘œYou really think they’™re all inside?’.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œYeah, sure!’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Still in the sand and tractor tracks, I walk towards the hives, Assaf’™s head turns as he glues his gaze at the clouds. Again we pass them without incident. A lopsided wooden shed is passed as we come finally to a firm pathway. With great relief we can finally mount.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  A mile on brings us to an asphalt road and the kibutz centre. The firm, damp sand I had hoped for on this trip had not materialised; nor any mud and slush ‘“ but that’™s life I guess. Fenced bungalows line the road. Now I recall a particular one that some seven years back had yielded the most delicious grapefruit I had ever tasted. This had been on a very similar expedition entered upon with Assaf’™s elder brother, Ido. A grand, old tree. It bordered the road, its obviously unwanted fruit rotting on the ground beneath. I wonder now if it’™s still there. We reach the bungalow and… yes it is ‘“ its fruit still unwanted and rotting at the tree’™s base. The trouble is that, a fence has been put up around the garden.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  I place a finger to my lips to silence Assaf; for the last ten minutes we have been singing ‘˜The Campdown racers sing their song, Do-Dah, Do-Dah.’™ I decide that a fence is not going to deter me.’  Silently we park our bikes in the driveway. Glancing at the windows the house seems to be deserted. No car.’  I step up to the giant, fruit-laden tree.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  A deep bark belonging obviously to a barrel-chested beast, startles us. Assaf pales and raises his brows in a ‘œNow what?’ look. In answer my hand reaches up and plucks a fruit the size of a coconut. We make a hasty retreat with about as much stealth as a couple of elephants through a bamboo forest.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  A hundred yards down the road, I whoop success. Once again my penknife peels and slices and the juice of the sweetest ever fruit is running down our laughing faces.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Two miles on and we dip down the steep incline that takes us beneath a main thoroughfare – down and up the other side. I look at my watch. Time to start back.

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ 
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  The strain is beginning to tell. ‘œWe’™re going back by the main road, you hear, my dear boy? This time I’™ll lead.’ But I’™m talking to thin air, he is way ahead and peddling .’œWe haven’™t been on this road yet,’’  he shouts and swings down a side road.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Having little option or control over the speeding figure, I order my body to hold on bravely and follow. Five minutes later we find ourselves plodding the tracks of sand we had come by. I stop.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Looking westward, the setting sun has rimmed the clouds in a golden spell. The sky is a burning yellow, pink and red glory.. A fabulous farewell to a perfect day. I point and Assaf smiles from some fifty yards ahead.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  We pass again a field of plants of pure silver.’  Silver-stemmed and leaved. They’™re strange and beautiful things which I have never seen on display.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œGrandpa, do you think the bees are asleep by now?’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œI’™m sure of it, son,’ and we plod on through the sand once again until we arrive back at the point we left the first track. ‘œCome on. This way,’ I shout but again to no avail. The little fellow has taken a different route to return to the main road.’ 
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œI know this path,’ he shouts into the night sky, ‘œit’™s shorter. Come on!’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Doubting heavily, my body beginning to give way, I follow. Quite unexpectedly we come to a dip. Here the sprinklers have been working and instead of deep sand, we now find ourselves floundering in a sea of mud. The clinging, heavy variety.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  It jammed up between the rims and the breaks preventing the wheels from turning. We slip and slither shrieking with laughter. This galvanised a guard dog into action who somehow just couldn’™t see the funny side nor our point of view. My boots had become three times their weight as I sludge on through the bog and move up the other side. So slippery is the mud that it’™s like walking with bars of soap strapped to our shoes. My bike with its thin tyres gets bogged down and demands to be carried. The dog decides we are just a couple of nuts.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  At the top we find ourselves moving through a rubbish heap but at least and at last I am again on terra firma. With a piece of broken plastic I scrape the mud from my boots, the tyres and rims.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Assaf says: ‘That’  was really great, wasn’™t it, Grandpa?’ I agree heartily even in the knowledge that it will take a couple of days to recover from the spree. We parted, he taking a different route to his home which is on the other side of town.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Now, with only an easy downhill ride home before me, I look up at the now, star-studded’  night sky. It’™s truly beautiful.’ ‘ 
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ 

*’ ‘ ‘  *’ ‘ ‘  *’ 
‘ ‘ 
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Another Ride ‘“ But Where the Stars?

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‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Its now two years on from that wonderful outing, I could say a millennium later, for last year we left the twentieth century behind and we’™re into the third thousand. I may also say that I was two years weaker than I was then, while my dear Assaf, now almost thirteen was on his way to becoming something of a gladiator in physique or a prize wrestler.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Other changes have also taken place, too, like some gunk had taken a fancy to my Raleigh racer and I have now to make do with a far more ploddy Town Bike. It does, however, have the advantage of wider tyres and about twenty gears. These definitely make lighter work of heavier going.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  The excitement of the start is as noisy as such circumstances warrant, a banshee howl and a squeal of excitement. ‘œRace you to the gate!,’ and the chase is on. Assaf has not yet mastered sliding down the banister so I’™m a little ahead at the bottom of the stairs but that was the last I see of victory. From then on I’™m in his dust ‘“ or rather the mist and wet from his rear wheel.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œWait!,’ I scream, ‘œWhat’™s that?’, and I point to a small field opposite our house.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œWhat’™s what,’ he answers effecting a masterly about turn and returning, his face showing wonder at what my index finger was wiggling at.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œLook,’ I say with a shout that sends a crow fluttering off in haste from the palm tree near our gate. ‘œLook! Puddles! Mud! Wet! Wet! Wet!’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  It had been raining cats and dogs that day and indeed the day and time were perfect, just perfect for an adventure ride. We had had a few other such adventure rides since the one with Pooh Bear and the bees but, in hindsight, this day’™s ride definitely warrants a very special mention. Rain is not one of those things that frequents this part of the world and with the washed clean air and damp wind in our faces, the whole world is washed and sparkling as new. With the smell of greenery around us, we speed towards one of the last patches of wilderness left in our small but dynamic city singing at the very top of our voices.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  The song? ‘œThe Camptown racers sing this song, Do-Dah, Do-Dah,/ The Camptown Racers sing their song, Hey Do-Dah-Dey! etc.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  If some turn their heads towards these two mad ones racing and shouting on the wet roads as if chased by a devil, I’™m sure it is with a smile and just, perhaps, a mote of jealousy. To our right there are at this point planted fields where there used to be orange and grapefruit groves. The rain-drops on the greenery glisten silver in the setting sun. The sight makes me feel I’™m a bud of some exotic flower which suddenly blossoms and bursts into song.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  The road we’™re on ends after some three kilometers in a dirt track, now shining a silvery wet and splattered with puddles. Of course we don’™t dodge these but check each for their depth. ‘œWeeee! That was a real deep one,’ I shout as the muddy water splashes over my boots and jeans. ‘œWow! Great!’, answers Assaf in glee who looks already as if he’™s just out of a mud fight.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  The hill becomes steep but my lowest gear enables me to keep on the saddle and the wheels turning. The untamed greenery around us on all sides rejoices as we head for a line of tall, dark green cypresses at the summit.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œThis way,’ shouts Assaf and is off following an instinct that has been passed on to him from his forebears thousands of years back. The wild greenery to our right, after some two hundred yards is now bordered by Gehah,’  – one of the main North South trunk roads that also borders Ra’™anana and Kfar Sava.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Now I notice something else, deep into the wet sand is a set of prints belonging to a very large dog. These are not alongside human prints so it would appear the animal is unaccompanied. It was strange that such a large animal would allowed to wander off on its own when the truth suddenly dawned on me. These were not the prints of a pet or house dog at all!
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  In the meantime Assaf’™s short legs pumping at the pedals had taken him some fifty yards ahead of a panting grandpa. He uses his vocal chords to their maximum: ‘œThis way!,’ and his head disappears from my view. I can’™t help but wonder where the little devil has vanished to, when I too reach the cause of his excitement. It’™s a steep stone and cement flood chute that drains the field into an underpass from Kfar Sava that feeds that town’™s traffic into the trunk road. What a find! But first I turn to him with a serious face. ‘œDid you see those large paw prints in the sand.’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œYeah, what about them?’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Did you notice that there were no human foot prints alongside?’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œYeah. What of that, Grandpa?’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œThat’™s no dog, Assaf ‘“ it’™s a wolf! That’™s what it is. He’™s probably hiding in the tall grass ‘“ waiting for us! We better get away!’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  We start hurrying down the slope Assaf leading, of course. It’™s very steep, about one in one. This demands a slow decent on foot into the underpass with my bike wanting very much to get there first. Assaf is shouting directions to me just how to negotiate this difficult part but, of course, against the rush and roar of the traffic’  now in my ears, I can’™t make out a single word. In the underpass’™s tunnel the atmosphere is sheer magic. Our shouts resonate between the concrete walls which multiplies the sound wonderfully. Here we scream not in order to say anything to one another but simply to enjoy the reverberations coming back to us.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Wondering what Assaf will lead me into next, I come to another drainage slope, steeper than the first – only this time it’™s up! ‘œYou expect me to get up there? ‘, I shout in dismay.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œOf course. It’™s easy!,’ he answers from half way up the slope. ‘œJust climb,’’  comes his encouraging answer. ‘œCome on!’
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‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ 
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  It’™s a stiff climb pulling and pushing my bike ‘“ now behind, now ahead of me but I must say it’™s a delighted grandpa that joins a panting grandson at the top. ‘œLovely, eh? Well, there’™s nowhere to go from here, it’™s all fenced around. We’™ll have to go back!,’ and down we go, again to the wondrous echo-chamber making it resound again with our laughter and shouts. Up the other side, another sound enjoins the roar of the semi-trailers, buses, and cars.’  It’™s thunder!
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  I look to the west. ‘œOh ‘“ 0h! Better get moving, son. We’™ll try and make it home before it starts.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œWhat about the wolf,’ Assaf askes.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œOh, yea! I almost forgot. Maybe when we went the other way, he decided to go to one of those houses over there to get him a meal. A chicken, maybe or 6a fat young girl. We’™ll have to be vary careful.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  In a roundabout route we make our way back to Pardess Meshutaf finally headed for home. By this time the strain is beginning to take its toll and the difference of sixty years between our ages makes itself felt.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  Suddenly ‘“ ‘œWait!,’ I yell at Assaf who is beetleing ahead as fast as his legs can pump. He swings around and comes back.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œI thought you said to get back home flat out!’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œYeah, I did. But we just can’™t let such lovely fruit go to waste, can we?’ There was this solitary grapefruit tree on the corner, its fruit falling to waste on the ground and nobody caring a jot.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ 
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ 
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  I walk over to the tree with a look the wolf of the tale has when he sees little Red Riding Hood walking through the woods. I look over the tree for the very largest and juiciest of them. I pick it with a grand gesture and smile mischievously. ‘œCome on, boy,’ and we were off again peddling for all our worth.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  With still a couple of kilometers to go, heavy drops begin to fall – cold as they reach my scalp. Then, as if upon a signal, the cats and dogs fall upon us from the sky. A house to the right boasts a large porch. I lead, racing and laughing as we take shelter with the rain coming now down in sheets in front of us.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  I begin a song, opera fashion and Assaf joins in in delight: ‘œWater, water, water, water, water from the sky!’ This we repeat over and over with certain impromptu variations and in volume to match that of the pounding rain.’  All this time we smile at one another in approval of the fine nuances we achieve in sonorous harmony. We continue this fine opera for some seven to eight minutes when the sheets of water gradually and finally lessen to become no more than a drizzle.’ 
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  ‘œCome on!’ And were off to the final lap. The last two kilometers up Pardess Meshutaf, through the park, down the muticoloured brick pavement, through one final glorious puddle that wet any part of us that was not already wet and ‘¦ home!
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘  What a ride to the stars that was though the only visible ones this time were those in Assaf’™s eyes and mine.
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