When the Highway Goes Silent: (Almost) Stranded on Yom Kippur
Every year, taking my kids out on bike rides during Yom Kippur has become an unbroken tradition. Now that my oldest son has turned 10, our routes have grown longer, stretching out along with his endurance. Over the past few years, our route has been an 8-kilometer ride over to the Yeshpro Center in Modi’in. This year, THE plan was to do that familiar trek the night Yom Kippur began, followed by a much bigger push the next day out to the bike park in Modi’in.
In Israel, the holiday brings an atmosphere found nowhere else on earth. There is no legal statute forbidding anyone from getting behind the wheel, yet the unwritten cultural rule is total: you simply do not drive. The highways and thoroughfares empty out completely, surrendering to the silence. Once in a rare while, an ambulance or an emergency vehicle cuts through, but otherwise, civilian traffic vanishes.
Setting off that evening, our group consisted of myself, my son and two of his friends. We pulled out while the sky still carried late afternoon light, snapping a quick photo before pushing off. As we followed the trail, twilight settled in, the last daylight disappearing just as we crossed through Moshav Mishmar Ayalon on the approach to Yeshpro.
When we reached Yeshpro, it was empty. We rode around the commercial center for a while, taking in the emptiness before we started the journey home. That was when disaster struck. With a sharp metallic crack, my rear derailleur snapped clean off the frame.
In any other country, or on any ordinary evening, a snapped derailleur is an annoyance. You pull over, pull out your phone, and call your spouse, a friend, or roadside assistance to bring the car. But on Yom Kippur in Israel, the rules of modern convenience evaporate. You don’t call someone to pick you up. There are no tow trucks, no favors, and no shortcuts. If you cannot move yourself, you are stranded. .
Thankfully, I had packed a tool pouch before leaving. Standing under the streetlights, I performed roadside surgery. I took the metal rear carrier rack off my broken bike and managed to bolt it directly onto my son’s bike. It fit. We strapped all the heavy tools and provisions onto his rack so none of the kids would be weighed down. I took a flashlight with me.
The game plan was simple: they would ride ahead on their bikes, and I would run behind them on foot for the entire seven kilometers (6.88 to be exact) back to Kibbutz Gezer.
Managing three energetic boys on wheels in pitch darkness requires strict logistics. Down the long descent out of Yishpro, I set explicit waypoints to keep them from pulling too far ahead. Our first regrouping point was the entrance to Mishmar Ayalon. From there, we pushed down toward the traffic circle beneath Gezer. Running on empty roads behind bicycles is surreal, but running on pure adrenaline makes the kilometers fly.
By the time we hit the final uphill climb to Kibbutz Gezer, I was running on fumes. Pushing the kids’ bikes up the final incline, I felt less like an endurance runner and more like an exhausted pack mule. We finally made it through the kibbutz gates, completely spent, but safe.
After sitting outside and letting the adrenaline drain, I collapsed into bed. Six hours later, I was woken up by a relentless voice: my three-year-old daughter standing over me shouting in Hebrew, “Kum, kum!” followed by rapid-fire English: “Food! Food! Food!” I don’t remember my two older sons speaking that much at that age.
Mentally and physically, that night wiped me out. Yet lying there listening to my daughter demand breakfast, the absurdity of the trek brought me right back to the central truth of this place: when that bike broke, calling for a ride wasn’t an option. You don’t break the silence of Yom Kippur unless you have to.
Growing up in America, the concept of an entire country voluntarily shutting down its roads is unthinkable. A day without cars simply does not exist. But after living here, it has become the day I anticipate most. On what other day on earth can you look at your children with total sincerity and say, “You can go play in the middle of the street.”
For my kids, who have spent their lives growing up on Kibbutz Gezer, traffic is already a bit abstract. Most of the roads inside the Kibbutz are just for foot traffic so the idea of cars, crosswalks and lights are a bit foreign.
For twenty-four hours, the roads belong solely to the kids, the bicycles, and the occasional dad running seven kilometers through the dark just to guide them safely home.