From Bondi to the Galilee: riding for Matilda

For long stretches along the Lebanese border, the only sound was our tyres over rocks.

Over four days, David and I rode 300 kilometres through the western Galilee, climbing more than 3000 metres across rocky tracks and flowing singletrack. Around us were hills, villages and hundreds of riders moving across the land in a rush of colour.

This was the Epic Israel’s “Back to the North” edition. The race returned to a region where war had disrupted daily life, emptied homes and closed trails. To ride there again, in peace, felt like a privilege. The quiet was not something we took for granted.

KKL-JNF had prepared the trails with care, taking us through forests and rocky terrain into some of Israel’s most beautiful landscapes. Their work reflects a deep commitment to the land and the people who live there. This year, the race’s return to the Galilee carried meaning beyond the route: it brought visitors and renewed energy to communities emerging from years of isolation.

David and I had trained on opposite sides of the world. I rode through Melbourne’s brutal winter; he trained in Israel’s sweltering summer. We spoke regularly by phone. At first, we compared training and talked tactics. Then we shared the harder things: the doubts, the challenges, what kept us going. By the time we reached the start line, we were more than riding partners. We had built a deep bond, one conversation at a time.

Our team was called Matilda’s Summer. I attended Matilda’s funeral in the days after Bondi. Months later, on the other side of the world, David and I rode through the Galilee with her name on our chests.

We rode in her memory, and for all those lost in Bondi and on October 7. David had served for months in an elite commando unit after the attacks. He knew what it meant to carry the memory of people lost.

Matilda’s name and her bee symbol were on our custom-designed jerseys. Before the race, we spoke with her family. When her little sister Summer saw her name beside Matilda’s on the kits, her face lit up. That smile stayed with me through every stage.

Our families were there too. David’s 10-month-old son, Maayan, and my children cheered from the sidelines. After hours on the bike, their faces were a kind of homecoming.

Then came the towns. Schoolchildren poured out to the roadside in their hundreds, waving Israeli flags and shouting as we rode past. Jewish children. Arab children. Druze children. Their flags flickered above a stream of riders in bright colours, sweeping through the streets beneath a wall of cheers. It was a scene of such uncomplicated joy. I wanted to stay inside it. I wanted the world to see it.

The race held many stories. Some riders were remembering friends and family they had lost. A visually impaired Arab rider raced on a tandem bicycle with his Jewish partner. A Muslim woman wearing a hijab stood on the podium beside her Jewish partner. Riders who had spent more than 600 days in reserve service told me cycling helped quiet the noise in their heads. You saw the spirit of the race in who rode together, who kept going despite the difficulty, and in the banter and laughter along the way.

At the race village, the days ended in music, dust, tired legs and a cold beer or glass of wine. Bikes leaned against every surface. Riders from across Israel shared stories, then began thinking about the next stage. The energy was infectious. The village was alive with the laughter and camaraderie of riders who had shared an impossibly hard day.

For four days, the north came into view through its people and its landscapes.

Matilda’s name was on our chests and across our backs. Our children cheered from the sidelines. Between Bondi and the Galilee, we rode for those we had lost, and for the life we still share.

Alon Cassuto is CEO of the Zionist Federation of Australia.