Friends: For the first time in nearly 2,000 miles hunger began nagging at me as I was bicycling along, giving me concern as to when the next grocery store would turn up. They had been so plentiful, even in the so-called wilds of Hokkaido, I finished off my reserves of peanut butter a couple of days ago to lighten my load, never really having needed it. I still had an emergency can of baked beans and a bunch of mini-energy bars, but I didn't care to make a meal of them.
No stores meant I was at last on a road with little traffic and no significant towns--route 105 south of Odate to the Lake Tazawa-ko, the deepest in Japan at over 1,300 feet. As with much of the interior of Japan, the terrain was mountainous. The valleys were a rich rice-growing region, with the harvest going on.
At last, after 35 miles I came upon a small non-chain grocery store in the village of Ani just before a long climb. Its prices were a little more than elsewhere, but not exorbitantly. It was equipped with a hot-water dispenser, so I didn't have to wait a few extra minutes for the noodles to soften in cold water. While I waited for the water to cool, I had a rice ball. I sat on a bench in front of the store. Moments later the store owner brought out a small table for me.
It was another 20 miles to Lake Tazawa-ko. At a Shinto shrine along the lake I encountered a tall Japanese tourist who had rented a bike to ride its 12-mile circumference. His English was good enough that I could ask him what the suffix "date" (pronounced da-tay) meant, that is attached to many of the towns in this region. He apologized for not knowing as he was Taiwanese and didn't speak Japanese. This was his sixth visit to Japan, traveling always by train. He said he loved coming to Japan because it was so clean.
After having been here nearly a month, I ought to have recognized he wasn't Japanese, if only by his size. Though I don't tower over the people here, except for the elderly, I am made aware that at six feet I am well above the norm whenever I glance at a mirror and have to stoop to get a look at myself, or on those rare occasions when I find a picnic table and feel as if I'm at the child's table. On the ferry, I only had a few inches clearance in the staterooms. At the Rider House, in an older Japanese house that didn't even have a flush toilet, I had to duck when going through doorways. I knew my perception had become conditioned to the smaller size of everyone else when I saw three Westerners tossing a Frisbee in a park and was astounded how gargantuan they looked, almost grotesquely so.
I was pushing it last night to reach the train station in this town, as I'd read it had free Internet. I took a wrong turn and ended up on a long climb to one of Japan's many ski areas, more than in the US, though few on the scale of ours. Most have no more than a couple of chair lifts and a half dozen runs. When I finally realized that I wasn't on the correct road, it was nearly dark. I was able to descend several miles, but still ended up camping higher than I have anywhere so far. I feared I'd have to wear all my clothes to stay warm. But the temperature didn't dip below 45 in
my tent. I didn't even have to put on the wool cap that I had in reserve.
It was another couple mile descent to start the day and then another six miles to the train station with the free Internet. It is in such a small town, however, that there was not the usual signage to the train station, so it became the usual challenge to find the Internet. Rather than signs to the "Town Center," most cities provide signs to the train station, as it is in essence the town center. Even on the main highway, the sign for the turn off to a town is generally followed by "Sta." for "Station."
Later, George
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Sunday, October 8, 2006
Hirosaki, Japan
Friends: Two nights ago the 40-year old woman who ran the Rider House warned me that it wasn't likely I'd be able to take the ferry to Oma the next day, as the forecast was for continued stormy weather. Instead, if I wanted off Hokkaido, I'd have to go to Aomori, on a larger, more sea-worthy ferry. It was twice as expensive and took twice as long as going to Oma, but it would save me 75 miles of biking.
I was regularly woken all that night by a typhoon-seeming rain pelting the second floor room I and five young Japanese cyclists were sharing. But an hour or two before sunrise there was
quiet and the wind and rain had moderated. The skies were still heavily overcast, threatening to burst at any moment, but they only leaked an occasional drizzle the rest of the day.
The 1,500 yen price of the room included breakfast. There were seven of us sitting on the floor around a low table in the kitchen at 7:30 that morning. The other six were all young Japanese bicyclists, none of whom were eager to start biking. When I signed the register for the Rider House, I noticed not another westerner had been a guest in over three months. The person I talked to at the tourist office wasn't even aware of the Rider House, and had to go searching in the phone book to find it. Any traveler is welcome, though it is primarily used by bicyclists, many of whom hop from Rider House to Rider House. This particular House had been in operation for 33 years.
Breakfast consisted of two slices of toast, two grapes, a hunk of tofu, a choice of plum or raspberry jam and a choice of coffee or tea. A TV was on in the background. The lady of the house gasped at the news that the seas were so rough that even the Amori ferry had not been running for over 24 hours, a very rare occurrence. She called the ferry terminal to ask if they knew when the ferries would resume running again. They did not know.
I biked over anyway, five miles away. There were literally hundreds of 18-wheelers clogging the parking lot and backed up for a couple of miles. The terminal too was aswarm with people. I purchased a $25 ticket for the three-and-a-half hour trip to Aomori, though there was no
telling when it would leave. I was told to come back at eleven, when there might be news. I found a place to sit at the terminal and was able to finish "Unbeaten Tracks," a travel book by a British woman, Isabella Bird, who traveled Hokkadio and Honshu Island north of Tokyo in 1880 mostly by horse. She spent quite a bit of time with the Ainu, the indigenous people of Hakkaio who have been virtually wiped out. Only 25,000 remain. Although I stopped at an Ainu Village, a tourist attraction, it was early in the morning before it was open, so I didn't encounter any of the Anius staffing it, nor did I come across any in my time on Hokkaido. They are said to bear a resemblance to Mongolians.
I was joined by a 23-year Japanese man who was driving the circumference of Japan, sleeping in his car most nights. He said he was an enthusiast of American culture, and was quite pleased to learn that 7-Eleven was an American company. His English was very limited, but he was a godsend as he could translate the periodic announcements that were made. It would have been a lot more complicated for me to learn, when at 11:45, after three hours, it was announced that there was a ferry leaving for Aomori. I with my bike could board, but he would have to wait for at least
another couple of ferries before he could go with his car. He asked me the same question that I have been asked several times before--did I like sushi? He also asked me what countries I had visited, another question I have been asked by those who would like to but have not left Japan, not even for Korea, a short ferry trip away.
It took nearly two hours to load the ferry, delaying our arrival into Aomori until after dark.
I had no worries that I could find a place to camp, and I did within two miles of the terminal, behind a shed. I slept a bit on the ferry, as did most of the passengers. Many came equipped with blankets, either to lay on or under. There was limited seating. Most of the areas for the passengers were large carpeted rooms without any seating. A teen-aged girl plopped down next to me and immediately started doing stretching exercises, starting with doing the splits and then wrapping one leg, then the other behind her head. There was a TV at either end of our area. One was showing a car race and the other a soccer match. At half-time of the soccer game there was a brief news cast. The woman news reader concluded it with a bow of her head to her desk. The nearly six hours I spent on the ferry allowed my sleeping pad and a few of my clothes to dry.
I awoke to clear skies this morning and a strong westerly breeze. I'm sticking inland for about 80 miles, where I'm somewhat protected from the winds. It was 25 miles to Hirosaki, where I was able to do a little site-seeing, visiting a five-storied pagoda and a castle from the 1600s. Hokkaido has virtually none of such things. The castle was very modest by European standards--a wooden structure that was simply one large room stacked three high. It was surrounded my three moats and vast gardens that included many cherry trees. It is a popular spot in the spring for those on the cherry blossom circuit. A towering volcano in the distance, doffed in clouds, made the setting all the more picturesque.
Later, George
I was regularly woken all that night by a typhoon-seeming rain pelting the second floor room I and five young Japanese cyclists were sharing. But an hour or two before sunrise there was
quiet and the wind and rain had moderated. The skies were still heavily overcast, threatening to burst at any moment, but they only leaked an occasional drizzle the rest of the day.
The 1,500 yen price of the room included breakfast. There were seven of us sitting on the floor around a low table in the kitchen at 7:30 that morning. The other six were all young Japanese bicyclists, none of whom were eager to start biking. When I signed the register for the Rider House, I noticed not another westerner had been a guest in over three months. The person I talked to at the tourist office wasn't even aware of the Rider House, and had to go searching in the phone book to find it. Any traveler is welcome, though it is primarily used by bicyclists, many of whom hop from Rider House to Rider House. This particular House had been in operation for 33 years.
Breakfast consisted of two slices of toast, two grapes, a hunk of tofu, a choice of plum or raspberry jam and a choice of coffee or tea. A TV was on in the background. The lady of the house gasped at the news that the seas were so rough that even the Amori ferry had not been running for over 24 hours, a very rare occurrence. She called the ferry terminal to ask if they knew when the ferries would resume running again. They did not know.
I biked over anyway, five miles away. There were literally hundreds of 18-wheelers clogging the parking lot and backed up for a couple of miles. The terminal too was aswarm with people. I purchased a $25 ticket for the three-and-a-half hour trip to Aomori, though there was no
telling when it would leave. I was told to come back at eleven, when there might be news. I found a place to sit at the terminal and was able to finish "Unbeaten Tracks," a travel book by a British woman, Isabella Bird, who traveled Hokkadio and Honshu Island north of Tokyo in 1880 mostly by horse. She spent quite a bit of time with the Ainu, the indigenous people of Hakkaio who have been virtually wiped out. Only 25,000 remain. Although I stopped at an Ainu Village, a tourist attraction, it was early in the morning before it was open, so I didn't encounter any of the Anius staffing it, nor did I come across any in my time on Hokkaido. They are said to bear a resemblance to Mongolians.
I was joined by a 23-year Japanese man who was driving the circumference of Japan, sleeping in his car most nights. He said he was an enthusiast of American culture, and was quite pleased to learn that 7-Eleven was an American company. His English was very limited, but he was a godsend as he could translate the periodic announcements that were made. It would have been a lot more complicated for me to learn, when at 11:45, after three hours, it was announced that there was a ferry leaving for Aomori. I with my bike could board, but he would have to wait for at least
another couple of ferries before he could go with his car. He asked me the same question that I have been asked several times before--did I like sushi? He also asked me what countries I had visited, another question I have been asked by those who would like to but have not left Japan, not even for Korea, a short ferry trip away.
It took nearly two hours to load the ferry, delaying our arrival into Aomori until after dark.
I had no worries that I could find a place to camp, and I did within two miles of the terminal, behind a shed. I slept a bit on the ferry, as did most of the passengers. Many came equipped with blankets, either to lay on or under. There was limited seating. Most of the areas for the passengers were large carpeted rooms without any seating. A teen-aged girl plopped down next to me and immediately started doing stretching exercises, starting with doing the splits and then wrapping one leg, then the other behind her head. There was a TV at either end of our area. One was showing a car race and the other a soccer match. At half-time of the soccer game there was a brief news cast. The woman news reader concluded it with a bow of her head to her desk. The nearly six hours I spent on the ferry allowed my sleeping pad and a few of my clothes to dry.
I awoke to clear skies this morning and a strong westerly breeze. I'm sticking inland for about 80 miles, where I'm somewhat protected from the winds. It was 25 miles to Hirosaki, where I was able to do a little site-seeing, visiting a five-storied pagoda and a castle from the 1600s. Hokkaido has virtually none of such things. The castle was very modest by European standards--a wooden structure that was simply one large room stacked three high. It was surrounded my three moats and vast gardens that included many cherry trees. It is a popular spot in the spring for those on the cherry blossom circuit. A towering volcano in the distance, doffed in clouds, made the setting all the more picturesque.
Later, George
Saturday, October 7, 2006
Hakodate Redux
Friends: Neither rain, a blustery northern wind nor 48-degree temperatures stopped today's kiernan track bike racing here in Hakodate, the primary ferry port for Hokkaido that I arrived at nearly two weeks ago. Nor did the increasingly surly weather deter me from finishing off the final 56 miles of my race to arrive in time for the day's first of twelve races scheduled to start at 3:19 this afternoon.
I pulled into town over three hours early, as it was too cold to stop riding except for a couple of brief quick bites while standing in the corner of yet another convenience store that regularly dot the roads of Japan. They all have such an array of "Ready to eat" food that restaurants are a rarity along the highway.
My early arrival gave me time to search out the local dorm-style Rider House that caters to cyclists, my first such indulgence. It also gave me time to find a bike shop, as all the rain has partially seized-up my rear derailleur shifter, reducing me to just three options on my cassette. They are mid-range, so combined with my three rings up front I have nine gears to choose from, which have been just enough to get by with so far. If I were truly desperate, I'd perform the operation my self. I've taken a stab at it, but without success. I fear if I go too far, I may lose what range I do have.
Two young Japanese cyclists staying at the Rider House accompanied me in my search for a bike store. I thought I had found just the master I was looking for--a scrawny 70-year old guy with black stubs for teeth working out of his garage. But he had never seen bar-end shifters before, and unlike a third-world mechanic who will dive into anything, he was not willing to give it a try. No loss. If I can't find someone with the expertise to handle it, I'll happily save it for Joe when I get back to Chicago, so he can explain it all, enabling be to know how to deal with such a problem in the future.
Neither of the young cyclists were interested in biking two miles in the rain to the kiernan track. They were going to go to an arcade and play video games all day. Neither spoke much more English than I speak Japanese, though one had a palm-sized computer that he used to look up English words. We all went to a hamburger restaurant for lunch. The bulk of our conversation centered around the sports section of the local paper, as it was largely devoted to the baseball play-offs back in the U.S. It was no challenge finding the kiernan stadium, as it was just off a highway that ran along the coast. I could see its already-lit towering light posts from a couple blocks away. There were attendants directing traffic into the parking lot.
The racing isn't particularly for biking enthusiasts, but rather for those who like to gamble. Entry was cheap, a mere 100 yen, dropped into a turnstile. The seating is virtually entirely indoors in the vast, multi-storied, enclosed clubhouse facing the quarter-mile outdoor track. There are dozens of betting windows and television screens displaying the racers and the odds. A race went off every thirty minutes for six hours. They consisted of four paced laps around a steeply-banked quarter-mile track and then a one-lap sprint. It was about thirty seconds per lap, so two-and-a-half minutes per race.
There were nine racers in each race wearing brightly-colored jerseys and helmets. They lined up across the track with their rear wheels in a color-coded starting gate with the same nine colors in the same order for each race--white, black, red, blue, yellow, green, orange, pink and purple. An identical protocol and pageantry preceded each race. Nine officials came on to the course before the riders and pedaled off on upright bikes that awaited them at the finish line to various stations on the track, including towers at all four corners, to monitor the action. A woman brandished a yellow flag and a starting gun with great flair, and someone else rang a large bell for the final lap.
The riders entered the course from a building opposite the seating area through a door labeled "Fighting Gate" accompanied by magisterial music. They each bowed before they mounted their bikes and rode through the center of the track to the starting gate. Then they bowed again before remounting their bike after it had been placed in the gate. The track, as well as the clubhouse, was a thoroughly modern facility with a high-quality surface, as there wasn't a single accident despite the non-stop rain.
There were no cheers or visible emotion from the 99% male crowd. If the weather had been nice I could have sat outside on one of the few benches that were along the walls. The outdoor seating was minimal, as it would take the spectators away from the betting windows and concessions. I did dare the rain and stood at track side for a close-up view of the action for a couple of the
races. The only other people who ventured outside were those who wished to smoke, though they stayed under cover. There was a large playground area for kids, but that too was outdoors and didn't interest anyone on this miserable day.
This is day 23 of my 45 days in Japan. Although it seems as if it has rained nearly every day, it has only been about every third day. When it does rain, it seems like its never going to stop. But oh how glorious it is when it doesn't. I've only had one case of two days in a row of rain that prevented me from drying out my gear and forcing me to erect a wet tent and put on soggy shoes on successive days. Today's rain was the coldest and worst yet. I'm glad to be heading south.
I'd be in big trouble if I hadn't invested in an extravagantly priced, top-of-the-line, Gore Tex jacket before I left. I bought it more for next year's Tour de France, which starts in England, as I plan on doing my training in Ireland and Scotland and Wales for a couple of weeks before The Race. I know how wet and chilly it will be there. But it can't be worse than northern Japan in the fall.
The Arcteryx jacket has passed all tests, keeping my head and torso incredibly dry even in day-long rains. It has nearly paid for itself already in hotels that I didn't have to stay at and extra miles I have been able to ride. I never would have spent so much on such a jacket if my friend Tomas hadn't been able to acquire it at half-price for me through his connections. I am as grateful for that as his recommendation years ago of converting to a 48-spoke hub on my rear wheel to alleviate breaking spokes.
Tomorrow I leave Hokkaido by the same ferry I arrived on, mission-accomplished, cycling over 1,200 miles on this island. I biked some 550 miles up along the east coast of Honshu Island from Tokyo's airport to get here. I will return via its west coast, trying not to be in any hurry after my big-push this past week (650 miles in seven days) to make it in time for the kiernan racing. Whatever else I see and do will be a bonus.
Now its back to the Riding House and the next door sento (bath house), as the hostel does not have a shower. The sento did not open until two, otherwise I would have taken advantage of it earlier. It will be just the second time I've had an official shower on this journey. Tonight I'll be sleeping on a futon in the Rider House. There are three or four side-by-side on the floor in three unheated rooms. This will be a truly communal sleeping experience. I'm already missing my tent.
Later, George
I pulled into town over three hours early, as it was too cold to stop riding except for a couple of brief quick bites while standing in the corner of yet another convenience store that regularly dot the roads of Japan. They all have such an array of "Ready to eat" food that restaurants are a rarity along the highway.
My early arrival gave me time to search out the local dorm-style Rider House that caters to cyclists, my first such indulgence. It also gave me time to find a bike shop, as all the rain has partially seized-up my rear derailleur shifter, reducing me to just three options on my cassette. They are mid-range, so combined with my three rings up front I have nine gears to choose from, which have been just enough to get by with so far. If I were truly desperate, I'd perform the operation my self. I've taken a stab at it, but without success. I fear if I go too far, I may lose what range I do have.
Two young Japanese cyclists staying at the Rider House accompanied me in my search for a bike store. I thought I had found just the master I was looking for--a scrawny 70-year old guy with black stubs for teeth working out of his garage. But he had never seen bar-end shifters before, and unlike a third-world mechanic who will dive into anything, he was not willing to give it a try. No loss. If I can't find someone with the expertise to handle it, I'll happily save it for Joe when I get back to Chicago, so he can explain it all, enabling be to know how to deal with such a problem in the future.
Neither of the young cyclists were interested in biking two miles in the rain to the kiernan track. They were going to go to an arcade and play video games all day. Neither spoke much more English than I speak Japanese, though one had a palm-sized computer that he used to look up English words. We all went to a hamburger restaurant for lunch. The bulk of our conversation centered around the sports section of the local paper, as it was largely devoted to the baseball play-offs back in the U.S. It was no challenge finding the kiernan stadium, as it was just off a highway that ran along the coast. I could see its already-lit towering light posts from a couple blocks away. There were attendants directing traffic into the parking lot.
The racing isn't particularly for biking enthusiasts, but rather for those who like to gamble. Entry was cheap, a mere 100 yen, dropped into a turnstile. The seating is virtually entirely indoors in the vast, multi-storied, enclosed clubhouse facing the quarter-mile outdoor track. There are dozens of betting windows and television screens displaying the racers and the odds. A race went off every thirty minutes for six hours. They consisted of four paced laps around a steeply-banked quarter-mile track and then a one-lap sprint. It was about thirty seconds per lap, so two-and-a-half minutes per race.
There were nine racers in each race wearing brightly-colored jerseys and helmets. They lined up across the track with their rear wheels in a color-coded starting gate with the same nine colors in the same order for each race--white, black, red, blue, yellow, green, orange, pink and purple. An identical protocol and pageantry preceded each race. Nine officials came on to the course before the riders and pedaled off on upright bikes that awaited them at the finish line to various stations on the track, including towers at all four corners, to monitor the action. A woman brandished a yellow flag and a starting gun with great flair, and someone else rang a large bell for the final lap.
The riders entered the course from a building opposite the seating area through a door labeled "Fighting Gate" accompanied by magisterial music. They each bowed before they mounted their bikes and rode through the center of the track to the starting gate. Then they bowed again before remounting their bike after it had been placed in the gate. The track, as well as the clubhouse, was a thoroughly modern facility with a high-quality surface, as there wasn't a single accident despite the non-stop rain.
There were no cheers or visible emotion from the 99% male crowd. If the weather had been nice I could have sat outside on one of the few benches that were along the walls. The outdoor seating was minimal, as it would take the spectators away from the betting windows and concessions. I did dare the rain and stood at track side for a close-up view of the action for a couple of the
races. The only other people who ventured outside were those who wished to smoke, though they stayed under cover. There was a large playground area for kids, but that too was outdoors and didn't interest anyone on this miserable day.
This is day 23 of my 45 days in Japan. Although it seems as if it has rained nearly every day, it has only been about every third day. When it does rain, it seems like its never going to stop. But oh how glorious it is when it doesn't. I've only had one case of two days in a row of rain that prevented me from drying out my gear and forcing me to erect a wet tent and put on soggy shoes on successive days. Today's rain was the coldest and worst yet. I'm glad to be heading south.
I'd be in big trouble if I hadn't invested in an extravagantly priced, top-of-the-line, Gore Tex jacket before I left. I bought it more for next year's Tour de France, which starts in England, as I plan on doing my training in Ireland and Scotland and Wales for a couple of weeks before The Race. I know how wet and chilly it will be there. But it can't be worse than northern Japan in the fall.
The Arcteryx jacket has passed all tests, keeping my head and torso incredibly dry even in day-long rains. It has nearly paid for itself already in hotels that I didn't have to stay at and extra miles I have been able to ride. I never would have spent so much on such a jacket if my friend Tomas hadn't been able to acquire it at half-price for me through his connections. I am as grateful for that as his recommendation years ago of converting to a 48-spoke hub on my rear wheel to alleviate breaking spokes.
Tomorrow I leave Hokkaido by the same ferry I arrived on, mission-accomplished, cycling over 1,200 miles on this island. I biked some 550 miles up along the east coast of Honshu Island from Tokyo's airport to get here. I will return via its west coast, trying not to be in any hurry after my big-push this past week (650 miles in seven days) to make it in time for the kiernan racing. Whatever else I see and do will be a bonus.
Now its back to the Riding House and the next door sento (bath house), as the hostel does not have a shower. The sento did not open until two, otherwise I would have taken advantage of it earlier. It will be just the second time I've had an official shower on this journey. Tonight I'll be sleeping on a futon in the Rider House. There are three or four side-by-side on the floor in three unheated rooms. This will be a truly communal sleeping experience. I'm already missing my tent.
Later, George
Wednesday, October 4, 2006
Obihiro, Japan
Friends: On day 17 after 1,200 miles of pedaling, for the first time in these travels a non-cyclist approached me and spoke. It was at a spectacular overlook in Daisetsuzan National Park, Japan's largest and in the heart of Hokkaido, not too far from the town of Furano, which declares itself the center of the island. It has an annual Navel, as in belly-button, Festival, trying to attract tourists.
The vantage from this overlook was across a vast valley framed by half a dozen volcanoes, some swallowed up by clouds. I had just completed a gradual 25-mile climb climaxed by five fairly steep miles with the actual summit lopped off by a half-mile tunnel. There were a handful of tour buses stopped. As usual, I was the lone Westerner.
An older gentleman asked in decent English where I was from and where I had bicycled from. Then he said, "You are great," bowed and returned to his bus, where his guide stood at the bus door bowing to everyone as they mounted the steps.
It is a most honorable deed to bicycle about Japan, even more honorable than climbing Mount Fuji, something every Japanese is expected to do once in their lifetime, but only once. There is a Japanese saying, "A wise man climbs Mount Fuji once. A fool climbs it twice." I sometimes wonder if that applies to a long bike tour.
I continue to see an occasional young Japanese male on a bicycle pilgrimage, not all of whom are well out-fitted for their travels. Some are without panniers, burdened by a huge backpack or a mere sack with all their gear lashed to their rack. I attract little reaction except from the motorcyclists, who frequently give me a thumbs up. The Japanese are very shy. I encountered a motorcyclist at a rest area early one morning who was just breaking down his tent. He silently walked past me to the toilet as I washed my socks at the outdoor faucet. Twenty minutes later when he passed me on the road he gave me a thumbs up.
I rarely turn heads from those in cars, as I am accustomed to elsewhere. It is no doubt further evidence of their extraordinary reserve and politeness. It is a marked contrast to the hearty greeting I receive whenever I enter a small grocery store by the young women working at them, but that is part of their job. The occasional older male owners are not so responsive. I always enjoy stopping at a convenience store near a gas station so I can watch the attendants sprint out to the cars when they pull up. They are truly service stations. They are staffed equally by young women as young men.
Umbrellas are one of the rare outlets the Japanese have to assert their individuality. Rather than the standard black, the umbrellas come in a wide range of colors. I was joined by tour bus loads of Japanese and their colorful umbrellas at various overlooks in Akan National Park, famed for its pair of lakes, considered the most beautiful in Japan. I was not appreciating the five-and-a-half mile climb to Lake Mashu at all. It wasn't particularly demanding, but it had me sweating, something I did not want to be doing in the cold. Even worse, I was not looking forward to a steep descent on wet roads. I was surprised the climb went on as long as it did. I wasn't expecting more than a two-and-a-half mile climb at most, as I knew the distance from the summit to the southern point of the lake was just a couple of miles. But what I didn't know is that the road did not end at the level of the lake but climbed well above it. It would have made for a nice view if it hadn't been so cloudy and rainy.
I passed by Lake Kussharo before the climb to Lake Mashu. Its sands are warmed by some thermal springs, but the rain prevented me from putting more than my hand upon them. Halfway between the two lakes is the hometown of a champion sumo wrestler and a small museum in his honor. I was there at eight a.m., well before its opening, but it was unlocked and the door ajar. The lights weren't on, but there was just enough light to take a leisurely stroll past all its trophies and photos.
I am pushing it to make it back to Hakodate in time for its final kiernan bike race of the year Oct. 7. I have biked at least ninety miles each of the past five days, including my first century of this trip. I squandered forty-five minutes trying to find this Internet outlet. It is nice to have my own personal race every once in a while in the middle of a tour. It will be close, as I have at least another 250 miles to go and only twelve hours of light a day. But those flashing red arrows over the road may be my salvation. I took advantage of them last night for several extra miles. I was surprised to discover they are synchronized, all flashing at the same time as far as my eye could see, a most eerie sight.
Later, George
The vantage from this overlook was across a vast valley framed by half a dozen volcanoes, some swallowed up by clouds. I had just completed a gradual 25-mile climb climaxed by five fairly steep miles with the actual summit lopped off by a half-mile tunnel. There were a handful of tour buses stopped. As usual, I was the lone Westerner.
An older gentleman asked in decent English where I was from and where I had bicycled from. Then he said, "You are great," bowed and returned to his bus, where his guide stood at the bus door bowing to everyone as they mounted the steps.
It is a most honorable deed to bicycle about Japan, even more honorable than climbing Mount Fuji, something every Japanese is expected to do once in their lifetime, but only once. There is a Japanese saying, "A wise man climbs Mount Fuji once. A fool climbs it twice." I sometimes wonder if that applies to a long bike tour.
I continue to see an occasional young Japanese male on a bicycle pilgrimage, not all of whom are well out-fitted for their travels. Some are without panniers, burdened by a huge backpack or a mere sack with all their gear lashed to their rack. I attract little reaction except from the motorcyclists, who frequently give me a thumbs up. The Japanese are very shy. I encountered a motorcyclist at a rest area early one morning who was just breaking down his tent. He silently walked past me to the toilet as I washed my socks at the outdoor faucet. Twenty minutes later when he passed me on the road he gave me a thumbs up.
I rarely turn heads from those in cars, as I am accustomed to elsewhere. It is no doubt further evidence of their extraordinary reserve and politeness. It is a marked contrast to the hearty greeting I receive whenever I enter a small grocery store by the young women working at them, but that is part of their job. The occasional older male owners are not so responsive. I always enjoy stopping at a convenience store near a gas station so I can watch the attendants sprint out to the cars when they pull up. They are truly service stations. They are staffed equally by young women as young men.
Umbrellas are one of the rare outlets the Japanese have to assert their individuality. Rather than the standard black, the umbrellas come in a wide range of colors. I was joined by tour bus loads of Japanese and their colorful umbrellas at various overlooks in Akan National Park, famed for its pair of lakes, considered the most beautiful in Japan. I was not appreciating the five-and-a-half mile climb to Lake Mashu at all. It wasn't particularly demanding, but it had me sweating, something I did not want to be doing in the cold. Even worse, I was not looking forward to a steep descent on wet roads. I was surprised the climb went on as long as it did. I wasn't expecting more than a two-and-a-half mile climb at most, as I knew the distance from the summit to the southern point of the lake was just a couple of miles. But what I didn't know is that the road did not end at the level of the lake but climbed well above it. It would have made for a nice view if it hadn't been so cloudy and rainy.
I passed by Lake Kussharo before the climb to Lake Mashu. Its sands are warmed by some thermal springs, but the rain prevented me from putting more than my hand upon them. Halfway between the two lakes is the hometown of a champion sumo wrestler and a small museum in his honor. I was there at eight a.m., well before its opening, but it was unlocked and the door ajar. The lights weren't on, but there was just enough light to take a leisurely stroll past all its trophies and photos.
I am pushing it to make it back to Hakodate in time for its final kiernan bike race of the year Oct. 7. I have biked at least ninety miles each of the past five days, including my first century of this trip. I squandered forty-five minutes trying to find this Internet outlet. It is nice to have my own personal race every once in a while in the middle of a tour. It will be close, as I have at least another 250 miles to go and only twelve hours of light a day. But those flashing red arrows over the road may be my salvation. I took advantage of them last night for several extra miles. I was surprised to discover they are synchronized, all flashing at the same time as far as my eye could see, a most eerie sight.
Later, George
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Wannakai, Japan
Friends: Rain and a thick, low cloud cover yesterday darkened the skies enough that the red arrows with the night-time blinking lights that overhang the highway every ninety yards (twenty to the mile) pointing down at the road shoulder to keep motorists alert and on the road were triggered, brightening the miserable, gloomy conditions. They were an exotic sight, a traffic safety measure unlike any I've ever seen, giving me some cheer as I headed north into even more sultry weather.
Those arrows are just one of the many unique features of Japan that make me fonder and fonder of traveling here. They are one of many devices that make driving here probably safer than anywhere. There are also blinking lights on guard rails on sharp turns to keep drivers attentive. On descents when the road curves the pavement is a different color to warn motorists to control their speed. The speed limit on the non-interstates is pretty much thirty miles per hour. The obedient, law-abiding Japanese rarely exceed it, even by one mile per hour. With the restricted speed no one seems to be in any rush to get around a bicyclist, if there is approaching traffic. They'll slow and wait for it to pass and then pass me.
There is hardly a need for police. I go days without seeing a police car, though the small community police stations are a common site. I have seen one motorist pulled over, someone who had just passed me at a seemingly normal speed. The officer didn't bother with his siren, just ordering the motorist over with his loud-speaker. By the time I had caught up to the pair of them, the motorist, a respectable-looking young man, was out of his car bowing profusely. Its the only time I haven't seen a bow responded to with a bow. Bowing is most certainly the custom. I am bowed to whenever I enter a store. I am bowed to by the flagman at the many road construction sites along the road. It feels totally natural to give a bow, or nod back.
I am presently thirty miles from Cape Soya, Land's End. Less than forty miles away lays the Russian island Sakhalin, an island that the Japanese do not contest. The Russian-held islands that the Japanese do want back are off to the east of Hokkaido. The signs in Wannakai, the largest city of the north, are now in Russian along with Japanese. There are two islands that are part of a national park two hours away by ferry from here. One island is comprised solely of a 5,000 foot high volcano with a 35-mile road around it. I had considered making a circuit of it, but with the weather not entirely hospitable and $60 for the ferry round trip, I am going to skip it. I have many volcanoes ahead in two other national parks that I can ride around, and I am eager to start heading south. I am hoping to have enough time to bike beyond Tokyo to Mount Fuji, 85 miles further--more reason not to indulge in any unnecessary side trips.
If I were in no rush, I would have lingered in my tent yesterday morning as the wind and rain buffeted it, as my Dutch traveling companion chose to do. I had met Eelco the day before and we had a delightful sixty miles together, riding shoulder-to-shoulder, gabbing non-stop. He had been on the road for fourteen months and had just passed the 10,000 mile mark of his trip, an average of 700 miles a month, a fairly modest amount. He was taking two years to make a circuit of the world before beginning his work as an intern, having completed medical school just before his departure. One reason he was reluctant to leave his tent is that I had given him the September issue of the English publication, "Cycle Sport," a fat 168-page issue entirely devoted to this year's Tour de France. Floyd was on the cover with the word "Guilty" and a "?" after it.
Eelco is a devoted cycling fan. I couldn't have given him a greater gift. He had been in China during The Tour and was able to only minimally follow it. The year before he was busily studying for finals during The Tour. He allowed himself a study break at 4:30 every afternoon to watch the final half hour of each day's stage. He has a friend who races professionally just below its highest level. He competed in this year's Tour of California, a one-week stage race down the coast of California won by Landis. Eelco said that whenever he asks him about the prevalence of drugs in the peloton he changes the subject. Eelco grew up with the sport and knows it intimately. He has been touring since he was fifteen, when he and his parents and his younger brother spent six weeks bicycling Indonesia, his father's dream trip. They biked Norway the following year, fully infecting Eelco with the desire to bicycle tour. He's gone off on a ride on his own every year since.
Eleco expanded my diet by two items--a rice flour cake with sweet beans and a fish wiener wrapped in cellophane that doesn't need refrigeration. I introduced him to poly corn, a sugar smacks cereal type of snack. I also alerted him to the wide disparity in caloric content in the noodles. He hadn't looked closely enough at all the Japanese mumbo-jumbo to notice that there is a caloric number to be found on it.
Among the many lessons Eelco has learned is never to camp in a dry riverbed. He made that mistake in China and it nearly cost him his life. A sudden night-time downpour sent a wave of water down the riverbed, sweeping his bike and tent and much of his gear away with it. He didn't find his bike until the next day with the help of others, buried in a pile of debris. He had it entirely overhauled, every bearing regreased at a cost of two dollars. He can give a testimonial to Ortlieb, as his panniers survived the submerging and the dry clothes helped to save his life. We could have easily biked together for a week and not exhausted all the bicycle experiences we could have shared, but we caught each other at a time when he was glad to have a rest day and I was intent on riding. If it hadn't been raining though, we no doubt would have been off together and probably continued on for a few days.
Later, George
Those arrows are just one of the many unique features of Japan that make me fonder and fonder of traveling here. They are one of many devices that make driving here probably safer than anywhere. There are also blinking lights on guard rails on sharp turns to keep drivers attentive. On descents when the road curves the pavement is a different color to warn motorists to control their speed. The speed limit on the non-interstates is pretty much thirty miles per hour. The obedient, law-abiding Japanese rarely exceed it, even by one mile per hour. With the restricted speed no one seems to be in any rush to get around a bicyclist, if there is approaching traffic. They'll slow and wait for it to pass and then pass me.
There is hardly a need for police. I go days without seeing a police car, though the small community police stations are a common site. I have seen one motorist pulled over, someone who had just passed me at a seemingly normal speed. The officer didn't bother with his siren, just ordering the motorist over with his loud-speaker. By the time I had caught up to the pair of them, the motorist, a respectable-looking young man, was out of his car bowing profusely. Its the only time I haven't seen a bow responded to with a bow. Bowing is most certainly the custom. I am bowed to whenever I enter a store. I am bowed to by the flagman at the many road construction sites along the road. It feels totally natural to give a bow, or nod back.
I am presently thirty miles from Cape Soya, Land's End. Less than forty miles away lays the Russian island Sakhalin, an island that the Japanese do not contest. The Russian-held islands that the Japanese do want back are off to the east of Hokkaido. The signs in Wannakai, the largest city of the north, are now in Russian along with Japanese. There are two islands that are part of a national park two hours away by ferry from here. One island is comprised solely of a 5,000 foot high volcano with a 35-mile road around it. I had considered making a circuit of it, but with the weather not entirely hospitable and $60 for the ferry round trip, I am going to skip it. I have many volcanoes ahead in two other national parks that I can ride around, and I am eager to start heading south. I am hoping to have enough time to bike beyond Tokyo to Mount Fuji, 85 miles further--more reason not to indulge in any unnecessary side trips.
If I were in no rush, I would have lingered in my tent yesterday morning as the wind and rain buffeted it, as my Dutch traveling companion chose to do. I had met Eelco the day before and we had a delightful sixty miles together, riding shoulder-to-shoulder, gabbing non-stop. He had been on the road for fourteen months and had just passed the 10,000 mile mark of his trip, an average of 700 miles a month, a fairly modest amount. He was taking two years to make a circuit of the world before beginning his work as an intern, having completed medical school just before his departure. One reason he was reluctant to leave his tent is that I had given him the September issue of the English publication, "Cycle Sport," a fat 168-page issue entirely devoted to this year's Tour de France. Floyd was on the cover with the word "Guilty" and a "?" after it.
Eelco is a devoted cycling fan. I couldn't have given him a greater gift. He had been in China during The Tour and was able to only minimally follow it. The year before he was busily studying for finals during The Tour. He allowed himself a study break at 4:30 every afternoon to watch the final half hour of each day's stage. He has a friend who races professionally just below its highest level. He competed in this year's Tour of California, a one-week stage race down the coast of California won by Landis. Eelco said that whenever he asks him about the prevalence of drugs in the peloton he changes the subject. Eelco grew up with the sport and knows it intimately. He has been touring since he was fifteen, when he and his parents and his younger brother spent six weeks bicycling Indonesia, his father's dream trip. They biked Norway the following year, fully infecting Eelco with the desire to bicycle tour. He's gone off on a ride on his own every year since.
Eleco expanded my diet by two items--a rice flour cake with sweet beans and a fish wiener wrapped in cellophane that doesn't need refrigeration. I introduced him to poly corn, a sugar smacks cereal type of snack. I also alerted him to the wide disparity in caloric content in the noodles. He hadn't looked closely enough at all the Japanese mumbo-jumbo to notice that there is a caloric number to be found on it.
Among the many lessons Eelco has learned is never to camp in a dry riverbed. He made that mistake in China and it nearly cost him his life. A sudden night-time downpour sent a wave of water down the riverbed, sweeping his bike and tent and much of his gear away with it. He didn't find his bike until the next day with the help of others, buried in a pile of debris. He had it entirely overhauled, every bearing regreased at a cost of two dollars. He can give a testimonial to Ortlieb, as his panniers survived the submerging and the dry clothes helped to save his life. We could have easily biked together for a week and not exhausted all the bicycle experiences we could have shared, but we caught each other at a time when he was glad to have a rest day and I was intent on riding. If it hadn't been raining though, we no doubt would have been off together and probably continued on for a few days.
Later, George
Monday, September 25, 2006
Sapporo, Japan
Friends: I nearly stayed at a genuine campground last night. The Lake Shikotsu Visitor Center pamphlet mentioned a campground five miles up the road on the lake. I hardly needed a designated campground, as there were all sorts of possibilities for wild-camping in the thickly forested national park. But it was late in the afternoon and I hadn't had a shower in the two weeks I've been here, just bathing in streams and under faucets.
I have yet to take advantage of a bathhouse. I am told they are everywhere but I have yet to learn how to detect them. Once I discover that secret, I'm sure I'll see them all the time and could have a hard time resisting them, or so I'm told by others who have traveled here and rave at how wonderful they are. Since they are a luxury that I am not desperate for, I have not made the effort to search one out, content to wait for that time when I discover one on my own.
Another reason I considered communal camping was I am in bear country. It is pre-hibernation time and the bears are actively foraging. Who knows what they might find appealing about me or my pantry. I've had bear encounters before and they certainly do leave an impression. When I was biking up the Alaskan Highway in 1981, a bear came browsing around my wild camp site one morning. That was a somewhat harrowing experience. For the rest of my time in Alaska I tried to camp with others about me.
I haven't had such an encounter here yet, so I don't know the manners of Japanese bears and how curious they might be. When I came to the turn to the campground it was down a steep hill and another couple of miles away, more effort than I cared to expend on something I didn't really need. I was perfectly content to continue climbing away from the lake, past one of the three prominent volcanoes that surrounded it, hoping I could make it beyond bear country before dark. It was only 25 miles to Sapporo, Japan's fifth largest city with 1.8 million inhabitants. The way cities sprawl here, I could be within its city limits and beyond bear habitat before I knew it.
The climb continued for another five miles, the longest and highest I've encountered here. Dusk was fast settling in. I could camp anywhere, but I needed to start descending to warmer temperatures. The thermometer on my watch said it was 52 degrees, which is always exaggerated by my body warmth. Its been dipping into the 40s at night at sea level. I've been adding an extra layer of clothes before crawling into my sleeping bag to stay warm. It is rated to 40 degrees, but that was when it was new. It barely keeps me warm at 50 now.
I was glad to be getting this climb over with, but I needed it to end and to start descending. It is dark by six. As it neared six, it was at least not as dark as some of the tunnels I've passed through. I kept hoping for a tunnel here, indicating the end of the climb, as the Japanese love to lop off the last bit of a climb to a summit with a tunnel, just as the French have done on the famed Galibier climb in the Alps, sparing drivers and snow removal operators the final steep few hundred feet to the summit.
I finally reached this tunnel-less summit and was able to descend 1,000 feet before it was too dark to continue. I concluded my day at about 1,000 feet, the highest I'd camped on this trip. It left me just 15 miles from Sapporo, ten miles closer than if I had taken advantage of Poropinai campground, one of four on the lake and the cheapest, at just 300 Yen (about $2.75).
I have begun to discover some bargains, enabling me to keep my expenses under $12 a day. One of them is taking advantage of the 100 yen stores, the Japanese version of Dollar Stores. Hardly anything is 100 yen in them, but there are still bargains to be found, such as four alkaline batteries for 105 yen. The stores would better be known as 105 Yen stores, as that is the popular price of most items--the rice balls and dough balls and snack packs and chocolate milk that form the base of my diet along with cups of noodles.
There are dozens of varieties of the noodles, though they all taste pretty much the same. I prefer those that come in hard plastic bowls, rather than the Styrofoam cups. The Styrofoam is prone to puncture. I had one with a leak that was a semi-disaster in my tent one night. Perhaps my greatest discovery so far is that boiling water is not necessary to make the noodles edible. Cold water takes a little longer to soften the noodles, but it does the trick.
Noodles have now become my usual dinner, supplemented with a can of mackerel or sardines. For 176 Yen I can get 760 calories out of one of the varieties of bowls. The Japanese are very caloric conscious. Even the dough balls that sit on shelves of warmers on the counter of all the convenience stores list the amount of calories in the different varieties. The best caloric value is one with 271 calories for 105 yen. It is not the best tasting of the lot, but taste doesn't much matter to me. Its interior is some gummy black substance that I would suspect was a sort of mole chocolate if I were in Mexico.
I would have added potatoes to my diet yesterday if I had brought along a stove, as the road side was littered with fist-sized spuds that had fallen off trucks. I have a Marine friend who eats them raw, but I'm not that hard core, or desperate. Whenever I buy a cup or bowl of noodles I am given chopsticks, something I decline. Sometimes I'm handed a plastic spoon, but I have my own. I thought I'd see chopsticks littered along the road, as 24 billion disposable chopsticks are distributed a year here. But the Japanese hardly litter.
The most common object for scavenging along the road has been light weight cotton gloves. I notice many people wearing them, even though its not so cold for me to beginning wearing mine. Pornography is quite prominent in the magazine racks at all the convenience stores, staring out the window at me when I lean my bike up against the store. There have been a few to be found along the road, but no neckerchiefs or shock cords, the other two items I can always count on finding when touring in the US.
It was a glorious downhill ride into Sapporo this morning past legions of briefcase-toting salarymen marching to work all wearing the same black suit. The other prominent uniform was worn by school girls, clones in matching short plaid skirts and knee socks. I was exalting as much as ever to be on my bike and not going to the confines of some office or school room for the day.
It is 200 miles up the coast to the northernmost point in Japan. If I wanted to get a visa and pay $200 I could take a ferry to Russia. Instead, I'll be trying to make it back to Hakodate by Oct. 7 for a kiernan bicycle race at the city's velodrome, an event that could be one of the highlights of these travels.
Later, George
I have yet to take advantage of a bathhouse. I am told they are everywhere but I have yet to learn how to detect them. Once I discover that secret, I'm sure I'll see them all the time and could have a hard time resisting them, or so I'm told by others who have traveled here and rave at how wonderful they are. Since they are a luxury that I am not desperate for, I have not made the effort to search one out, content to wait for that time when I discover one on my own.
Another reason I considered communal camping was I am in bear country. It is pre-hibernation time and the bears are actively foraging. Who knows what they might find appealing about me or my pantry. I've had bear encounters before and they certainly do leave an impression. When I was biking up the Alaskan Highway in 1981, a bear came browsing around my wild camp site one morning. That was a somewhat harrowing experience. For the rest of my time in Alaska I tried to camp with others about me.
I haven't had such an encounter here yet, so I don't know the manners of Japanese bears and how curious they might be. When I came to the turn to the campground it was down a steep hill and another couple of miles away, more effort than I cared to expend on something I didn't really need. I was perfectly content to continue climbing away from the lake, past one of the three prominent volcanoes that surrounded it, hoping I could make it beyond bear country before dark. It was only 25 miles to Sapporo, Japan's fifth largest city with 1.8 million inhabitants. The way cities sprawl here, I could be within its city limits and beyond bear habitat before I knew it.
The climb continued for another five miles, the longest and highest I've encountered here. Dusk was fast settling in. I could camp anywhere, but I needed to start descending to warmer temperatures. The thermometer on my watch said it was 52 degrees, which is always exaggerated by my body warmth. Its been dipping into the 40s at night at sea level. I've been adding an extra layer of clothes before crawling into my sleeping bag to stay warm. It is rated to 40 degrees, but that was when it was new. It barely keeps me warm at 50 now.
I was glad to be getting this climb over with, but I needed it to end and to start descending. It is dark by six. As it neared six, it was at least not as dark as some of the tunnels I've passed through. I kept hoping for a tunnel here, indicating the end of the climb, as the Japanese love to lop off the last bit of a climb to a summit with a tunnel, just as the French have done on the famed Galibier climb in the Alps, sparing drivers and snow removal operators the final steep few hundred feet to the summit.
I finally reached this tunnel-less summit and was able to descend 1,000 feet before it was too dark to continue. I concluded my day at about 1,000 feet, the highest I'd camped on this trip. It left me just 15 miles from Sapporo, ten miles closer than if I had taken advantage of Poropinai campground, one of four on the lake and the cheapest, at just 300 Yen (about $2.75).
I have begun to discover some bargains, enabling me to keep my expenses under $12 a day. One of them is taking advantage of the 100 yen stores, the Japanese version of Dollar Stores. Hardly anything is 100 yen in them, but there are still bargains to be found, such as four alkaline batteries for 105 yen. The stores would better be known as 105 Yen stores, as that is the popular price of most items--the rice balls and dough balls and snack packs and chocolate milk that form the base of my diet along with cups of noodles.
There are dozens of varieties of the noodles, though they all taste pretty much the same. I prefer those that come in hard plastic bowls, rather than the Styrofoam cups. The Styrofoam is prone to puncture. I had one with a leak that was a semi-disaster in my tent one night. Perhaps my greatest discovery so far is that boiling water is not necessary to make the noodles edible. Cold water takes a little longer to soften the noodles, but it does the trick.
Noodles have now become my usual dinner, supplemented with a can of mackerel or sardines. For 176 Yen I can get 760 calories out of one of the varieties of bowls. The Japanese are very caloric conscious. Even the dough balls that sit on shelves of warmers on the counter of all the convenience stores list the amount of calories in the different varieties. The best caloric value is one with 271 calories for 105 yen. It is not the best tasting of the lot, but taste doesn't much matter to me. Its interior is some gummy black substance that I would suspect was a sort of mole chocolate if I were in Mexico.
I would have added potatoes to my diet yesterday if I had brought along a stove, as the road side was littered with fist-sized spuds that had fallen off trucks. I have a Marine friend who eats them raw, but I'm not that hard core, or desperate. Whenever I buy a cup or bowl of noodles I am given chopsticks, something I decline. Sometimes I'm handed a plastic spoon, but I have my own. I thought I'd see chopsticks littered along the road, as 24 billion disposable chopsticks are distributed a year here. But the Japanese hardly litter.
The most common object for scavenging along the road has been light weight cotton gloves. I notice many people wearing them, even though its not so cold for me to beginning wearing mine. Pornography is quite prominent in the magazine racks at all the convenience stores, staring out the window at me when I lean my bike up against the store. There have been a few to be found along the road, but no neckerchiefs or shock cords, the other two items I can always count on finding when touring in the US.
It was a glorious downhill ride into Sapporo this morning past legions of briefcase-toting salarymen marching to work all wearing the same black suit. The other prominent uniform was worn by school girls, clones in matching short plaid skirts and knee socks. I was exalting as much as ever to be on my bike and not going to the confines of some office or school room for the day.
It is 200 miles up the coast to the northernmost point in Japan. If I wanted to get a visa and pay $200 I could take a ferry to Russia. Instead, I'll be trying to make it back to Hakodate by Oct. 7 for a kiernan bicycle race at the city's velodrome, an event that could be one of the highlights of these travels.
Later, George
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Hakodate, Japan
Friends: There were two other cyclists on the ferry over to Hokkaido today, the first I had seen heading north. I have seen five or six others, all 20-year old Japanese males, going the other direction to warmer temperatures. Only one paused to talk as I was sitting outside a convenience store eating a bowl of noodles. He was in the midst of a four-month circuit of Japan's coastline. The country is 2,000 miles from top to bottom, which means he`ll be doing 5,000 miles or so. His English didn't extend much beyond the word cold. I couldn't even get him to understand the word McDonald's until I pointed to the one across the street from us. "Ah, Mac-o-do-nal-do," he pronounced, "Yes, I like."
He was happy to be heading south, as the temperature had dropped considerably from near 80 to not even 70. Still, it was bright and sunny and he was wearing a sleeveless shirt. It was the first night I had to partially zip my sleeping bag with the temperature down into the 50s. That is still most endurable. I will continue another 400 miles north to the tip of Hokkaido before turning back. As long as the rains hold off, I won't mind the cool at all.
I met the two ferry-bound cyclists this morning while I was sitting outside the ferry terminal not having bought my ticket yet. When I showed up at the terminal at eight a.m., not knowing when the next ferry was due, no one was there. There had been a departure at 6:30 and the next was at 11:30. There wasn't a word of English at the terminal and I could barely decipher the running times. I went exploring around the small fishing village of Oma, just happy that there would be a ferry. The main ferry route to Hokkaido leaves from the large city of Aomori, about 75 miles away. It is a much longer and more expensive ferry trip. From Oma it was one hour and forty minutes. I feared that maybe this late in the season the Oma ferry might no longer be in operation. The seventy miles out to Oma on its own thumb of a peninsula yesterday were the best of my travels so far. The first 500 miles were through congested development and a steady flow of traffic. At last, I had the road pretty much to myself and unsettled lands to gaze upon.
About the only words of English on the ferry were "shoes off" outside the various lounges, most of which did not have chairs. Everyone just sprawled on the rugs and availed themselves of the rectangular vinyl pillows. In my lounge area on the second deck four eight-year olds gathered up all the extra pillows and made an obstacle course to hop around. When they tired of that after about twenty minutes they neatly stacked the pillows against a wall.
It was a challenge once again to find this Internet cafe. The last one I found three days ago was next door to a giant CD/DVD store. Since then whenever I have seen such a store I have stopped in to see if there was Internet nearby. No such luck. The young, non-English speaking manager of a CD/DVD store I tried here in Hakodate went to the phone book to find the lone Internet outlet listed in this city of 300,000. He then dug out a detailed city map to show me how to find it and even used his copy machine to duplicate it for me. When I have sought help, people have gone out of their way to be of assistance. But no one in the ten days I have been in Japan, other than the cyclist across from the McDonald's, has approached me, even though I sit outside small grocery stores eating my meals and snacks four or five times a day and plenty of people come and go, barely giving a glance to the Western barbarian on the bike.
I have benefited from small kindnesses here and there. A lady offered me a baseball cap when I sought shelter under the overhang of her garage to repair a flat tire in the rain. I had been wearing a helmet, but looked drenched. The officers who gave me directions to a bicycle shop gave me a cup of coffee with ice cubes in it. I don't care for coffee, but I politely gulped it down.
I have been experimenting with all sorts of food, from octopus tentacles to dough balls and rice balls containing who knows what and only once have my taste buds cringed other than at that cup of coffee. The other time was coffee-related as well. I thought I had bought a carton of chocolate milk, but it turned out to be coffee milk.
The 7-Elevens oddly enough don't carry chocolate milk. I have to go to one of their competitors, the Family Market convenience store chain to find it. There are six main chains of convenience stores and they all carry pretty much the same products and charge the same. Circle K s have started turning up. There are also Spars, which I know from France and Lawson Stations and Yamazaki. They all have amazingly clean bathrooms with extra amenities of a neat pyramid of toilet paper and artificial flowers.
There are six national parks here on Hakaido all with lakes and volcanos, some still active. I plan to spend a couple of weeks making a circuit of this island before heading back to Tokyo for my end of October flight home. Along the way I'll be able to gaze upon a couple of Russian-held islands that the Japanese want back. Japan is comprised of four main islands and another 3,900 smaller ones, which evidently isn't enough. Once again I'm told I can't send this because I have too many recipients. I'll try to take the time here to break my mailing list down to smaller units so you can all receive this.
Later, George
He was happy to be heading south, as the temperature had dropped considerably from near 80 to not even 70. Still, it was bright and sunny and he was wearing a sleeveless shirt. It was the first night I had to partially zip my sleeping bag with the temperature down into the 50s. That is still most endurable. I will continue another 400 miles north to the tip of Hokkaido before turning back. As long as the rains hold off, I won't mind the cool at all.
I met the two ferry-bound cyclists this morning while I was sitting outside the ferry terminal not having bought my ticket yet. When I showed up at the terminal at eight a.m., not knowing when the next ferry was due, no one was there. There had been a departure at 6:30 and the next was at 11:30. There wasn't a word of English at the terminal and I could barely decipher the running times. I went exploring around the small fishing village of Oma, just happy that there would be a ferry. The main ferry route to Hokkaido leaves from the large city of Aomori, about 75 miles away. It is a much longer and more expensive ferry trip. From Oma it was one hour and forty minutes. I feared that maybe this late in the season the Oma ferry might no longer be in operation. The seventy miles out to Oma on its own thumb of a peninsula yesterday were the best of my travels so far. The first 500 miles were through congested development and a steady flow of traffic. At last, I had the road pretty much to myself and unsettled lands to gaze upon.
About the only words of English on the ferry were "shoes off" outside the various lounges, most of which did not have chairs. Everyone just sprawled on the rugs and availed themselves of the rectangular vinyl pillows. In my lounge area on the second deck four eight-year olds gathered up all the extra pillows and made an obstacle course to hop around. When they tired of that after about twenty minutes they neatly stacked the pillows against a wall.
It was a challenge once again to find this Internet cafe. The last one I found three days ago was next door to a giant CD/DVD store. Since then whenever I have seen such a store I have stopped in to see if there was Internet nearby. No such luck. The young, non-English speaking manager of a CD/DVD store I tried here in Hakodate went to the phone book to find the lone Internet outlet listed in this city of 300,000. He then dug out a detailed city map to show me how to find it and even used his copy machine to duplicate it for me. When I have sought help, people have gone out of their way to be of assistance. But no one in the ten days I have been in Japan, other than the cyclist across from the McDonald's, has approached me, even though I sit outside small grocery stores eating my meals and snacks four or five times a day and plenty of people come and go, barely giving a glance to the Western barbarian on the bike.
I have benefited from small kindnesses here and there. A lady offered me a baseball cap when I sought shelter under the overhang of her garage to repair a flat tire in the rain. I had been wearing a helmet, but looked drenched. The officers who gave me directions to a bicycle shop gave me a cup of coffee with ice cubes in it. I don't care for coffee, but I politely gulped it down.
I have been experimenting with all sorts of food, from octopus tentacles to dough balls and rice balls containing who knows what and only once have my taste buds cringed other than at that cup of coffee. The other time was coffee-related as well. I thought I had bought a carton of chocolate milk, but it turned out to be coffee milk.
The 7-Elevens oddly enough don't carry chocolate milk. I have to go to one of their competitors, the Family Market convenience store chain to find it. There are six main chains of convenience stores and they all carry pretty much the same products and charge the same. Circle K s have started turning up. There are also Spars, which I know from France and Lawson Stations and Yamazaki. They all have amazingly clean bathrooms with extra amenities of a neat pyramid of toilet paper and artificial flowers.
There are six national parks here on Hakaido all with lakes and volcanos, some still active. I plan to spend a couple of weeks making a circuit of this island before heading back to Tokyo for my end of October flight home. Along the way I'll be able to gaze upon a couple of Russian-held islands that the Japanese want back. Japan is comprised of four main islands and another 3,900 smaller ones, which evidently isn't enough. Once again I'm told I can't send this because I have too many recipients. I'll try to take the time here to break my mailing list down to smaller units so you can all receive this.
Later, George
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