Friends: I did as many had before me and left a yen coin at the temple atop Ono-gam, a 600-foot high rock at the tip of Sado Island, and was immediately blessed. Ono-gam is one of the three largest rocks in Japan and it was a steep and somewhat treacherous hike to its summit. The Japanese like to group their exemplary sites and events and other items in sets of three. It allows them to spread the credit and not to give exception to one single item. Rather than identifying a rock as the largest in Japan, it is called one of the three largest. The same goes for other superlatives--the three biggest limestone caves, three most delicious types of chicken, top three festivals, most famous hot springs, waterfalls, spirit mountains, etc. etc.
It wasn't the rock that drew me to Sado Island, the second largest after Okinawa of Japan's nearly 4,000 secondary islands besides the major four that comprise the bulk of the country. Rather it was a gold and silver mine dating to 1601 and was in operation until 1989. At its height of operation in the late 1600s, it rivaled the Potosi mine in Bolivia as the most productive in the world. It was laced by 250 miles of tunnels, some that are now open to the public.
Presently the most fascinating aspect of this Japanese mine is that its many exhibits are staffed by robots performing the chores of the miners--hammering and chiseling and draining and eating and engaging in a ritual celebrating the discovery a new vein, hoping it will be a productive one. The robots are very life-like mannequins, who also grunt and talk. Wherever they are found, they are accompanied by a sign in English and Japanese warning, "Do not touch the robots."
The mine was just a mile-and-a-half from the Sea of Japan, up a steep incline from the town of Aikawa, about half-way around the 125-mile perimeter road starting from the main ferry terminal. There was hardly any traffic on the road, making for truly idyllic bicycling on narrow roads along a coastline. It was a two-and-a-half hour ferry ride out to Sado, barely discernible in the haze from the main island of Honshu. Sado was formerly a place of exile for politicians and others who fell into disfavor. I could have been perfectly content spending days going round and round the island past all the small fishing villages and patches of agriculture. There are just a couple of roads that intersect the mountainous interior of the island. There is so little traffic that tour guides stop their bus or van in the middle of one-lane bridges for the tourists to gaze over the edge and out to sea. There are many stretches where the cliff sides are so steep, and a tunnel has yet to be cut through, that the road is just one-lane wide.
I had a couple of strokes of good fortune after my pilgrimage to the top of Ono-gam, where a deity resides according to local lore. When I returned to my bike I found my cycling gloves in one of my front panniers. I thought I had left them at the last Internet Cafe. It had been the most expensive of the trip at 700 yen for an hour. The presumed loss of my gloves there made it even more expensive. Finding my gloves 24 hours after I thought I had lost them was good luck. Later that day I experienced a genuine miracle. As I was setting up my tent in a baseball field just a couple blocks from the ferry at Akadomari, a tent pole I lost over two weeks ago mysteriously reappeared. It had somehow slipped over another pole and had remained hidden there for two weeks. It was a major disaster when it turned up missing, almost enough to make me double back 75-miles to my previous night's campsite to retrieve it.
I had splintered the end of one my poles in the middle of a stretch of ten of them that were all connected by an inner cord the night before its disappearance. I had to cut the connecting cord and piece the poles together each night. Somehow I managed to lose one of those ten poles and had to make do with just nine. Not all the pole segments were the same, so it was tricky finding the right order when I went to piece them together each night. For over two weeks I had to endure a lop-sided tent with one ten-pole arch and the other nine.
I thought I had experienced a semi-miracle the night I discovered I was a pole short, as at that campsite I found an industrial-strength hard plastic straw that just barely fit over the end of my poles and lengthened it a few inches. It was the night I camped with Eelco the Dutchman at a campsite I never would have chosen on my own--in a meadow in the open on a cliff overlooking the ocean. Eelco had had tent pole maladies himself when his tent was scrunched in the flash flood in China. He had reinforced his poles with chopsticks. I tried doing that myself, but my poles weren't wide enough to accept them.
With my improvisations my tent was no longer free-standing. If I camped on ground too hard to prevent me from staking it out, it wouldn't hold together. Luckily I hadn't had such a campsite until last night, the night after I discovered the missing pole. I was on a prolonged stretch of rugged coastline with one tunnel after another. It looked as if I'd have to be very creative in finding a nook to place my tent. But then after one of the tunnels there was an open space. It led to the former road that wound around the cliff before a tunnel had been carved through it. The road hadn't been fenced off, but there were posts barricading cars and also a sign warning of bears. I didn't take the bear warning too seriously, as the terrain was straight up and down. However, if there had been a bottle of urine nearby, I would have sprinkled it in the vicinity to mark my turf. Instead, all I had were smelly socks to dangle from my bike to emphasize "Human present."
I've had a few bear encounters on my tours, one along the Alaskan Highway as I was wild camping and another time in British Columbia when I inadvertently camped near a small town's dump and some dump bear came by my tent when I was gone and nosed his way in through the mosquito netting and bit into each of my water bottles and my Tupperware bowl hoping to find something good to eat. When he didn't, he plopped down on my tent, collapsing it and pretzeling all my tent poles. Another time as I was camped alongside the Alaskan Highway a passing bear came ambling toward my tent. A passing motorist happened to glimpse it. He roared to my rescue, blasting his horn. He scared off the bear and stood guard until I had disassembled my tent and gotten back on the road.
There were quite a few fallen leaves on this former road. I gathered them up and laid them under my tent to soften my sleeping pad. I was happy to have just regained the free-standing capabilities of my tent to erect it on the concrete. It turned out to be one of my better campsites. I was far enough from the road to insulate me from the sound of traffic. All I heard was the rhythmic crashing of the waves several hundred feet below.
Toyama is one of the handful of medium-sized cities that has kiernan bike racing. Unfortunately, the next match isn't until Sunday. The snow-covered Japanese Alps await me inland. Then its on to Mount Fuji.
Later, George
Monday, October 16, 2006
Friday, October 13, 2006
Niigata, Japan
Friends: As I pulled into a rest area early yesterday morning to replenish my water bottles, I noticed off to the side against a curb four full 16-ounce juice and soft drink bottles that must have fallen from someone's vehicle that night--a mini-bonanza for me. As I neared them my heart sank, as one of the bottles was a coke bottle filled with an all-too-familiar pallid yellow solution. Foiled again. Discarded bottles of urine are a frequent item along the roads here, more than I've ever encountered, despite the abundance of toilets at rest areas and convenience stores. The truck drivers, like all the Japanese, are relentless in their diligence to their work.
I first became aware of urine in bottles in Chicago's downtown as I messengered, thanks to the
city's cab drivers. After having been tricked into thinking I'd come upon a bottle of Welch's white grape juice once, I look very closely at the seal and contents of any bottles I find along the road. Most bottles are just partially filled, but there is that occasional bottle, masterfully filled to the top. My grape juice happened in the dead of winter and was frozen solid. Fortunately before it had thawed, my eye caught the word red on the label and I was saved. Wash cloths are another item I see with regularity along the roads here. But like the many gloves I come upon, they
are not a discarded item, rather a lost item from someone bound for and leaving the local bath house or hot spring.
Girlie magazines, along with the urine bottles, are about the only true litter I find. On Hokkaido
hardly a day passed that I didn't come upon at least one magazine. I always stop for them thinking there might be a worthwhile interview or article and that I might learn something. Plus I'm cleaning up the roadside and maybe saving some youth from corruption.
After a while it began to be a problem of how to dispose of all the magazines I was collecting, evidently the same problem faced by those who were tossing them. About the only litter receptacles I see are outside the convenience stores for recycling and its hard to be discreet
there. There are three categories--combustibles, plastic bottles and metal cans. The
combustibles container is often overflowing, with a pile of small plastic bags full of litter
piled in front of it. Japan burns 75% of its refuse and the people seem very diligent about recycling. I had noticed an occasional garbage receptacle along the highway that were on posts so one could just roll down their window and deposit their garbage. After a while it dawned on me I was only seeing them on inclines. I thought maybe it was because I was going slower and paying more attention. They had windows and I could peer in and see plastic bags inside. At last I had a place to discreetly discard the magazines. It was then I discovered they were filled with bags of sand for stuck motorists. Still, they offered a nice place to place my magazines, a treat for someone in need. I placed enough that I could well have started a trend. I'll have to come back in a couple of years and see how well it has caught on.
Yesterday was a day of being misled. I thought I had discovered peanut butter. Among the jams were small card-board containers, the same size as the jams, with nuts on them. It turned out to be some sort of peanut jelly that was almost caramel-flavored. I treated it as peanut butter anyway, spreading it on my bread and adding jam and making a sandwich of it--open-faced though, as the bread is sliced so thick one needs a mouth the size of a sumo wrestler to fit two slices into it. The standard loaf is six slices, lily-white, and priced from 128 yen on sale to 208 yen. I'm not sure of its nutritional value.
I finally found a bowl of noodles with a distinctive and pleasing flavor that I search out in
the usual aisle full of such items. And at 841 calories for 176 yen, it well exceeds my three
calories for one yen buying criteria. It is nice to have something that pleases my taste buds to look forward to, as I had been growing weary of my heavy noodle diet.
I'm often up and on the road by six a.m. trying to maximize the minimal daylight. I occasionally hit a tourist site well before its opening. Like the Sumo Museum on Hokkaido, they are sometimes open anyway. Such was the case with an Ainu Village in Hokkaido, a cluster of the large-scale, Mauri/Polynesian-style thatched dwellings of the indigenous people of Hokkaido.
Yesterday I arrived at a Buddhist Temple that housed a mummy of a famed monk at 7:30 a.m. It wasn't open yet, but shortly after I arrived the caretaker drove up saying he would open it momentarily. It gave me a chance to wander the grounds of small temples and Buddhas and a pond of gold fish and cemetery. When I returned to the temple the caretaker was awaiting me, wearing a black robe and reeking of tobacco. He pointed at my feet and said "shoes," reminding me to remove them, and then ushered me to the mummy in a glass case. It was sitting in an
upright position with legs crossed, head bowed and hands opened upward. It was one of 20 such mummies in all of Japan, 16 of which were in these region, a most holy area of Japan. This monk had followed a procedure of starving himself to death and achieving "Buddhahood in the flesh." The caretaker monk offered me tea and then pored over a map of the region advising me the best way to continue on. I had been hoping to take a small side road but he said it was
gravel and very rough.
Later, George
I first became aware of urine in bottles in Chicago's downtown as I messengered, thanks to the
city's cab drivers. After having been tricked into thinking I'd come upon a bottle of Welch's white grape juice once, I look very closely at the seal and contents of any bottles I find along the road. Most bottles are just partially filled, but there is that occasional bottle, masterfully filled to the top. My grape juice happened in the dead of winter and was frozen solid. Fortunately before it had thawed, my eye caught the word red on the label and I was saved. Wash cloths are another item I see with regularity along the roads here. But like the many gloves I come upon, they
are not a discarded item, rather a lost item from someone bound for and leaving the local bath house or hot spring.
Girlie magazines, along with the urine bottles, are about the only true litter I find. On Hokkaido
hardly a day passed that I didn't come upon at least one magazine. I always stop for them thinking there might be a worthwhile interview or article and that I might learn something. Plus I'm cleaning up the roadside and maybe saving some youth from corruption.
After a while it began to be a problem of how to dispose of all the magazines I was collecting, evidently the same problem faced by those who were tossing them. About the only litter receptacles I see are outside the convenience stores for recycling and its hard to be discreet
there. There are three categories--combustibles, plastic bottles and metal cans. The
combustibles container is often overflowing, with a pile of small plastic bags full of litter
piled in front of it. Japan burns 75% of its refuse and the people seem very diligent about recycling. I had noticed an occasional garbage receptacle along the highway that were on posts so one could just roll down their window and deposit their garbage. After a while it dawned on me I was only seeing them on inclines. I thought maybe it was because I was going slower and paying more attention. They had windows and I could peer in and see plastic bags inside. At last I had a place to discreetly discard the magazines. It was then I discovered they were filled with bags of sand for stuck motorists. Still, they offered a nice place to place my magazines, a treat for someone in need. I placed enough that I could well have started a trend. I'll have to come back in a couple of years and see how well it has caught on.
Yesterday was a day of being misled. I thought I had discovered peanut butter. Among the jams were small card-board containers, the same size as the jams, with nuts on them. It turned out to be some sort of peanut jelly that was almost caramel-flavored. I treated it as peanut butter anyway, spreading it on my bread and adding jam and making a sandwich of it--open-faced though, as the bread is sliced so thick one needs a mouth the size of a sumo wrestler to fit two slices into it. The standard loaf is six slices, lily-white, and priced from 128 yen on sale to 208 yen. I'm not sure of its nutritional value.
I finally found a bowl of noodles with a distinctive and pleasing flavor that I search out in
the usual aisle full of such items. And at 841 calories for 176 yen, it well exceeds my three
calories for one yen buying criteria. It is nice to have something that pleases my taste buds to look forward to, as I had been growing weary of my heavy noodle diet.
I'm often up and on the road by six a.m. trying to maximize the minimal daylight. I occasionally hit a tourist site well before its opening. Like the Sumo Museum on Hokkaido, they are sometimes open anyway. Such was the case with an Ainu Village in Hokkaido, a cluster of the large-scale, Mauri/Polynesian-style thatched dwellings of the indigenous people of Hokkaido.
Yesterday I arrived at a Buddhist Temple that housed a mummy of a famed monk at 7:30 a.m. It wasn't open yet, but shortly after I arrived the caretaker drove up saying he would open it momentarily. It gave me a chance to wander the grounds of small temples and Buddhas and a pond of gold fish and cemetery. When I returned to the temple the caretaker was awaiting me, wearing a black robe and reeking of tobacco. He pointed at my feet and said "shoes," reminding me to remove them, and then ushered me to the mummy in a glass case. It was sitting in an
upright position with legs crossed, head bowed and hands opened upward. It was one of 20 such mummies in all of Japan, 16 of which were in these region, a most holy area of Japan. This monk had followed a procedure of starving himself to death and achieving "Buddhahood in the flesh." The caretaker monk offered me tea and then pored over a map of the region advising me the best way to continue on. I had been hoping to take a small side road but he said it was
gravel and very rough.
Later, George
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Tsurako, Japan
Friends: I am in a nice stretch of tourist sites that attract the Japanese, but not noteworthy enough for the Westerner on a two or three week tour. The tourist offices have all had free Internet, a welcome bonus after finding so few on Hakkaido.
Even though they are not in bloom, the 300-year old cherry trees of Kakunodate are a site to behold, full-bodied and majestic, nobly perched on an embankment along a twisting river, standing in pairs flanking an enchanting walkway with periodic benches. During the spring cherry blossom season they are one of the highlights for those who make a northerly pilgrimage to as many of the cherry tree sites as they can.
Kakunodate is also known for a several block area of historic homes, known as the "Samurai District." The town calls itself "Little Kyoto." Even on a Wednesday afternoon in the fall there were a good number of Japanese tourists strolling the grounds of the many homes, a few pulled by rickshaw tour guides. The gardens of bonsai trees and rocks around the old one-story wooden homes were often as noteworthy as the homes. There was one area of garden plots. It was like walking through a museum looking at one painting after another, each of the plots distinctively arranged with plants and rocks.
It is not uncommon to see such well-sculptured gardens in people's yards as I'm bicycling along.
There are few traditional homes, mostly conventional box houses that could be anywhere, but their gardens are distinctly and pleasingly Japanese. There are also occasional Shinto and Buddhist shrines along the road that provide a nice spot for a peaceful break. Rarely do I encounter anyone else at them.
I've been in apple orchard country the last two hundred miles, many of them unharvested, the tress thick with large, lush red fruit and unfenced, as there is no need to fear banditry in this country of such law-abiding citizens. Rarely do I see people lock their bikes, unless they're leaving it all day at a train station. It is common for people to leave their cars running when they duck into the mini-mart. I thought it was a given that I would spend at least one night camping in one of these orchards, but they have all been small and clustered close to a home, unfit for wild camping. Last night I ended up behind a boarded-up business in a somewhat gravelly
yard that just barely allowed my tent stakes to grab hold. When it started raining at two am I feared lack of drainage could leave me in a pool of water. I did have a little seepage, but nothing drastic.
Miraculously, the rain let up after a couple of hours, though I remained under a thick, threatening cloud cover all day. There are three sacred mountains within 25 miles of here that are presently cloaked in clouds. I'll be camping in their midst, hoping for the skies to clear tomorrow.
Later, George
Even though they are not in bloom, the 300-year old cherry trees of Kakunodate are a site to behold, full-bodied and majestic, nobly perched on an embankment along a twisting river, standing in pairs flanking an enchanting walkway with periodic benches. During the spring cherry blossom season they are one of the highlights for those who make a northerly pilgrimage to as many of the cherry tree sites as they can.
Kakunodate is also known for a several block area of historic homes, known as the "Samurai District." The town calls itself "Little Kyoto." Even on a Wednesday afternoon in the fall there were a good number of Japanese tourists strolling the grounds of the many homes, a few pulled by rickshaw tour guides. The gardens of bonsai trees and rocks around the old one-story wooden homes were often as noteworthy as the homes. There was one area of garden plots. It was like walking through a museum looking at one painting after another, each of the plots distinctively arranged with plants and rocks.
It is not uncommon to see such well-sculptured gardens in people's yards as I'm bicycling along.
There are few traditional homes, mostly conventional box houses that could be anywhere, but their gardens are distinctly and pleasingly Japanese. There are also occasional Shinto and Buddhist shrines along the road that provide a nice spot for a peaceful break. Rarely do I encounter anyone else at them.
I've been in apple orchard country the last two hundred miles, many of them unharvested, the tress thick with large, lush red fruit and unfenced, as there is no need to fear banditry in this country of such law-abiding citizens. Rarely do I see people lock their bikes, unless they're leaving it all day at a train station. It is common for people to leave their cars running when they duck into the mini-mart. I thought it was a given that I would spend at least one night camping in one of these orchards, but they have all been small and clustered close to a home, unfit for wild camping. Last night I ended up behind a boarded-up business in a somewhat gravelly
yard that just barely allowed my tent stakes to grab hold. When it started raining at two am I feared lack of drainage could leave me in a pool of water. I did have a little seepage, but nothing drastic.
Miraculously, the rain let up after a couple of hours, though I remained under a thick, threatening cloud cover all day. There are three sacred mountains within 25 miles of here that are presently cloaked in clouds. I'll be camping in their midst, hoping for the skies to clear tomorrow.
Later, George
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Tazawa-ko, Japan
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
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
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
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