Some may know that a few weeks ago, a friend and I biked from Sapporo to Wakkanai, the northernmost point of Japan. I've been working to write down my memories from that trip. Here's what I've started! It is quite long, largely unedited, and perhaps boring if you do not like lengthy descriptions of road:
We began on a grey and rainy day in June. Our goal: bike from Sapporo to Wakkanai. Sapporo, the largest city on Japan’s island of Hokkaido and of course where I have been living for the past 10 or so months, and Wakkanai is 199 miles to the north. The northernmost point of Hokkaido, and of Japan. I woke up that day to the grey skies and rain after two weeks of seemless, sunny weather and frowned. But we had decided, in the end, to go no matter what the weather. I showered, and began organizing the possessions I would bring into various piles. Then packing everything into multiple plastic bags. I take no chances with rain--I’ve been caught too many times in the rain to underestimate it. Time seemed to fly by, and at 11 o’clock I rushed out the door to meet a friend for lunch, then anxiously attended my 12 o’clock lab seminar. I hurried back to my dorm to throw everything into my backpack, give my room one last scan, double check my list, and run out the door. I strapped my sleeping bag to my bike, glanced dubiously at my tires, and held my breath. Then I was off to meet my friend, and we would be off.
At about 1:00pm, I pulled up in front of my friends dorm. The rain had stopped, although there was plenty of moisture in the air. She was outside putting the last touches on her bike. We filled up the side bags, and gave a nod. Yes, we were going. No matter what. We knew there might not be another chance. Magali, my friend and classmate at Hokkaido University from Switzerland, started her odometer, I re-fastened my sleeping bag, tightened my backpack, and we mounted our bikes. We briefly discussed which route we should take out of Sapporo, then agreed upon following the Shinkawa river trail. Most streets and roads in Sapporo are busy and noisy, but at least the trail along the river provided a slight barrier against the traffic. And off we went, passing through the dorm gates, and towards the trail. The tall, green plants along the trail were laden with water. As we zoomed along, the leaves smacked loudly against our shoulders. We chatted animatedly as we peddled, enthusiastic if not secretly harboring our nervousness. The route was simple enough--follow the coast line north. But route aside, most was unknown. We came to the end of Shinkawa-Dori--the farthest I have biked from my dorm here. Then we turned right along the zooming road. We were headed out of the city. There was no turning back now. We continued to talk happily as we rode, leaving Sapporo farther and farther behind. We were now along the Ishikari bay. The road was flat for some time, and we paused at a bridge over the Ishikari River for a drink of water and a look at the horizon. Far off ahead, I could see a line of hazy mountains. I wondered briefly when the road would begin that climb. We were aware always of the ocean to our left, though it could not always be seen.
Hokkaido in spring and summer is lush green, any direction you can look. Although the road was busy with noisy traffic, there were plants and grey, cloudy skies all around us. Sure enough, the road did begin to climb up hills. Our first hill on the trip, in fact, and a reminder to me that it would be tougher than a line on a map to reach our destination. I have a poor relationship with hills when it comes to biking. To me, the difficulty of an agonizingly slow trudge uphill makes little sense when I can smoothly walk at the same pace. But everyone seems to want to keep biking, regardless of what makes most sense. Secretly, as we pushed up the hill, I wanted to get off and simply walk up the hill but in the company of others, I tend to yield to their actions. Nonetheless, nearing the top, we both agreed to walk for a short ways and take a sip of water. A gathering of mosquitos formed quickly around me in the humid air, surrounded by fields and green. This made me wonder what the night would bring. Soon we were on our way again. The road curved, and climbed, up and down. Sometimes we came close to the ocean, and could see coastal towns and fishing towns. We soon saw dark tunnels ahead, with orange torch-like lights along the walls. Inside, these smelled dank and the roar of cars and large trucks amplified around us. The first had a small sidewalk along the edge, but for the rest we were left to cling to the shoulder of the road as cars blew past us. Some were short, and some were as long as 2,000m. As the afternoon wore away into evening, we came down a hill and into a town. Here we stepped into a tiny grocery store--having no luck there finding an easy meal to take with us--then crossed the street to the Seico Mart convenience store. After buying our dinners (bento sushi for Magali and bento soba for me) we continued. The hills were a trouble for me, and I began to grow wary of the strength of my legs. I had lost more strength than I realized, I thought, as I trudged up the hills. It seemed odd to me that my legs should expire so quickly. We had gone just over 30 or 40km. Magali was able to go far faster than I through the tunnels, and I lagged behind greatly. The road diverged more from the ocean, and into tall, rich, tree-covered hills. The day was winding down. Large snails crept their way across the wet, shining road beneath us. One met its crackling fate beneath Magali’s tire. Outside of one particularly long tunnel, I asked Magali if we could rest a moment and have a bite to eat. I was still puzzled as to the weakness of my legs--push on the pedals though I might, I could make them go no faster. I thought, perhaps, after 3 hours of biking that I needed to eat something to recover energy. We had a bite of an energy bar and some water then decided to go as long as we could until it began to get dark. We kept our eyes open for potential bus shelters. But for a great stretch, we saw none. I believe we had entered a Hokkaido Wildlife Conservation area. There was little around us but masses of green on either side, and black road ahead. We could hear loud frogs and insects in the vegetation, and birds. I felt frustrated, nonetheless, that I could not push my legs faster, and that I continued to lag behind despite my efforts. I thought surely it must be that I should have stopped to eat a little more. I was reduced to quite the crawl, much like the snails that I swerved around on the shoulder of the road.
The light lessened, and the scent of a cool evening after the rain was strong. Climbing up more hills, with my bike gear nearly as low as it could go, Magali exclaimed that there was a bus stop ahead! There was one very small one, tucked into the trees, and another slightly larger one down the hill. We came to the larger one and parked our bikes. Magali, have far more energy than me left, scouted back up the hill to take a look at the smaller one. Then down a side road to see what was around us. But we were truly in the middle of nowhere, still surrounded by dense green forest on either side. We pushed open the sliding doors of the wooden building. I almost expected a raccoon or small animal to leap out, but it was dark and empty. Empty, that is, except for the hundreds of tiny ants trailing across the floor. Alas! That was the floor we would sleep on! But, true to Japanese sensibilities, there was a small broom tucked. I swept away at the floor. But the ants were persistent and we resigned ourselves to becoming covered in them during the night. We laid down the bike bag for Magali’s bike, and the plastic bags from my sleeping bag. We tucked our bikes away in the tall grass and plants, behind a road rail. The evening darkened, and it was about 7:30PM. Settling our bags on the benches and taking off our wet shoes, we took out our dinners. Talking happily--though perhaps each still harboring some questions as to the legality of our sleeping situation--, we enjoyed our dinners after our ride. I took a look at the bus schedule, guessing that the first would come around 5am and that we should try to be on our way by that time. We had come about 60km. Not a very fast speed, as I calculated. Mostly due to my sluggishness, I thought, as I ate my soba noodles, soy sauce, and wasabi. I had inarizushi as well, and Magali had brought banana bread for dessert. A good meal, made better by the miles. We changed out of our damp clothes--we had about one set of riding clothes, and one set of sleeping clothes, brushed our teeth, rolled out our sleeping bags, and crawled in. We awaited the moment when we would become covered in ants. On the other side of the wooden doors, large trucks zoomed now and again down the otherwise quiet, remote road. These seemed to rattle the shelter. At first, laying on the hard floor was no trouble, and would not have been so uncomfortable if I had not been so nervous to come out of my plastic sleeping bag cover (a ward for the ants). I had images of black trails of tiny ants overtaking my legs, and although it was stuffy inside of the bag, I preferred that to ants. I do not think that either of us slept much, though perhaps for short stretches. We were also wary of anyone appearing at the bus shelter in the night, and having to groggily explain ourselves in Japanese. Perhaps it is more accurate to say that we slept with one eye open. During the night, every so often I could feel a tickle traveling across my skin--sure enough, it would be a little ant. They especially liked to travel across my forehead, and I pulled a few from my hair. But not so many as I had expected, and slowly they relented. The bus shelter was small, but large enough for us both to lay down without feeling cramped. There were glass windows, and plants (name this plant?) waved against the windows like faces. It began to rain some time during the night. I checked my watch many times before the sunrise. Then, around 3:20am, the skies became very slowly a dark blue. By about 3:30am, slightly more blue. And then, a sound that woke us both up. We became tense. It was the hum of a motorbike pulling up in the gravel in front of the shelter. We laid motionless in our sleeping bags, but with one eye slitted towards the door. The door slid open, there was a pause, then a pile of newspapers were tossed onto the floor near my head. The door slid shut, and the motor bike drove away. We breathed heavily in relief, catching each others eye and laughing nervously. Then Magali looked towards the door and said “there’s someone else!”
The door slowly slid open again, and a short old lady, arrayed in rain gear and a rain bonnet peeked inside. At first, I thought she was asking to come inside and we hurriedly cleared away our bags from part of the bench. Then I understood that she was, in fact, asking about the newspapers. I looked beside me, picked up the bundle, and handed them to her. She rambled on gently as she packed them into her bag, not seeming surprised at all to find us there, and continuing on as old Japanese ladies do about many things at once. I caught something about her having a son, about waking up early everyday to make the long walk, and what good exercise it was, sorry for waking us up when we were sleeping, and perhaps something about how she shouldn’t actually be taking the newspapers. But I was unsure. All this before 3:35am. When she left, Magali and I stared at each other. We began to laugh--we had not expected that at all! And not more than a few moments later, we heard the large motor of a truck pull up. What now!? The door slid open, and a man stood at the threshold. He also did not appear particularly surprised to find us. He asked about the newspapers and I told him that an old lady had only just moments before come and taken them. He said “indeed”, and I could not judge if it was good or bad that the lady had taken them-- I began to guess that perhaps it was a frequent occurrence that she took the papers! Or that perhaps this was her son? He said goodbye and shut the door. By now, it had become completely bright out. For a few more short minutes we decided to rest, then pack up before anyone else could surprise us in the middle of nowhere. During the night, the rain had become quite heavy, and it persisted though more lightly than before. I suggested we wait a short time, but Magali pointed out that we might as well move on and that we would get wet no matter what. We rolled up our bags, I combed my hair and brushed my teeth, we pulled on our biking clothes and raincoats, then sat and ate a clif bar for an early breakfast. We strapped everything onto the bikes, and were on the road again by 4:30am.
The skies were still grey, and the surroundings misty. On either side, there was green shrouded by fog. Coming up a hill, we were treated by a spectacular race downhill, opening into a view of paddy fields amidst the forests. I always had to hold my hat onto my head during such flying downhills. We road some ways, before rolling into a small town just before 5:30am. Here we stopped to grab something more for breakfast from a conbini. I bought an ume (pickled plum) onigiri, matcha milk, and anpan that I would save for later. Everything was dreary looking, and like many of the places we passed, quiet and empty. There was a campsite across the street (empty as well) and we crossed, parked our bikes, and sat under a wooden shelter with sinks. There were no campers. As we were leaving, an older man pulled up in front of the roped off path to the campsite. It seemed he was preparing to cut the grass. We got back on our bikes, and were on our way. Apparently, Magali told me as we rode, the construction workers who had also stopped at the conbini while we were there noticed us and were chuckling. I suppose for them we did appear odd. Two foreigners in the middle of nowhere, in the far north of Japan, at dawn, on bikes, clinging to the edge of the road in the light rain. Throughout the next stretch, we continued to pass through long tunnels under the cliffs. Neither of us enjoyed these tunnels. And each time we finished one, another awaited--growing longer each time. The first ones we had entered were around 1500m, but by the end we had finished some more than 3000m long. We clung tight to the shoulder as traffic, even early in the morning, wailed past us. I remember steeling myself, and pushing hard to pedal. Magali was always gaining a big lead through these tunnels, and I still felt so slow. I wondered why I could not match her pace, and why my sluggish pace still felt so grueling. With each growing howl of approaching traffic, I thought surely this time I would be struck--like a bug onto a windshield. Fortunately, no such catastrophe occurred. After long stretches through the tunnels, there would be a little sign on the wall revealing the remaining meters before, and the meters behind. These were often discouraging! I began to think of the meters in terms of track and field races. How long should it take me if I were racing? Not very long after the conbini, there were cones in the road and it became clear that we were entering a long string of construction. Traffic was often reduced to oneway, one lane traffic. Although the roads were not overwhelmingly busy, there were many trucks. We were ushered into the lanes, and I felt out of place with trucks ahead and trucks bearing down behind us. The construction workers who ushered us along gave us varying looks--from amusement, chants of encouragement, smiles, perplexion, or no expression at all. In fact, we passed the very same workers who had chuckled at us before. I believe they said “gambatte!” as we road by. Another older man chanted something encouragingly. But, still others simply waved us on like the cars. It was somewhat frustrating to deal with stopping and going every so many miles.
Around the Cape Ofuyu area, though there was still construction, there were waterfalls against the stone cliffs. I would have liked to stop and look at these more! There were some tunnels with pillars that formed windows out to the sea spread out to our left. These tunnels were far more enjoyable. They gave us shelter from the light but ever persistent mist of rain, but did not submit us to the dank, dark, and orange glow of their longer brethren. The sea and grey clouds, the rocks, the waves, and the cliffs. The colors of Hokkaido are a subtle, varied, and beautiful palette. Combinations you do not expect, and that you will not have witnessed before. That I have never seen before and will never see again! Deep black, brown rock, like wet earth. Green, rich, vines and plant the hue of damp moss, clinging to steep cliff. All tumbling, in time, down to the sea. And the horizon, that unending line. What lay beyond? The far off coast of Russia? We continued the in and out game of tunnels, emerging from the dark into new places with new and towering cliffs that we had unknowingly traveled beneath. I remember thinking, looking out to the sea on my left hand and the land on my right, what use is fantasy when this world exists before our very eyes?
Pushing onwards, the road on either side became green. We were pulling a little ways from the coast, which had hung just beneath our pedals. We entered more tunnels and I could feel the slow, long incline even if I could not see it. It was subtle. But we were beginning the start of a climb. This would, in fact, become the most difficult climb of our journey though we were not aware of its beginning. Looking at a map in the days preceeding our trip, we had noted the elevation. There were some spots with ups and downs, but just about the 1/3 mark there was a daunting climb. The road, after all, passed in this area by the feet of two mountains. Luckily not over the mountains themselves! We had both been wondering when we would hit it. My legs had already been tired in the more flat tunnels. Now, as we entered a particularly long tunnel, it was like pedaling against a wall. I crept slowly, slowly, slowly along in the dark tunnel. Moving as a snail would up a similar elevation. Yes, I thought to myself, we must be climbing. This tunnel was perhaps around 4,000 or 5,000m long. So, as subtle as the incline was, it was also endless. And we had no advantage of the sights around us to know our progress. Was this the worst? Or was there more ahead? Push, push, push on the pedals. I remember feeling as though I was not moving at all. I promised my legs--make it through the tunnel, and you can stop. Make it through the tunnel. Surely that will be the top. I was biking in front of Magali for this longest tunnel--perhaps to keep me in sight!--and I felt that I was undoubtedly moving too slow even as I wished to go fast to finish the tunnel. We could not stop, no matter what, inside the tunnels. Finally emerging, I felt as though my bike could topple over from moving so slow. There were tree tops all around us, and we could guess that we were high up. Guess, because we were still shrouded in mist. We could not see beyond the green around us. We could feel it. There was more hill still in front of us, part of which crossed a bridge. I turned to Magali, hoping to fulfill my promise to my legs. She advised strongly that we not stop on the bridge. My legs were not pleased, and I said I would try my best to keep moving. Barely passing the end of one bridge, it was clear that there would be more ahead. I hopped off my bike, or risk falling off. I needed to walk a ways, to finish the climb and let my legs stretch. I felt silly and out of shape to be having so much trouble. I knew it was a difficult climb, but everything seemed strange and more difficult than it should have been. What should have been a striking view of the ocean and the heights about us was still all mist. We tried to imagine the beautiful view. We came to another tunnel, not so long as the previous, and with a sigh I got back on my bike. No walking through the tunnels, after all. But finally, finally, finally we had the worst behind us. Coming to the top, the road began slowly to descend. We even passed through a tunnel on the way down--thankful, with the descent speeding us onwards. Down, down, down we went. Looking back, we could see some of the mountain we had laboriously scaled. This feels far more rewarding--to look back, to look up at what you have done! We glided into the area of Mashike. Still mist and grey skies. We were along the sea again. Along the strip of roadside nearest the sea was a quiet campground. Here there was a wooden shelter for sinks, a parked car, and two large tents. We had been talking loudly and animatedly out on the wet and empty roads. I realized as we rolled past the tents that it was still before 7am. We had come many miles, and had been biking for three hours, and had two breakfasts already. But, as I thought suddenly the people in the tents were probably still sound asleep! We lowered our voices! There was a building with bathrooms next to the campsite and we stopped to eat a piece of a Japanese energy bar (“Calorie Mate”), use the bathroom, drink some water, and fill up the water bottles.
As we continued, it seemed that we had indeed left the hills and climbs behind us. The road began to open along the coast and to flatten. The skies remained grey, but with the peculiar tint of the sea and all its quiet palette. We passed through small coastal towns, with boats and docks. With small houses and the interesting array of color choices for rooftops, and oddly unsymmetrical and unpredictable shapes of Japanese architecture. Although the roads were flatter than before, I found myself slowing. This was frustrating to me--why should it still be so difficult against the pedals over flat road? We were coming closer and closer to Rumoi, which is just under the half way point. I watched the road signs anxiously, and the km passed by slowly.
We came to the sign marking the outer limits of the city of Rumoi, which was sparse, but there was a sign that the city proper was some 7 or 10km ahead. I began to grow even more frustrated at this point. Surely I could not be in such poor shape that a mere 150km or so spread over decent time should trouble me. I remember clunking over a curb particularly hard and worrying fleetingly if such impact had done anything to my tire. I kept on, but very shortly thereafter and just as we reached the very cusp of the city proper, I felt an unfamiliar rhythm to my wheels. A pat, pat, pat. I turned to Magali and asked her if she felt the same. Perhaps it was the surface. She seemed puzzled. I looked down to my tire--as I had feared. Flat. Since departure, I had worried that there was not enough air in my tires. They seemed soft to the touch, though they held air. I had bought a pump the day before, assured by the salesman at the bike shop that it would fit to my brand of bike, and we had tried to harden the tires the night before, and just before starting that morning. But they had remained “soft.” All the while the front tire had seemed most problematic to me, but in the end it was the back tire that deflated. Rather suddenly as well. Clearly, there was a puncture. We tried futilely to pump air into it--realizing furthermore that the pump was useless even on sound tires since it did not line up with the hole. I think that both of us were feeling frustrated. Magali is quite the patient person, and had hid her probable dissatisfaction with my slow pace well. But I could sense it. Now, we were slowed to a walk. We tried to strategize as to what we should do. In the United States, gas stations often have an air pump. In Japan, not so often. I thought that perhaps a conbini would have one. We crossed the highway, and I went in to ask. The ladies behind the counter did a lot of puzzling, scratching heads, and talking--but in the end said very little of use. They pulled out a map of the city and pointed out a possible bike shop, circling it, but then not actually giving me the map. After perhaps 10 minutes of listening to their suggestions, and nodding that “oh, ok, I think I can find the place,” I went back outside to Magali. She asked what they had said. I replied “a lot, and nothing at all. But apparently there is a bike shop in town.” I gestured in the general forward direction. “Someplace this way, and then to the right, and then…” We started walking in that direction, but again I felt that I was causing a burden and that any moment Magali would wish to leave me behind. Fortunately, she is a far stouter character than that. She put up with my indecisiveness. Recognizing that probably the directions told to me by the ladies at the conbini were of imprecise use, she said we should stop into the tiny grocery store across the street. Inside, it truly was a tiny space. No one was at the counter, so we called “sumimasen.” A middle-aged, somewhat dazed looking man came out. We explained that we were searching for a bike shop. He went back, and then came out to the desk with the same map the ladies had used, only more wrinkled. Without saying anything at all, he used a pen to draw the route--perhaps a 10 minute walk. I asked if we could keep the map, and he nodded. We followed the route down the street, then turned down a hill. Towards the right, sure enough, there was a bike shop. It looked more like a garage inside, filled with bikes and tools and worn. We went in, and I explained that my tire had gone flat and there was likely a hole. I asked if there was a way to check, and how much it might cost. Neither I nor Magali properly understood the man’s explanation. It sounded to us that it would be some 1500 yen ($15) per tire to check, and then more to patch. But there was no way around it. We agreed, and asked how long it would take. Perhaps half an hour. I watched as the man wheeled my bike away. The sun had finally broken from behind the clouds. We decided to wait outside the shop and eat a snack, and peel off some of our rain gear. In the sun, it felt hot as opposed to clammy. I even put on a layer of sunscreen. I had packed my favorite Japanese snack--kinako nejiri, or compressed soybean flour twisted into small blocks. We shared this, drank some water, and discussed our plight. Magali rightly pointed out that we had the most fortunate misfortune in this case. The tire had gone flat very literally as we entered the city--the largest city on our route by far, and one of few guaranteed to have a bike shop as opposed to the tiny, sleepy towns we might have passed elsewhere. And indeed, there were many stretches of road without any towns or buildings in sight for 30 (and in some cases 40) km in between. The tire had gone flat enough that we would have been walking for certain, and that would have been trouble indeed. The man came back shortly and announced the prognosis--there was a small hole in the tube of the back tire. A few minutes later he came back to inform us that, in fact, there were two holes! When he brought the bike back out, the tires had been newly filled with air. I pinched them, and they were hard, like they had been in the fall when I first bought the bike. During the first leg of our ride, they would give under pressure. We began to realize that my tires had been partially flat for the entire ride. And by comparison to the feel of the newly filled tires, quite flat. I had suspected that they desperately needed air the whole while, and had thrown constant nervous looks downwards--leaning off my bike to try to glance the wheels. But I had not realized the extent. The handed the bike back to us, and I could feel that he suspected us of being mildly incompetent. That unspoken look of question, doubt, and possible concern for our future wellbeing. I have come to greatly resent this look, so often gifted me by the people I have met on adventures here in Japan. I am led to wonder, now and again, if there is not a touch of sexism as well in this questioning. As two young women on a bike trip, out in the middle of nowhere Japan. But I could not argue that I seemed a fool to have biked so far with such flat tires. Though I would point out that there had been little option once we set out, and that I had tried my best as we left to fill them--I have yet to find a pump in Japan that actually lines up with the tires, though I have searched and asked. We went inside and I took out my wallet, expecting to have to pay the assumed price for checking both tires and patching two holes. However, lo and behold, the price in total was only about 1500yen. I was puzzled, but certainly pleased. Whether Magali and I had misunderstood the price before, or whether the man was being kind I do not know. We thanked him, but he was not rid of us yet. As we had waited, we decided that we should also ask if he had a recommendation for a ramen shop. He looked at us slightly unknowing, then went into a backroom. It almost sounded as though he was making a phone call--we reflected later that he had actually called to ask for a suggestion, not knowing one himself but not wishing to say so. He came back and told us there was one near to the Rumoi station. This was convenient for us, because we needed to find road 232 which would continue north. The road appeared to be near to the station. We went outside, he gave the tires another nervous check, glanced at us again in doubtfulness, then even hastily checked Magali’s bike tires. This confirmed our suspicions that he thought we were incompetent. But at least the tires were fixed, and he had been kind enough for his doubt. Another Japanese person left in concern for my safety.
We got on our bikes in search of the ramen shop. We had both agreed, in the rain and mist of dawn, that ramen would be a good meal for lunch. My bike already felt smoother beneath me. We approached the station, and saw a small shop with a banner spelling “ra-men.” We parked our bikes, tried to make ourselves look a little less windblown, and went inside. It was small indeed, with only 5 tables crammed inside. In the back, there was a little living room behind a curtain, with a child gate. Peering past the curtain, a tv was visible, a small child, and a man seated on the floor. There was a tv on the shelf, perched just above Magali’s head as well, and playing Japanese dramas. We looked at the menu, and both decided on moyashi ramen (bean sprout topped-ramen). Magali at first ordered something else, but we were informed that it hadn’t been prepared yet. Magali pointed out that this was probably a good sign, since they made the stock themselves. It was a round, middle-aged Japanese lady who took our orders. Very motherly indeed. Apparently, Magali said, ramen is generally considered to be a “man’s” snack. I had not heard this before, but the feel of most barstool ramen shops does seem more of a “man’s” space--and thinking back, I rarely see women come by themselves to ramen shops. The lady brought out two big bowls of ramen, topped with bean sprouts, menma (bamboo shoots), and naruto. It looked and smelled delicious. I must admit that, while in Japan, I have only eaten ramen a handful of times. This has been an oversight on my part, I realized, as I ate the steamy noodles. It is well-loved for a reason. Often, however, the broth contains meat stock and so I am generally discouraged from seeking it out. But when I am lucky, there is soy sauce or miso based soup stock instead (which tastes better anyways!). We finished our meals, and went to the register to pay. After and saying ‘gouchisousama deshita!’ (a customary saying after meals: ‘thanks for the feast!/it was a feast’), the lady asked offhandedly “going to Wakkanai?” It seems that many people stop through Rumoi on their way to Wakkanai by bike.
We went back out and resettled our bikes and bags. It was now the early afternoon. We had lost a couple hours. We glanced at the map to reconnect with 232. After a bit of searching, and a number of large trucks and semis, we found the route. Rumoi is surrounded by green hills, with mountains just in the distance and the coastline within sight. Looking back over my shoulder, the surrounding land seemed idealic. The city, like most Japanese cities, seemed worn around the edges but I imagined it to be a peaceful place to live nearby. We were on our way, with fresh tires, full stomachs, and our first stretch of sunlight. It would not last long, but it was welcome. I marveled at the new speed of my bike. My legs peddled effortlessly. The mystery had been solved--I had not been losing strength, I had been biking for more than 100km with foolishly flat tires. Up part of a mountain, as well! No wonder I had struggled so during the first half. Now, I was flying. Now, it was Magali who would have to keep pace with me! As opposed to our crawl of 15km, we now sped along at 27km/hr. The second half of the trip was before us.
We began on a grey and rainy day in June. Our goal: bike from Sapporo to Wakkanai. Sapporo, the largest city on Japan’s island of Hokkaido and of course where I have been living for the past 10 or so months, and Wakkanai is 199 miles to the north. The northernmost point of Hokkaido, and of Japan. I woke up that day to the grey skies and rain after two weeks of seemless, sunny weather and frowned. But we had decided, in the end, to go no matter what the weather. I showered, and began organizing the possessions I would bring into various piles. Then packing everything into multiple plastic bags. I take no chances with rain--I’ve been caught too many times in the rain to underestimate it. Time seemed to fly by, and at 11 o’clock I rushed out the door to meet a friend for lunch, then anxiously attended my 12 o’clock lab seminar. I hurried back to my dorm to throw everything into my backpack, give my room one last scan, double check my list, and run out the door. I strapped my sleeping bag to my bike, glanced dubiously at my tires, and held my breath. Then I was off to meet my friend, and we would be off.
At about 1:00pm, I pulled up in front of my friends dorm. The rain had stopped, although there was plenty of moisture in the air. She was outside putting the last touches on her bike. We filled up the side bags, and gave a nod. Yes, we were going. No matter what. We knew there might not be another chance. Magali, my friend and classmate at Hokkaido University from Switzerland, started her odometer, I re-fastened my sleeping bag, tightened my backpack, and we mounted our bikes. We briefly discussed which route we should take out of Sapporo, then agreed upon following the Shinkawa river trail. Most streets and roads in Sapporo are busy and noisy, but at least the trail along the river provided a slight barrier against the traffic. And off we went, passing through the dorm gates, and towards the trail. The tall, green plants along the trail were laden with water. As we zoomed along, the leaves smacked loudly against our shoulders. We chatted animatedly as we peddled, enthusiastic if not secretly harboring our nervousness. The route was simple enough--follow the coast line north. But route aside, most was unknown. We came to the end of Shinkawa-Dori--the farthest I have biked from my dorm here. Then we turned right along the zooming road. We were headed out of the city. There was no turning back now. We continued to talk happily as we rode, leaving Sapporo farther and farther behind. We were now along the Ishikari bay. The road was flat for some time, and we paused at a bridge over the Ishikari River for a drink of water and a look at the horizon. Far off ahead, I could see a line of hazy mountains. I wondered briefly when the road would begin that climb. We were aware always of the ocean to our left, though it could not always be seen.
Hokkaido in spring and summer is lush green, any direction you can look. Although the road was busy with noisy traffic, there were plants and grey, cloudy skies all around us. Sure enough, the road did begin to climb up hills. Our first hill on the trip, in fact, and a reminder to me that it would be tougher than a line on a map to reach our destination. I have a poor relationship with hills when it comes to biking. To me, the difficulty of an agonizingly slow trudge uphill makes little sense when I can smoothly walk at the same pace. But everyone seems to want to keep biking, regardless of what makes most sense. Secretly, as we pushed up the hill, I wanted to get off and simply walk up the hill but in the company of others, I tend to yield to their actions. Nonetheless, nearing the top, we both agreed to walk for a short ways and take a sip of water. A gathering of mosquitos formed quickly around me in the humid air, surrounded by fields and green. This made me wonder what the night would bring. Soon we were on our way again. The road curved, and climbed, up and down. Sometimes we came close to the ocean, and could see coastal towns and fishing towns. We soon saw dark tunnels ahead, with orange torch-like lights along the walls. Inside, these smelled dank and the roar of cars and large trucks amplified around us. The first had a small sidewalk along the edge, but for the rest we were left to cling to the shoulder of the road as cars blew past us. Some were short, and some were as long as 2,000m. As the afternoon wore away into evening, we came down a hill and into a town. Here we stepped into a tiny grocery store--having no luck there finding an easy meal to take with us--then crossed the street to the Seico Mart convenience store. After buying our dinners (bento sushi for Magali and bento soba for me) we continued. The hills were a trouble for me, and I began to grow wary of the strength of my legs. I had lost more strength than I realized, I thought, as I trudged up the hills. It seemed odd to me that my legs should expire so quickly. We had gone just over 30 or 40km. Magali was able to go far faster than I through the tunnels, and I lagged behind greatly. The road diverged more from the ocean, and into tall, rich, tree-covered hills. The day was winding down. Large snails crept their way across the wet, shining road beneath us. One met its crackling fate beneath Magali’s tire. Outside of one particularly long tunnel, I asked Magali if we could rest a moment and have a bite to eat. I was still puzzled as to the weakness of my legs--push on the pedals though I might, I could make them go no faster. I thought, perhaps, after 3 hours of biking that I needed to eat something to recover energy. We had a bite of an energy bar and some water then decided to go as long as we could until it began to get dark. We kept our eyes open for potential bus shelters. But for a great stretch, we saw none. I believe we had entered a Hokkaido Wildlife Conservation area. There was little around us but masses of green on either side, and black road ahead. We could hear loud frogs and insects in the vegetation, and birds. I felt frustrated, nonetheless, that I could not push my legs faster, and that I continued to lag behind despite my efforts. I thought surely it must be that I should have stopped to eat a little more. I was reduced to quite the crawl, much like the snails that I swerved around on the shoulder of the road.
The light lessened, and the scent of a cool evening after the rain was strong. Climbing up more hills, with my bike gear nearly as low as it could go, Magali exclaimed that there was a bus stop ahead! There was one very small one, tucked into the trees, and another slightly larger one down the hill. We came to the larger one and parked our bikes. Magali, have far more energy than me left, scouted back up the hill to take a look at the smaller one. Then down a side road to see what was around us. But we were truly in the middle of nowhere, still surrounded by dense green forest on either side. We pushed open the sliding doors of the wooden building. I almost expected a raccoon or small animal to leap out, but it was dark and empty. Empty, that is, except for the hundreds of tiny ants trailing across the floor. Alas! That was the floor we would sleep on! But, true to Japanese sensibilities, there was a small broom tucked. I swept away at the floor. But the ants were persistent and we resigned ourselves to becoming covered in them during the night. We laid down the bike bag for Magali’s bike, and the plastic bags from my sleeping bag. We tucked our bikes away in the tall grass and plants, behind a road rail. The evening darkened, and it was about 7:30PM. Settling our bags on the benches and taking off our wet shoes, we took out our dinners. Talking happily--though perhaps each still harboring some questions as to the legality of our sleeping situation--, we enjoyed our dinners after our ride. I took a look at the bus schedule, guessing that the first would come around 5am and that we should try to be on our way by that time. We had come about 60km. Not a very fast speed, as I calculated. Mostly due to my sluggishness, I thought, as I ate my soba noodles, soy sauce, and wasabi. I had inarizushi as well, and Magali had brought banana bread for dessert. A good meal, made better by the miles. We changed out of our damp clothes--we had about one set of riding clothes, and one set of sleeping clothes, brushed our teeth, rolled out our sleeping bags, and crawled in. We awaited the moment when we would become covered in ants. On the other side of the wooden doors, large trucks zoomed now and again down the otherwise quiet, remote road. These seemed to rattle the shelter. At first, laying on the hard floor was no trouble, and would not have been so uncomfortable if I had not been so nervous to come out of my plastic sleeping bag cover (a ward for the ants). I had images of black trails of tiny ants overtaking my legs, and although it was stuffy inside of the bag, I preferred that to ants. I do not think that either of us slept much, though perhaps for short stretches. We were also wary of anyone appearing at the bus shelter in the night, and having to groggily explain ourselves in Japanese. Perhaps it is more accurate to say that we slept with one eye open. During the night, every so often I could feel a tickle traveling across my skin--sure enough, it would be a little ant. They especially liked to travel across my forehead, and I pulled a few from my hair. But not so many as I had expected, and slowly they relented. The bus shelter was small, but large enough for us both to lay down without feeling cramped. There were glass windows, and plants (name this plant?) waved against the windows like faces. It began to rain some time during the night. I checked my watch many times before the sunrise. Then, around 3:20am, the skies became very slowly a dark blue. By about 3:30am, slightly more blue. And then, a sound that woke us both up. We became tense. It was the hum of a motorbike pulling up in the gravel in front of the shelter. We laid motionless in our sleeping bags, but with one eye slitted towards the door. The door slid open, there was a pause, then a pile of newspapers were tossed onto the floor near my head. The door slid shut, and the motor bike drove away. We breathed heavily in relief, catching each others eye and laughing nervously. Then Magali looked towards the door and said “there’s someone else!”
The door slowly slid open again, and a short old lady, arrayed in rain gear and a rain bonnet peeked inside. At first, I thought she was asking to come inside and we hurriedly cleared away our bags from part of the bench. Then I understood that she was, in fact, asking about the newspapers. I looked beside me, picked up the bundle, and handed them to her. She rambled on gently as she packed them into her bag, not seeming surprised at all to find us there, and continuing on as old Japanese ladies do about many things at once. I caught something about her having a son, about waking up early everyday to make the long walk, and what good exercise it was, sorry for waking us up when we were sleeping, and perhaps something about how she shouldn’t actually be taking the newspapers. But I was unsure. All this before 3:35am. When she left, Magali and I stared at each other. We began to laugh--we had not expected that at all! And not more than a few moments later, we heard the large motor of a truck pull up. What now!? The door slid open, and a man stood at the threshold. He also did not appear particularly surprised to find us. He asked about the newspapers and I told him that an old lady had only just moments before come and taken them. He said “indeed”, and I could not judge if it was good or bad that the lady had taken them-- I began to guess that perhaps it was a frequent occurrence that she took the papers! Or that perhaps this was her son? He said goodbye and shut the door. By now, it had become completely bright out. For a few more short minutes we decided to rest, then pack up before anyone else could surprise us in the middle of nowhere. During the night, the rain had become quite heavy, and it persisted though more lightly than before. I suggested we wait a short time, but Magali pointed out that we might as well move on and that we would get wet no matter what. We rolled up our bags, I combed my hair and brushed my teeth, we pulled on our biking clothes and raincoats, then sat and ate a clif bar for an early breakfast. We strapped everything onto the bikes, and were on the road again by 4:30am.
The skies were still grey, and the surroundings misty. On either side, there was green shrouded by fog. Coming up a hill, we were treated by a spectacular race downhill, opening into a view of paddy fields amidst the forests. I always had to hold my hat onto my head during such flying downhills. We road some ways, before rolling into a small town just before 5:30am. Here we stopped to grab something more for breakfast from a conbini. I bought an ume (pickled plum) onigiri, matcha milk, and anpan that I would save for later. Everything was dreary looking, and like many of the places we passed, quiet and empty. There was a campsite across the street (empty as well) and we crossed, parked our bikes, and sat under a wooden shelter with sinks. There were no campers. As we were leaving, an older man pulled up in front of the roped off path to the campsite. It seemed he was preparing to cut the grass. We got back on our bikes, and were on our way. Apparently, Magali told me as we rode, the construction workers who had also stopped at the conbini while we were there noticed us and were chuckling. I suppose for them we did appear odd. Two foreigners in the middle of nowhere, in the far north of Japan, at dawn, on bikes, clinging to the edge of the road in the light rain. Throughout the next stretch, we continued to pass through long tunnels under the cliffs. Neither of us enjoyed these tunnels. And each time we finished one, another awaited--growing longer each time. The first ones we had entered were around 1500m, but by the end we had finished some more than 3000m long. We clung tight to the shoulder as traffic, even early in the morning, wailed past us. I remember steeling myself, and pushing hard to pedal. Magali was always gaining a big lead through these tunnels, and I still felt so slow. I wondered why I could not match her pace, and why my sluggish pace still felt so grueling. With each growing howl of approaching traffic, I thought surely this time I would be struck--like a bug onto a windshield. Fortunately, no such catastrophe occurred. After long stretches through the tunnels, there would be a little sign on the wall revealing the remaining meters before, and the meters behind. These were often discouraging! I began to think of the meters in terms of track and field races. How long should it take me if I were racing? Not very long after the conbini, there were cones in the road and it became clear that we were entering a long string of construction. Traffic was often reduced to oneway, one lane traffic. Although the roads were not overwhelmingly busy, there were many trucks. We were ushered into the lanes, and I felt out of place with trucks ahead and trucks bearing down behind us. The construction workers who ushered us along gave us varying looks--from amusement, chants of encouragement, smiles, perplexion, or no expression at all. In fact, we passed the very same workers who had chuckled at us before. I believe they said “gambatte!” as we road by. Another older man chanted something encouragingly. But, still others simply waved us on like the cars. It was somewhat frustrating to deal with stopping and going every so many miles.
Around the Cape Ofuyu area, though there was still construction, there were waterfalls against the stone cliffs. I would have liked to stop and look at these more! There were some tunnels with pillars that formed windows out to the sea spread out to our left. These tunnels were far more enjoyable. They gave us shelter from the light but ever persistent mist of rain, but did not submit us to the dank, dark, and orange glow of their longer brethren. The sea and grey clouds, the rocks, the waves, and the cliffs. The colors of Hokkaido are a subtle, varied, and beautiful palette. Combinations you do not expect, and that you will not have witnessed before. That I have never seen before and will never see again! Deep black, brown rock, like wet earth. Green, rich, vines and plant the hue of damp moss, clinging to steep cliff. All tumbling, in time, down to the sea. And the horizon, that unending line. What lay beyond? The far off coast of Russia? We continued the in and out game of tunnels, emerging from the dark into new places with new and towering cliffs that we had unknowingly traveled beneath. I remember thinking, looking out to the sea on my left hand and the land on my right, what use is fantasy when this world exists before our very eyes?
Pushing onwards, the road on either side became green. We were pulling a little ways from the coast, which had hung just beneath our pedals. We entered more tunnels and I could feel the slow, long incline even if I could not see it. It was subtle. But we were beginning the start of a climb. This would, in fact, become the most difficult climb of our journey though we were not aware of its beginning. Looking at a map in the days preceeding our trip, we had noted the elevation. There were some spots with ups and downs, but just about the 1/3 mark there was a daunting climb. The road, after all, passed in this area by the feet of two mountains. Luckily not over the mountains themselves! We had both been wondering when we would hit it. My legs had already been tired in the more flat tunnels. Now, as we entered a particularly long tunnel, it was like pedaling against a wall. I crept slowly, slowly, slowly along in the dark tunnel. Moving as a snail would up a similar elevation. Yes, I thought to myself, we must be climbing. This tunnel was perhaps around 4,000 or 5,000m long. So, as subtle as the incline was, it was also endless. And we had no advantage of the sights around us to know our progress. Was this the worst? Or was there more ahead? Push, push, push on the pedals. I remember feeling as though I was not moving at all. I promised my legs--make it through the tunnel, and you can stop. Make it through the tunnel. Surely that will be the top. I was biking in front of Magali for this longest tunnel--perhaps to keep me in sight!--and I felt that I was undoubtedly moving too slow even as I wished to go fast to finish the tunnel. We could not stop, no matter what, inside the tunnels. Finally emerging, I felt as though my bike could topple over from moving so slow. There were tree tops all around us, and we could guess that we were high up. Guess, because we were still shrouded in mist. We could not see beyond the green around us. We could feel it. There was more hill still in front of us, part of which crossed a bridge. I turned to Magali, hoping to fulfill my promise to my legs. She advised strongly that we not stop on the bridge. My legs were not pleased, and I said I would try my best to keep moving. Barely passing the end of one bridge, it was clear that there would be more ahead. I hopped off my bike, or risk falling off. I needed to walk a ways, to finish the climb and let my legs stretch. I felt silly and out of shape to be having so much trouble. I knew it was a difficult climb, but everything seemed strange and more difficult than it should have been. What should have been a striking view of the ocean and the heights about us was still all mist. We tried to imagine the beautiful view. We came to another tunnel, not so long as the previous, and with a sigh I got back on my bike. No walking through the tunnels, after all. But finally, finally, finally we had the worst behind us. Coming to the top, the road began slowly to descend. We even passed through a tunnel on the way down--thankful, with the descent speeding us onwards. Down, down, down we went. Looking back, we could see some of the mountain we had laboriously scaled. This feels far more rewarding--to look back, to look up at what you have done! We glided into the area of Mashike. Still mist and grey skies. We were along the sea again. Along the strip of roadside nearest the sea was a quiet campground. Here there was a wooden shelter for sinks, a parked car, and two large tents. We had been talking loudly and animatedly out on the wet and empty roads. I realized as we rolled past the tents that it was still before 7am. We had come many miles, and had been biking for three hours, and had two breakfasts already. But, as I thought suddenly the people in the tents were probably still sound asleep! We lowered our voices! There was a building with bathrooms next to the campsite and we stopped to eat a piece of a Japanese energy bar (“Calorie Mate”), use the bathroom, drink some water, and fill up the water bottles.
As we continued, it seemed that we had indeed left the hills and climbs behind us. The road began to open along the coast and to flatten. The skies remained grey, but with the peculiar tint of the sea and all its quiet palette. We passed through small coastal towns, with boats and docks. With small houses and the interesting array of color choices for rooftops, and oddly unsymmetrical and unpredictable shapes of Japanese architecture. Although the roads were flatter than before, I found myself slowing. This was frustrating to me--why should it still be so difficult against the pedals over flat road? We were coming closer and closer to Rumoi, which is just under the half way point. I watched the road signs anxiously, and the km passed by slowly.
We came to the sign marking the outer limits of the city of Rumoi, which was sparse, but there was a sign that the city proper was some 7 or 10km ahead. I began to grow even more frustrated at this point. Surely I could not be in such poor shape that a mere 150km or so spread over decent time should trouble me. I remember clunking over a curb particularly hard and worrying fleetingly if such impact had done anything to my tire. I kept on, but very shortly thereafter and just as we reached the very cusp of the city proper, I felt an unfamiliar rhythm to my wheels. A pat, pat, pat. I turned to Magali and asked her if she felt the same. Perhaps it was the surface. She seemed puzzled. I looked down to my tire--as I had feared. Flat. Since departure, I had worried that there was not enough air in my tires. They seemed soft to the touch, though they held air. I had bought a pump the day before, assured by the salesman at the bike shop that it would fit to my brand of bike, and we had tried to harden the tires the night before, and just before starting that morning. But they had remained “soft.” All the while the front tire had seemed most problematic to me, but in the end it was the back tire that deflated. Rather suddenly as well. Clearly, there was a puncture. We tried futilely to pump air into it--realizing furthermore that the pump was useless even on sound tires since it did not line up with the hole. I think that both of us were feeling frustrated. Magali is quite the patient person, and had hid her probable dissatisfaction with my slow pace well. But I could sense it. Now, we were slowed to a walk. We tried to strategize as to what we should do. In the United States, gas stations often have an air pump. In Japan, not so often. I thought that perhaps a conbini would have one. We crossed the highway, and I went in to ask. The ladies behind the counter did a lot of puzzling, scratching heads, and talking--but in the end said very little of use. They pulled out a map of the city and pointed out a possible bike shop, circling it, but then not actually giving me the map. After perhaps 10 minutes of listening to their suggestions, and nodding that “oh, ok, I think I can find the place,” I went back outside to Magali. She asked what they had said. I replied “a lot, and nothing at all. But apparently there is a bike shop in town.” I gestured in the general forward direction. “Someplace this way, and then to the right, and then…” We started walking in that direction, but again I felt that I was causing a burden and that any moment Magali would wish to leave me behind. Fortunately, she is a far stouter character than that. She put up with my indecisiveness. Recognizing that probably the directions told to me by the ladies at the conbini were of imprecise use, she said we should stop into the tiny grocery store across the street. Inside, it truly was a tiny space. No one was at the counter, so we called “sumimasen.” A middle-aged, somewhat dazed looking man came out. We explained that we were searching for a bike shop. He went back, and then came out to the desk with the same map the ladies had used, only more wrinkled. Without saying anything at all, he used a pen to draw the route--perhaps a 10 minute walk. I asked if we could keep the map, and he nodded. We followed the route down the street, then turned down a hill. Towards the right, sure enough, there was a bike shop. It looked more like a garage inside, filled with bikes and tools and worn. We went in, and I explained that my tire had gone flat and there was likely a hole. I asked if there was a way to check, and how much it might cost. Neither I nor Magali properly understood the man’s explanation. It sounded to us that it would be some 1500 yen ($15) per tire to check, and then more to patch. But there was no way around it. We agreed, and asked how long it would take. Perhaps half an hour. I watched as the man wheeled my bike away. The sun had finally broken from behind the clouds. We decided to wait outside the shop and eat a snack, and peel off some of our rain gear. In the sun, it felt hot as opposed to clammy. I even put on a layer of sunscreen. I had packed my favorite Japanese snack--kinako nejiri, or compressed soybean flour twisted into small blocks. We shared this, drank some water, and discussed our plight. Magali rightly pointed out that we had the most fortunate misfortune in this case. The tire had gone flat very literally as we entered the city--the largest city on our route by far, and one of few guaranteed to have a bike shop as opposed to the tiny, sleepy towns we might have passed elsewhere. And indeed, there were many stretches of road without any towns or buildings in sight for 30 (and in some cases 40) km in between. The tire had gone flat enough that we would have been walking for certain, and that would have been trouble indeed. The man came back shortly and announced the prognosis--there was a small hole in the tube of the back tire. A few minutes later he came back to inform us that, in fact, there were two holes! When he brought the bike back out, the tires had been newly filled with air. I pinched them, and they were hard, like they had been in the fall when I first bought the bike. During the first leg of our ride, they would give under pressure. We began to realize that my tires had been partially flat for the entire ride. And by comparison to the feel of the newly filled tires, quite flat. I had suspected that they desperately needed air the whole while, and had thrown constant nervous looks downwards--leaning off my bike to try to glance the wheels. But I had not realized the extent. The handed the bike back to us, and I could feel that he suspected us of being mildly incompetent. That unspoken look of question, doubt, and possible concern for our future wellbeing. I have come to greatly resent this look, so often gifted me by the people I have met on adventures here in Japan. I am led to wonder, now and again, if there is not a touch of sexism as well in this questioning. As two young women on a bike trip, out in the middle of nowhere Japan. But I could not argue that I seemed a fool to have biked so far with such flat tires. Though I would point out that there had been little option once we set out, and that I had tried my best as we left to fill them--I have yet to find a pump in Japan that actually lines up with the tires, though I have searched and asked. We went inside and I took out my wallet, expecting to have to pay the assumed price for checking both tires and patching two holes. However, lo and behold, the price in total was only about 1500yen. I was puzzled, but certainly pleased. Whether Magali and I had misunderstood the price before, or whether the man was being kind I do not know. We thanked him, but he was not rid of us yet. As we had waited, we decided that we should also ask if he had a recommendation for a ramen shop. He looked at us slightly unknowing, then went into a backroom. It almost sounded as though he was making a phone call--we reflected later that he had actually called to ask for a suggestion, not knowing one himself but not wishing to say so. He came back and told us there was one near to the Rumoi station. This was convenient for us, because we needed to find road 232 which would continue north. The road appeared to be near to the station. We went outside, he gave the tires another nervous check, glanced at us again in doubtfulness, then even hastily checked Magali’s bike tires. This confirmed our suspicions that he thought we were incompetent. But at least the tires were fixed, and he had been kind enough for his doubt. Another Japanese person left in concern for my safety.
We got on our bikes in search of the ramen shop. We had both agreed, in the rain and mist of dawn, that ramen would be a good meal for lunch. My bike already felt smoother beneath me. We approached the station, and saw a small shop with a banner spelling “ra-men.” We parked our bikes, tried to make ourselves look a little less windblown, and went inside. It was small indeed, with only 5 tables crammed inside. In the back, there was a little living room behind a curtain, with a child gate. Peering past the curtain, a tv was visible, a small child, and a man seated on the floor. There was a tv on the shelf, perched just above Magali’s head as well, and playing Japanese dramas. We looked at the menu, and both decided on moyashi ramen (bean sprout topped-ramen). Magali at first ordered something else, but we were informed that it hadn’t been prepared yet. Magali pointed out that this was probably a good sign, since they made the stock themselves. It was a round, middle-aged Japanese lady who took our orders. Very motherly indeed. Apparently, Magali said, ramen is generally considered to be a “man’s” snack. I had not heard this before, but the feel of most barstool ramen shops does seem more of a “man’s” space--and thinking back, I rarely see women come by themselves to ramen shops. The lady brought out two big bowls of ramen, topped with bean sprouts, menma (bamboo shoots), and naruto. It looked and smelled delicious. I must admit that, while in Japan, I have only eaten ramen a handful of times. This has been an oversight on my part, I realized, as I ate the steamy noodles. It is well-loved for a reason. Often, however, the broth contains meat stock and so I am generally discouraged from seeking it out. But when I am lucky, there is soy sauce or miso based soup stock instead (which tastes better anyways!). We finished our meals, and went to the register to pay. After and saying ‘gouchisousama deshita!’ (a customary saying after meals: ‘thanks for the feast!/it was a feast’), the lady asked offhandedly “going to Wakkanai?” It seems that many people stop through Rumoi on their way to Wakkanai by bike.
We went back out and resettled our bikes and bags. It was now the early afternoon. We had lost a couple hours. We glanced at the map to reconnect with 232. After a bit of searching, and a number of large trucks and semis, we found the route. Rumoi is surrounded by green hills, with mountains just in the distance and the coastline within sight. Looking back over my shoulder, the surrounding land seemed idealic. The city, like most Japanese cities, seemed worn around the edges but I imagined it to be a peaceful place to live nearby. We were on our way, with fresh tires, full stomachs, and our first stretch of sunlight. It would not last long, but it was welcome. I marveled at the new speed of my bike. My legs peddled effortlessly. The mystery had been solved--I had not been losing strength, I had been biking for more than 100km with foolishly flat tires. Up part of a mountain, as well! No wonder I had struggled so during the first half. Now, I was flying. Now, it was Magali who would have to keep pace with me! As opposed to our crawl of 15km, we now sped along at 27km/hr. The second half of the trip was before us.
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