What really blows your mind is what no one talks about. How beautiful Japan is and how big the moutains are, how generous Japanese people can be and what joy it is to travel there on a bicycle — weird cycling lanes, lugubrious tunnels and all else included!
Kampai! BY JANICK LEMIEUX AND PIERRE BOUCHARD
After a glance at the topographical contour lines found
very close together on page 121 of our Shobunsha Japan Road Atlas, we estimated Tani Pass to be approximately 900 metres high. When our Suunto wrist-top computers indicated 600 metres, we stopped for some inari-zushi, a good dose of calories to push us up and over. Within minutes of sitting back in the saddle, a big flat tunnel drilled through the hill appeared. The climb was over. We didn’t know it yet but on the Japanese road network we would very rarely make it up to a conventional pass. There would always be a tunnel to cut our ascent short. A bit like sex without climax: you’re still glad you did it, but don’t scream with joy when you come (or, in one instance, don’t) out on the other end!
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These were not the only frustrating roadworks we’d witnessed since disembarking in Nagoya’s ferry port a few days before — from Taiwan, after a 24-hour stopover on Okinawa: we had to contend with the very common urban cycling paths, known elsewhere as sidewalks. Maybe sharing the narrow cement strip strewn with pedestrians, benches, phone booths and other cyclists is safer than mingling on the street with motor vehicles, but I’d be curious to know the number of broken wrists and ankles these cramped surfaces see. Japanese stereotypes abound. Most people who’ve never set a wheel or foot in the Land of the Rising Sun imagine Japan to be crowded, expensive and high-tech — I know I did — and the Japanese to be shy, meticulous and group-oriented. While some of this is absolutely true — it was fascinating to encounter an automated bathroom for the first time and to see $30 melons in the grocery store — what really blows your mind is what no one talks about. How beautiful Japan is and how big the moutains are, how generous Japanese people can be and what joy it is to travel there on a bicycle — weird cycling lanes, lugubrious tunnels and all else included!
RIDING AROUND ON THE SIDEWALKS of Kanazawa in Ishikawa Prefecture, we met an English teacher, a young man from Scotland. Filled with wanderlust, he was contemplating quitting his post to ride around the country. He’d been in Japan for a few months and still marveled at the level of safety found in the cities. “You can forget your wallet in a pub and no one will steal it,” he exclaimed, as if this could never happen in Glasgow. The usual security measures we use anywhere slowly vaporized as we made our way around Chubu region and the Japanese Alps in Central Honshu. My job as a bicycle guard dog — a position I have held through 25 countries — was quickly abolished, and I joined Pierre inside grocery stores, finally roaming the aisles and loading the basket with supplies for meals and snacks. This was probably not a good thing for our budget! Instead of free-camping away from any dwellings and making sure not one person has seen us slide into the landscape, we often set up camp in public parks, even in the middle of town. At dawn, people walking their small purebred dogs would pretend not to see us, or smile and offer a friendly “ohayo gozaimasu.” Setting up the tent, beer in hand, in the parking lot of a Michi-noEki (a uniquely Japanese road station) at the foot of Mount Ontake (3,067 metres), one of Japan’s great holy mountains, we philosophized about the freedom the safety un-situation brings to our journey. In a culture where respect for others is a key value and with a system of beliefs where every deed adds up from here to eternity, it’s assumed no one will abuse and most won’t infringe on another person’s rights. This includes free-camping and public beer drinking, the inevitable when you live outside on a bike! Eighty percent of the Japanese territory is mountainous, with a number of volcanoes, some 40 of them active. The country is a chain of islands sitting on the Pacific Ring of Fire. All this geothermal activity is responsible for Japan’s abundance of hot springs (onsen). In fact, no other country has as much hot water pouring out of its ground. The result is a unique bathing culture. Public baths (sento) are found in urban areas and are a gathering point for people (mostly women it seems) to catch up on the latest gossip. When reaching resort areas outside of the cities, elaborate spas abound, most of them with a variety of indoor and outdoor pools, saunas and steam rooms. Intimidated at first to commit a faux pas regarding onsen etiquette, we eventually became stinky enough that not bathing would have been more offensive than any blunder we could make inside the mysterious baths. After removing our Shimano sandals at the door of a small ryokan near Mount Haku (2,702 metres) and paying the 600-yen entrance fee, we were given plastic slippers and escorted upstairs by the owner. Two sliding doors side-by-side had different kanji characters written on them. This is where Pierre and I had to split. I took my cue from a woman entering the change room right behind me, stripped down and put my clothes in a plastic basket. From there, I entered the tiled room and splashed water over my body before moving further in. A
half-dozen faucets lined the wall. I sat on a Lilliputian stool in front of one of them and thoroughly washed all of my body with shampoo and soap, with the help of a small tub and my onsen towel. After rinsing off, I walked to the hot pool and slipped into the scalding bath. When I thought I might pass out, I walked out, dried off, weighed myself and got dressed. No gaffes and absolute well-being. Pierre’s experience was similar. He was sitting outside when I walked out. Our eyes met. We’d just become instant onsen addicts. “If I’m able to relax in a hot bath before retiring to my tent each night, does it mean I have just reached touring nirvana?” I asked. A small and unequivocal red logo uniformly represents onsen establishments across Japan — some 2,500 of them! We dutifully followed the onsen trail into Gifu, Nagano and Gunma Prefectures.
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Invitations such as this don’t come often, and a few weeks later, after riding up to Mount Akagi and Mount Haruna, we made a bee line on Highway #17 straight to our new friends’ doorstep. With our Japanese-English dictionary and their electronic translator, we kept the communication lines going. The tone of our second meeting was set by the first one, and we rarely wandered far from a garnished table. We were taken to a yakitori restaurant, a soba specialist and a sushi master. A planned karaoke evening was canceled because the venue was closed — sigh of relief! At home, Toshiko kept preparing Japanese specialities, while Masaya tirelessly refilled our glasses with his favorite sochu, made from southerly Amami Island’s cane sugar. Three nights in a row, we collapsed on the futons laid for us on the tatami mats. Riding south to Mount Fuji, Japan’s most-venerated peak and enduring symbol, Masaya’s warmth and words traveled with us — after a few drinks, his patriotic pride had resurfaced and he had said “Japanese mind and heart is very good. Japan is so beauty.” After a summer ride amongst its highest mountains and friendliest of people, we couldn’t agree more.
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Brilliant civil engineering kept us away from heavy vehicles plowing expressways made mostly of tunnels through the surrounding hills. From the bottom of quiet and picturesque valleys, riding through rice paddies and sleepy country towns, sometimes the only visible sight of the busy arteries was a large glass tube linking two mounts high above. New types of roads appeared on the scene in the Japanese Alps, namely scenic roads closed to private vehicles, and Super Rindo, panoramic byways closed to bicycles. While the latter frustrated us and added kilometres to our zigzagging alpine ride, the former, designed to preserve the fragile nature of higher altitudes, was a treat for the senses. On the Norikura Skyline, Japan’s highest segment of the network, alpine flowers carpeted the roadside in a rainbow of colours while small butterflies fluttered in the wind. And national tourists — hauled up in a few buses and taxis — tried to catch both . . . with their cellphone cameras! We’d found Shinto shrines and Buddhist temples in cramped cities, in the mountains’ every nook and cranny, in front of venerable trees, even at the top of volcanoes, but a Japanese proverb says, “Never say kekko (content), until you’ve seen Nikko,” so we dismounted long enough in the Toshigi Prefecture mountain town to visit its Unesco World Heritage sites. The Toshogu Shrine was built in 1617 as a mausoleum to Tokugawa Ieyasu, the first shogun of the Shogunate government of Edo. The Rinnoji Temple, founded in 766, is the head of the Tendai Sect of Buddhism. Futurasan Shrine is part of a trio, with one brother shrine located up on the shoreline of Lake Chuzenji and the third one at the very top of Mount Nantai (2,468 metres), a dormant volcano. With thousands of intricate carvings and vibrant colours, the shrines and temples dazzled — or was it the glow from the steady flow of shiny tourists sporting Chanel sunglasses, Prada stilettos and Louis Vuitton handbags? It hadn’t taken all that long to discover Japan’s No. 1 national obsession. Not sumo, kendo or baseball. Not the four seasons, bonsai gardens, fireworks nor flower arrangements. It wasn’t even onsen, cherry blossoms, manga or pachinko, which are peculiar Japanese slot machines. Incontestably, Japanese people only think about one thing: food and drink! Every region has its age-old traditional delicacy, often the chief reason to visit a specific valley or town. Ingredients used are seasonal and exceedingly fresh. Second-best is never good enough. Soba (thin buckwheat noodles) and udon (thick white wheat noodles) became our diet staples, along with perfect vegetables, tofu, and dairies found in the “reduced-to-sell” supermarket bins. A chance encounter with a Korean student on a solo tour of the Japanese Alps revealed some information critical to our gourmet tour. “Supermarkets, before they close at night, put yellow stickers with these two kanji characters on all the sushi and sashimi trays . . . it means half-price!” he said, while we prepared dinner together, freecamping behind another road station on the way to Takayama. We etched those two ideograms deep into our memories. In Kusatsu, another picturesque town blessed with millions of gallons of hot water relentlessly pouring from its magmatic underground, we met Masaya and Toshiko. They were sharing a few bottles of sochu with Toshiko’s sister and husband in the parking lot of the local road station and were, apparently, running low when we leaned the bikes on the picnic table next to theirs. Masaya, coached by his brother-in-law, asked Pierre if he could borrow his bike to get to the liquor store. Driving was obviously not a good idea, but for an inebriated 60-year-old riding Pierre’s 60-kilogram bike might not have been safer. Pierre volunteered to go himself, and we were readily invited to share and take part in the summer-night celebration and to visit them once we’d reached Saitama, some 30 kilometres north of downtown Tokyo.
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