Confessions of a wannabe Olympic weightlifter

For the past six months, I have been trying to join one of the sports clubs at Kyoto University. I wanted to join the swim team but was told it was for Japanese students only. The long-distance running team welcomed me with open arms but it turned out to be more of a drinking club than a running club. I toyed with the idea of joining the karate club until I found out that having watched the Karate Kid, like, 10 times didn't count as "valid" experience.

But I'm happy to report the long search is now over. I have finally found a sports club at Kyoto University that has accepted me. I am the newest member of -- wait for it -- the Olympic weightlifting team. Yes, that's right. Olympic weightlifting.

Trust me, no one is more surprised by this turn of events than I am. Olympic weightlifting was last on the list of clubs I wanted to join. For me, Olympic weightlifting was synonymous with bulging muscles, big bellies and bad hair. I was worried I'd get a mullet and start dating women if I spent my spare time clean and jerking.

But all of that has changed. My preconceived notions about the sport have gone flying out the window. I no longer think snatch is a dirty word.

But maybe I should explain how I came to join the Olympic weightlifting team before I start busting myths and stereotypes about the sport. Here's how it all went down: A Japanese guy by the name of Yoshi approached my friend Javier at the Kyoto University gym back in the summer. Yoshi, who is a member of the weightlifting team, asked Javier if he wanted to join the club. Javier, whose arm is easily twisted, said yes. Javier asked me if I wanted to try it too. Javier is my regular workout partner and I didn't want to lose him so I decided to go along for the ride. I wasn't sure I'd like it but I'll try anything once (well, except for steroids and mullets. You have to draw the line somewhere).

The Olympic weightlifting team has its own private gym and there are never more than six people in it at a time. Although the guys who work out here don't call it a gym. They call it "the shed." I'm not exactly sure why but I think it has something to do with the fact that the gym is housed in a shed at the end of the football field.


The first time Javier and I met Yoshi at the shed, there were a couple of other Japanese guys working out at the same time. To call these guys "huge" would be an understatement. Their limbs and chests curved outward in cartoonishly exaggerated proportions. It was as if someone had cut open their skin, implanted slabs of concrete and sewn them back up again.

I immediately decided Olympic weightlifting was not the sport for me. I wanted to stay slim and feminine. This place, which was filled with the grunts and shouts of men attempting to lift staggering amounts of weight high above their heads before sending the barbells crashing to the ground, was the antithesis of femininity.

But I don't like to give up on things before I've given them a fair shot so I figured I would try it out for a month before deciding whether I liked it or not.

Yoshi spent the first few sessions coaching Javier and I through the basic techniques of Olympic weightlifting. Like anything new, it was awkward at first. I had to completely unlearn everything I thought I knew about weightlifting. The first misconception I had to toss out was that bodybuilding and Olympic weightlifting are the same thing. They're not.

Bodybuilding is about aesthetics while Olympic lifting is about function. Olympic weightlifting is a very technically demanding sport. You are not lifting the barbell above your head with just your arms. The lifts use every muscle in your body. You are using the muscles in your legs and butt to generate force. With the right technique, the explosive power generated in your lower body should cause your arms and the barbell to practically fly up over your head. It's not just about brute strength. It's about proper technique, concentration, speed and flexibility.


Bodybuilding, on the other hand, uses isolated movements (bicep curls, for example) that serve no real function outside of the gym. Except for maybe impressing chicks who are impressed by those sorts of things. Personally, I'll take big brains over big biceps any day. (I will, however, make an exception for my boyfriend Barack Obama, who manages to have both big brains and ripped abs.)

In addition to the snatch and the clean and jerk, an Olympic weightlifting routine contains all sorts of great strength training exercises. Squats, crunches, vertical jumps, push-ups and chin-ups are all part of the regular workout. I can't think of a better way to increase overall strength. Olympic weightlifting also develops tremendous explosive power, which can be transferred to other sports, like cycling and running.


The only downside is that I am the only female member of the club. I've had no trouble recruiting male friends like Sergey (now known as the Bulgarian Bodybuilder). But trying to get female friends to join the club is impossible. The women I've talked to want to work out on a stationary bike or do light weights. But the Olympic gym only contains barbells and plates. And most women assume lifting heavy weights will make them big and muscular.

But instead of giving me the shoulders of an East German swimmer, Olympic weightlifting has actually made me smaller. I've burned fat and lost weight since joining the club. Two months of consistent weight training has toned my legs better than years of running ever did. The best part is that I feel great. Plus, I can bang out a set of chin-ups, chug back a protein shake with the boys and still feel feminine. I have no desire to go on the juice or cut my hair into a mullet.

I had no idea I would enjoy Olympic weightlifting this much. It was the last club I wanted to join. But I have gained a whole new appreciation and respect for the sport. It's so much more than just bulging muscles, big bellies and bad hair.

Movin' on down

For the past 12 months, I lived in an apartment building for international students, researchers and professors at Kyoto University. It wasn't the lap of luxury but it had a few perks.

My sheets were laundered every Wednesday. I had a huge balcony, a kitchen with counter space, rent that was so heavily subsidized it was practically free, my own washing machine and friends on every floor (except for the fourth floor. I never met anyone who lived on the fourth floor).

But, like all good things, it came to an end last week. The maximum tenancy at Kyoto University's international house is one year. After that, you're on your own. You have to move out and find a "real" apartment. Finding an apartment in Kyoto is both easier and more difficult than you might think.

The easy part is that there are apartment rental agencies all over the city. You simply go to one in the neighbourhood you want to live in. You meet with an agent and tell them what you're looking for. They then search for suitable apartments in your price range and drive you around from apartment to apartment until you find one you like. They do all of the work and it is completely free. You can go to as many agencies as you like and view as many apartments as you like. It's all very polite, professional and efficient. There is no pressure to sign a contract.

The difficult part is that you have to do all of this in Japanese. You also have to sign a rental contract that is written in Japanese. So you may not know exactly what you're agreeing to if your Japanese isn't up to scratch.

The other sticky issue is that many landlords demand a lot of money upfront. Two months rent, a security deposit, plus "key money" (key money is basically bribe money. It costs around $1,000 and it's considered a "gift" to the landlord for allowing you to live in the apartment. You can ask for housing that doesn't require key money but this will limit your options).

I decided I wanted to stay in the same neighbourhood, which made searching for an apartment a lot easier. I live in the northeast corner of Kyoto, which is considered an undesirable area because it is 3 km from the university and 5 km from downtown. A lot of Japanese people consider these distances "far" and "inconvenient." So rents are a lot cheaper up here. Which is ridiculous when you consider there is a train station and a subway station nearby. Not to mention a huge park with great hiking and running trails through the mountains. There are lots of little shops, restaurants and grocery stores. It would be a highly desirable neighbourhood in Canada. It's the Japanese equivalent of High Park in Toronto or Kitsilano in Vancouver (but with less blond hair, breast implants and Lululemon).

The average rent for a one-room apartment in Kyoto is about $400 a month. And by "one room" I literally mean one room. You cook, eat, sleep and work all in the same tiny room. An apartment with a separate bedroom is twice as expensive.

I found a one-room apartment for $300 a month. The best part is that almost everything is included in the rent. I have free electricity, free wireless internet and a free rooftop laundry room. (The rooftop laundry room is awesome. I'm totally going to have a party up here.)





The apartment is clean and quiet (except for the dog across the street, who barks and whines incessantly). The only catch is that the kitchen is the size of a photo booth with absolutely no counter space.



And the toilet is a squat toilet.


And, um, there's no shower in the apartment. But there are shared showers on the other side of the building, past the bike parking area. On the downside, the showers are coin-operated. On the upside, I don't have to clean them. It's like staying in a hotel! A really cheap hotel!



The strange thing is, none of this bothers me. If I were living in a one-room apartment with a squat toilet and shared showers back home, I would probably be in the depths of depression. But only because I would be surrounded by friends who own houses or rent large apartments. I would feel "poor" by comparison.

But over here, everyone is in the same boat. All of my friends are on the same scholarship, so we are all forced to share the same standard of living. We all live in one-room apartments. We all pull in the same income each month. Some of my friends live in places where they share kitchens and toilets. I feel rich by comparison. It's all relative.

So here it is. My new home. (Can you spot the items from Ikea?)


I haven't met the neighbours yet. They live in a traditional-style Japanese house. With barbed wire. They don't seem very friendly. I'm starting to suspect I live next door to the yakuza.


My landlord, on the other hand, is incredibly sweet. He is a huge road cycling enthusiast and a former triathlete. I think a major factor in his decision to rent the apartment to me was the fact that we both share a love of bikes. We ended up talking about cycling for an hour when he showed me the apartment. One of his dreams is to ride across Canada. He saw a TV show about Canada once and has wanted to visit ever since. Maybe that explains the cute nameplate he made me for my mailbox.


It may not be as nice as my apartment at Kyoto University's international house. There's no laundry service and no friends on every floor. But I'm getting used to it. It's home. For now.

IKEA in Japan

I went to Ikea for the first time last week. I didn't even know there was an Ikea in Japan. I'm not even sure how I found out there was an Ikea in Japan. Maybe I read about it online or maybe someone mentioned it in passing. Either way, I went to Ikea for the first time last week.

Ikea in Japan is exactly like Ikea anywhere else. This was somewhat disappointing because I was expecting it to be less Swedish and more Japanese. I thought it would follow the McDonald's model, which is to say import the original but add a few items on the menu that can only be found in Japan (like the shrimp burger and the egg burger, for example).

So I was expecting Ikea to be Ikea but with a Japanese twist. Futons instead of beds. Chopsticks instead of forks. Sushi instead of meatballs. But no. The Japanese Ikea did not deviate in any way from the Swedish original. Well, except for the smoking area. I don't remember seeing a smoking area next to the entrance of a Canadian Ikea.



Despite being located in an industrial area in the middle of nowhere (just like in Canada!), the store is extremely easy to get to (not like in Canada!). Ikea offers a free shuttle bus from one of the busiest train stations in downtown Osaka.




The bus was one big moving advertisement for Ikea. Inside the bus, there was an instructional video on how to shop at the store. I think the fact that there's a right way to shop at the store (following the arrows with your little pencil and piece of paper) partly explains its success in Japan. Ikea is already very Japanese. There is a correct way of doing things, there are lots of instructions and explanations, everything is very orderly and clean, there is a proper route that you have to follow. The store is practically a microcosm of Japan.

The bus also contained several ads featuring the Ikea cafe, which were meant to stimulate your appetite during the 25-minute ride so that by the time you finally arrive at the store the first thing you want to do is order up a plate of meatballs with lingonberry sauce. (Which is exactly what we did.)




The menu contained standard Ikea fare, except for the green tea lattes and Japanese curry. The rest of the Japanese Ikea experience was exactly the same as the Canadian Ikea experience. There were the same showrooms containing the same furniture. The same marathon floorplan winding its way through model living rooms, bathrooms and bedrooms. The same massive marketplace. The same airplane-hangar-sized warehouse. And, finally, the same long line ups at the checkout counters.


I picked up a few items for my new apartment (I'm moving on Thursday. But that's a whole other story). Of course, furnishing my apartment was just part of the reason I went to Ikea. I really just wanted to see if it was any different in Japan. And even though it wasn't any different from any other Ikea anywhere else, it was still very Japanese.

Stationmaster cats and goats

Regular readers of this blog may remember a post I wrote about a cat named Tama who was hired to be the stationmaster of a railway station in rural Japan.

Tama has an office, wears a uniform and greets commuters as they come in and out of the station during rush hour. The cat has become so popular that the railway had to hire a human employee to assist the feline stationmaster. Tama has drawn in thousands of tourists from across the country and has single-handedly boosted the local economy by 1.1 billion yen.

In an attempt to copy the success of Tama, other railway stations in Japan are jumping on the "animal as stationmaster" bandwagon. There are now several cat stationmasters and at least one dog stationmaster. (The dog is a Yorkshire Terrier by the name of Maron, who works at a small railway station in northern Japan. He seems much more agreeable about wearing a full uniform than the cats. The cats only deign to wear the hats.)


In an effort to one-up the kitties, the latest animal to be appointed to the role of stationmaster is a goat called Koma. Koma reports for duty at Uzen-Komatsu station. No word yet on how that's working out.


These animals don't just laze around the station or sleep on the job. These pets are put to work. They work six days a week, eight hours a day. They pose for pictures and entertain their fans. They give TV interviews and attend local events as VIPs. They're treated like real employees. They even have to go to meetings.

Some PR people recently arranged a meeting between Kotora (the feline stationmaster of Kichigahara station) and Bus (the feline stationmaster of Aizu Ashinomaki Onsen station). Unfortunately, the meeting didn't go very well. The cats hated each other.


Only in Japan!

A very Canadian summer

When I was back home for a visit a few weeks ago, a friend asked me what I missed most about Canada when I was in Japan. We were driving through the streets of Toronto at the time and it hit me that what I missed most about Canada was right there in front of me.

"I miss this," I said, as we drove through city blocks lined with tiny restaurants serving cheap food from around the world. Indian, Thai, Greek, Jamaican, Korean, Ethiopian, Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese, Lebanese. Ten different countries in two city blocks.

I miss being able to have a burrito for breakfast, a falafel for lunch and souvlaki for dinner. I miss Red River cereal. I miss blending in with the crowd. I miss being able to speak English with everyone I meet. I miss being able to read the cereal box while I eat breakfast. I miss Grape Nuts. I miss the wide-open spaces, the small big cities and the unspoiled wilderness. I miss George Stroumboulopoulos. I miss Tim Hortons.


Don't get me wrong. I love Japan. But I often feel like an outsider living on the fringes of a world I am part of but don't really belong to. I am not Japanese and I will never be Japanese. I am treated with respect and kindness by most of the people I encounter. But the polite smiles and deep bows only serve to highlight the distance between us.

So it was nice to get out of Japan and go home for a few weeks. I spent a little bit of time in Vancouver and a lot of time in Toronto. It's funny how you notice things that you never really paid attention to until after you've been out of the country for a while. Take the liquor store in Ontario, for example. The stores are nicely laid out with helpful signs for each section: Ontario wine, B.C. wine, Australian wine, South African wine, Chilean wine, fine scotches, Japanese sake. And then, the one section I had never noticed before: The Party Zone. Classy!


Of course, no summertime visit to Toronto would be complete without a trip to the CNE. I like the CNE for the atmosphere, the free samples and the mini donuts. I hate the rides. I do not look at the rides and see fun, thrills and excitement. I look at the rides and see nausea, terror and the possibility of serious injury or death. (I like the ferris wheel, though. Ferris wheels are nice and slow and you get great views from the top.)






My sister was getting frustrated that I wouldn't go on any of the rides (not including the ferris wheel. We rode it twice). So I made a deal with her. I agreed to go on one ride as long as I got to choose it. I looked around the midway and immediately ruled out anything that went upside down. I also nixed anything that was more than five feet above the ground and moved at a high speed. Roller coasters were out of the question. We were too tall for the kiddie rides. The haunted house was too lame. The only option was the tilt-a-whirl.

The tilt-a-whirl didn't look so bad from a distance. But appearances can be deceiving. I knew I had made a mistake when, just before the ride was about to begin, a greasy carny walked over to our car, gave my sister and I a pair of high fives and yelled, "ARE YOU READY TO GO FAST?!?!"

"No!" I said in a panicky voice. "We want to go slow!"

But it was too late. The platform started moving. We were going around and around in circles, slowly at first and then faster and faster. Parts of the platform were raised and lowered, which caused the cars to spin in different directions and at different speeds. The cars would swing and snap unexpectedly. Not only was the platform rotating in one giant circle, but our car was spinning wildly at the same time. I started to feel violently ill. I couldn't focus my eyes. We were being spun around and around and around and there was nothing we could do to stop it.

"Let me off!" I screamed. "I'm going to be sick!"

But no one listened. The ride seemed to last an eternity, with me struggling not to vomit all over my sister's lap. I can't believe people actually pay money to put themselves through this type of torture and they actually enjoy it. I almost wept with relief when it was over.


After the madness of the CNE, my family escaped to Georgian Bay for two days. We went to the town of Lafontaine, which is where my grandfather's side of the family is from. The Marchildons were part of a group of families from Quebec who moved to the area in the 1800s. It's still very much a francophone community today (it's also the only place in Canada where every second mailbox has the name "Marchildon" written on it). The lake is one of the most beautiful places in the country.

We drove up to Georgian Bay with my dad's canoe tied to the roof of the car (does it get any more Canadian than that?). I should explain that the canoe is my dad's pride and joy. He built it himself, out of wood and entirely by hand. The canoe is a work of art (he told me to say that. He also told me to put a picture of it up on my blog. Here you go, Dad!).










One of my favourite things about Toronto is the TTC. I love the way the subway stations smell. They have a distinctive smell. If I had to describe it, I would say it's a mixture of old newspapers, stale air, dirt and metal. You're hit with this smell as soon as you walk through the doors. The smell hasn't changed in 30 years. There's something comforting about it. It smells like home.

Stranded in Seattle

I have lousy luck when it comes to flying.

I have been stuck in Detroit due to a blizzard, endured eight hours of violent turbulence all the way to Europe, abandoned in Toronto when a pilot called in sick and now find myself stranded in Seattle thanks to a typhoon in Tokyo.

I was supposed to be landing in Japan right now but am holed up at the Holiday Inn across from the Seattle airport instead. My flight was cancelled. All flights were cancelled. Absolutely no one is flying in or out of typhoon-battered Tokyo today.

There's nothing to do but wait for the storm to pass and flights to open up. I could be here a day. I could be here two days. I could be here three days. No one really knows. I'm on standby for a flight tomorrow but standby is a crapshoot at best.

The worst part of it is that I'm paying for this little holiday at the Holiday Inn out of my own pocket because the airlines don't cover expenses for flights that are cancelled due to weather conditions. Most airlines will bend over backwards to rebook you when a flight is cancelled due to mechanical reasons. But when a flight is cancelled due to poor weather? Tough shit, you're on your own. No food vouchers. No hotel vouchers. No heroic efforts to rebook you on the next available flight.

So I'm having an impromptu vacation in Seattle, whether I want to or not. Or, more specifically, I'm having an impromptu vacation at the Seattle airport, whether I want to or not. Seattle is one of my favourite cities but the area around the Seattle airport is nothing like Seattle. It's pretty much like every other airport wasteland the world over. I know this because I went for a run earlier this afternoon.

My run took me along congested six-lane roads, underneath busy highways, past a Denny's, a Taco Bell, a bunch of gas stations and a dozen bland, boxy airport hotels catering to crowds of people just passing through. It could have been Anywhere, America.

But there are worse places to be stuck. Love it or loathe it, America is a fascinating country. It's so different from Japan. It's probably the polar opposite of Japan. Americans are so assertive and warm and friendly. And, man, do they ever love to talk!

It's culturally accepted to have random conversations with random people, to offer a hearty "hello" to strangers, to chat up everyone and anyone. I don't know how to describe it. Americans just seem so confident and open. Like they'd happily tell you your life story if you asked. I like it. It's refreshing.

When I was in the two-hour line up at the Seattle airport trying to rebook my flight, an American woman ahead of me chatted me up and demanded I use her cellphone to call the airline to figure out what my options were. The airline representative rebooking my flight told me all about his ex-girlfriend who lived in Vancouver and his favourite bars on Granville Street. A guy working at the Holiday Inn told me he loved the colour of my t-shirt, which prompted a 10-minute conversation about how much we both love bright colours. And on and on and on. I've been making friends left, right and centre ever since I stepped on American soil. It's just so different from Japan.

That's not to say it's some sort of extroverted utopia. There are some things about America I will never understand. The way no one seems to walk anywhere, for example. I went to the front desk at the Holiday Inn to ask where the nearest grocery store was.

"There's a 7-11 at the top of the hill," the woman working behind the desk told me.

I told her that wasn't exactly what I was looking for. She told me there wasn't really anything else within walking distance. I wasn't about to give up that easily.

She hummed and hawed and said the 7-11 was the closest thing in walking distance. But that it was still pretty far. It's funny how people define "walking distance" in different ways. For me, walking distance is about 45 minutes each way. For her, walking distance was no more than five minutes each way.

She finally admitted that there was a proper grocery store nearby but that I'd have to zig and zag through a few streets to get there and that I'd probably get lost. And that it was definitely more than five minutes away. She refused to give me directions and pointed me again to the 7-11 at the top of the hill.

The underlying message seemed to be that I was both too lazy and stupid to walk more than five minutes. But when in Rome, do as the Romans do, right? So I caved and went to the 7-11. I bought some snacks (oh man, do they ever have awesome snacks in America). I tried to buy some booze but got carded (didn't have any ID on me). Walked back to the hotel. The whole trip took about three minutes in total.

I'm heading back to the airport tomorrow (the hotel, by the way, is directly across from the airport and it would probably take less than five minutes to walk there but there is a shuttle bus to ferry guests back and forth) in an attempt to fly standby. I don't have high hopes.

I have lousy luck when it comes to flying.

Climbing Mt. Fuji

Two weeks ago, four friends and I finally mounted Mt. Fuji. It may be the highest peak in Japan but reaching the summit is not as impressive as it sounds. That's because "climbing" Mt. Fuji involves little more than walking up a path so well-marked and beaten down it may as well be paved.

Not only is it not physically demanding but the trail is also lined with vending machines, toilets and mountain huts selling hot coffee and souvenirs.

Hiking Mt. Fuji isn't exactly a wilderness experience but it is good, campy fun!

We left Kyoto early Sunday afternoon. Three trains, one bus and several hours later, we arrived at Mt. Fuji's shockingly cold fifth station. We quickly abandoned our plan to hike in shorts and t-shirts and put on every layer of clothing we brought with us. This included the cheap plastic raincoats we bought at the last minute at a nearby 100 yen store (Japan's version of the dollar store, except way more awesome).


Everyone was a bit panicky about whether we'd be warm enough. Except Seema. Seema tied plastic bags around her feet and wore two raincoats over her fur coat (yes, a real fur coat). We looked a bit ridiculous in our ragtag outfits compared to the Japanese hikers who were all wearing gortex rain gear, technical hiking boots and steel-framed backpacks containing bottles of oxygen. They looked like they were about to summit Mt. Everest, not Mt. Fuji.

We started our ascent at 8:00 p.m. on Sunday evening. This is the way most people hike up the mountain. You start late in the afternoon or early evening. Hike for a few hours. Spend the night at a hut halfway up the mountain. Wake up at 2 a.m. and hike the rest of the way to the summit to catch the sunrise. Linger around at the top for a bit. Buy some souvenirs, mail a few postcards. And then hike all the way back down to the fifth station in one go.

This is how it's usually done and this is how we were planning on doing it too. We wanted the full Mt. Fuji experience. So we started our ascent in the dark with only headlights to guide the way.


We had no trouble following the path since it's roped off most of the way up. And the sections that aren't roped off can be easily found by following the large white arrows painted on the volcanic rocks. It took about three hours to reach the eighth station.

The hike is divided into 10 stations. Each station has pay toilets and a mountain hut where you can spend the night or buy food and water (the higher up the mountain you go, the more expensive the water becomes. A bottle of water costs 300 yen at the fifth station and 500 yen at the tenth station. It's a nice little racket).

Each hut has room for about 100 people. The sleeping arrangements are pretty basic. Everyone sleeps side-by-side on futons on the floor, packed in like sardines. There's not a whole lot of sleeping going on since most people are tramping in and out throughout the night. But it's all part of the Mt. Fuji experience.

We went to bed at around 11 p.m. and planned to get up at 2 a.m. in order to catch the sunrise from the summit. But at 2 a.m., the rain started coming down in sheets. We didn't want to embark on a cold, wet, dark hike so we decided to skip the sunrise and sleep in. Luckily, the rain stopped by 6:30 a.m. and we got moving half an hour later (they kick you out of the huts at 7:00 a.m. so a later start was out of the question).


The hike to the summit was uneventful and straightforward. It was an easy hike so we focused on having fun. Highlights included buying hot coffee from a vending machine at the ninth station.



Lowlights included getting a pounding headache. I don't think anyone would be in danger of getting a serious case of altitude sickness on Mt. Fuji but at 3,776 metres (or 12,288 feet) high, you can definitely feel the effects of the thin air.

We saw quite a few Japanese hikers sucking back bottled oxygen as they climbed toward the top. It seemed ridiculously unnecessary.

We reached the summit after three hours of relatively easy hiking. Unfortunately, there was nothing to see but a wall of white fog. It was also extremely cold -- the mercury was hovering around five degrees. And then the sky opened up and the rain started pounding down. We ran into the large shelter on top to warm up. It would have been a nice place to hang out except all of the other hikers were lighting up cigarettes. Nothing says good wholesome fun like breathing in second-hand smoke at the top of a mountain.


We didn't linger for long. We all had headaches from the altitude and a serious storm was brewing. We wanted to get down before it got worse. The temperature was dropping rapidly and the rain was starting to freeze. The wind was whipping wildly, shredding exposed skin with ice pellets that felt like tiny daggers. It was a pretty miserable hike down.

Of course, the wind, the rain and the ice wouldn't have been a problem if we were dressed properly for the weather. I was drenched from head to toe and the only way to stay warm was to run down the mountain. We must have made it down in record time.


Would I do it again? Absolutely. But I'd plan it around a sunny weekend so that I could see the view from the top. And even though the hike is easy, the weather conditions can be challenging. So next time I'd skip the dollar store and bring proper gear.

You can find the rest of my photos on my flickr page.

I'll be back . . .

Yes, I am still here and, no, I have not abandoned this blog. I haven't posted in a long time because I've been busy (a lame excuse but it's the truth).

The spring semester has ended and summer vacation has started. I will be in Vancouver next week and Toronto mid-August. I'm looking forward to catching up with friends and family before returning to Kyoto at the end of the month.

Blogging will resume shortly . . .

Kochi to Kyoto by bicycle: Day 6

Day 6
May 5, 2009
Start: Nara
Finish: Kyoto
Distance: 70 km
Departed: 6:30 a.m.
Arrived: 12:00 p.m.

A few days back, at a stop somewhere in Shikoku, I read a very juicy rumor on the internet. Apparently, there is a riverside bike path that goes all the way from Nara to Kyoto. Fifty kilometres of car-free cycling. It would be the perfect way to end the trip.

The only problem was I couldn't find anyone in Nara who was able to confirm the rumor. No one had heard of the bike path. Not the woman working at the youth hostel. Not the senior citizens sharing my dorm room. Not the boy stocking shelves at the grocery store. Nope, never heard of it, they all said.

I looked at four different maps. The bike path wasn't marked on any of them. But I was determined to find it. Anything to avoid riding along crowded, congested Route 24 -- the main road linking Nara with Kyoto.

All I knew was that the bike path ran alongside a river (don't ask me which river, the internet only hinted at "a river") heading north all the way to Kyoto. I figured if I crossed every river in town, I would eventually find it.

It was a half-baked plan and I'm not sure I would have ever found the bike path had I actually followed through with it. Luckily, I crossed paths with a group of Japanese cyclists immediately after setting off in the morning.

They were stopped at a red light and I figured if anyone in Nara knew where the bike path was, these people would. So I asked them if they knew the way.

Fortunately, they had heard of the bike path. Unfortunately, they didn't know exactly where it was.

The bike path doesn't technically start in Nara, they told me. You have to ride about 10 kilometres north to the town of Kizu first. And then you can get on it from there. But they didn't know where it was exactly. They couldn't be any more specific than "somewhere in Kizu."

Before I could thank them and figure out how to get to Kizu on my own, they offered to lead me there. Once again, I was rescued by the kindness of strangers. (The kindness of strangers was a recurring theme of the trip. There wasn't a single day where someone didn't go out of their way to help me. I swear I must owe, like, half the population of Japan a drink by now.)

The three spandex-clad roadies set off with me in tow. They were going about 30 km an hour and I was working hard to keep up with them.


After we reached the town of Kizu, they told me if I kept going straight, I would probably hit the river. Probably. Maybe. They weren't entirely sure.

I thanked them and we went our separate ways. They had gotten me to the town of Kizu but they had left me nowhere near the river. I simply couldn't find it. I went straight and backtracked a couple of times but there was no river in sight.

There was, however, a 7-Eleven in sight so I pulled in to ask for directions. (Asking people who work at 7-Eleven for directions was also a recurring theme of the trip. Even if they don't really know where you're trying to go they will not give up until they are sure they have pointed you in the right direction. They will pull out maps, make phone calls, consult with management. Whatever it takes. No matter how long it takes. It's just the way things are done in Japan. This extreme attention to detail and dogged determination to find the right answer can be annoying when you are in a hurry but it's a lifesaver when you're truly lost.)

Fortunately, the woman working at the 7-Eleven knew where the bike path was. Unfortunately, she refused to tell me how to get there.

This happens quite a lot in Japan. You'll ask someone a question (for example, you approach a random stranger on the street, point to your map and say, "I'm trying to walk to this restaurant. Do I turn left or right here?"). But instead of giving you an answer, they'll give you advice ("You shouldn't walk there. It's better if you take the subway."). I know they mean well but all of the unsolicited advice drives me crazy. Just answer the question!

Anyway, the woman working at the 7-Eleven told me she knew where the bike path was. But she refused to tell me how to get there.

"You shouldn't take the bike path to Kyoto," she said. "It's too far. It's better if you take Route 24."

I told her I didn't mind the extra distance.

"Well, it's better to take Route 24. It's faster."

I told her I wasn't in a rush.

"Well, it's a long way to Kyoto and you might get tired if you try to ride there on the bike path," she said.

I told her I would probably be fine.

"Well, you might get hungry and you won't be able to find a convenience store on the bike path."

Oh, god. This wasn't going to end. Please. Just. Answer. The. Question.

Sensing that I wasn't going to give up the bike path in favour of crowded, congested Route 24, she finally caved and told me where it was.

Her directions were bang-on and I found the trail easily. The only problem was I wasn't sure if I should turn left or right when I got to the river. I asked a guy who was out walking his dog for help.

"You're going to Kyoto?" he said. "You should take the highway. It's much shorter."

Here we go again.

Why do so many people in Japan feel compelled to offer advice instead of giving a direct answer to a direct question? And why do they always think the path of least resistance is the best option? It's a cultural divide I'm not sure I'll ever be able to cross.

I had to repeat the question a few more times before the guy gave me a straight answer (turn left).

I'm glad I didn't give up on my quest to find the bike path. It was a wonderful way to end the trip. Fifty kilometres of car-free cycling through a lovely river valley.


It was also good practice for my Japanese. Not only did I have to speak Japanese throughout the trip, but I had to read a lot of Japanese signs and maps too. I still have a long, long way to go before I can master the language but I can actually read this sign. It says the left side is a walking path and the right side is for bicycles. Of course, any idiot can guess that's what it says but I could actually read it. It was kind of exciting.



Other signs were a bit more difficult to understand. Apparently, there is an evil, raging river somewhere behind this sign. (Also, who knew rogue waves wore braces?)



You can put flowers on an outhouse but it's still an outhouse.


I had to leave the path after reaching the outskirts Kyoto as it started to veer sharply west and I needed to go east. Fifteen kilometres of city cycling later, I was finally home.



It took six days to ride more than 500 kilometres across Shikoku and up through southwestern Honshu. But I did it. And I did it all by myself.

I know it may not seem like a big deal, but, for me, it was. It was an accomplishment I was hugely proud of. More importantly, it was a reminder of something I needed reminding about -- if you change your beliefs about your limits, your limits themselves change.

Before I left, I wasn't entirely convinced I was physically capable of doing such an epic bike trip. And I was a little nervous about doing it alone. But I love a challenge. I like pushing myself physically and testing myself mentally. I need to test my limits every now and then. The more I test them, the more they disappear. Impossibilities become possibilities. It's a good feeling, this feeling of limitlessness.

But it's not nearly as good as being on a bike with nothing to do all day but ride.

Previous day | Photos

Kochi to Kyoto by bicycle: Day 5

Day 5
May 4, 2009
Start: Gojo
Finish: Nara
Distance: 70 km
Departed: 8 a.m.
Arrived: 2 p.m.

Nothing much happened on Day 5 of my cycling trip. This is probably not the best way to start a story. But a completely uneventful and unremarkable day is all I wanted after a very stressful Day 4.

I was worried my cycling adventure was turning into a cycling misadventure. So it was a huge relief that nothing much happened on Day 5.

I had originally planned to cycle from Kochi to Kyoto in five days, which meant today was supposed to be my last day. I was going to ride from Gojo straight to Kyoto. Gojo is about 110 kilometres directly south of Kyoto, and Route 24 would have taken me all the way there.

But Route 24 was a busy, congested road and I wanted to spend as little time on it as possible. After studying the map, I figured I could head east for about 20 km and then loop northwest to Nara along quiet country roads. From Nara, I could head west along the river and then loop northeast into Kyoto.

Detouring around Route 24 would add about 50 kilometres to the trip. Not a huge distance but enough to make me want to break the last day up into two days. Two short days of riding would be much more enjoyable than one tediously long day. Besides, I wasn't in any rush to get back to Kyoto. There were still two national holidays left before Golden Week was over.

Nara, the ancient capital of Japan, is halfway between Gojo and Kyoto and a logical stopping point. I put my name on the waiting list at the Nara Youth Hostel, which was booked solid when I called. Luckily a last-minute cancellation came up. And that was how a five-day trip turned into a six-day trip.

Splitting the last day into two days meant I could take my time as I detoured around the main road. There was a lot of lovely countryside and empty roads on the way to Nara.




Why so sad Mr. Snowman?


Inevitably, I had to do some riding on the main road to get into Nara. There wasn't much in the way of scenery. Unless you count soul-deadening suburban sprawl as scenery.




I think the sign in the following photo is grammatically incorrect.


Someone forgot to put an "s" on the end of "liquor." Foods and liquors (sorry, FOODS & LIQUORS) has a much nicer ring to it, don't you think?

Speaking of foods and liquors, I don't know what I would have done without 7-Eleven. Oh thank heaven for 7-Eleven. Seriously. I'm not making a cheap joke here. 7-Eleven was a lifesaver. I could always count on 7-Eleven for tasty food, cold drinks, clean bathrooms and help with directions.

No matter where I was, I was never far from a 7-Eleven. (Interesting fact: Japan has more 7-Eleven stores than any other country in the world. There are almost twice as many 7-Elevens in Japan than in America.)

Every 7-Eleven in Japan has the same slogan. Or maybe it's not a slogan exactly. But directly underneath every 7-Eleven sign there are always the same three words written in Japanese.


The first word 酒 is alcohol.

The second word たばこ is cigarettes.

The third word 銀行 is bank. (Put ATM behind the character for bank and you get, um, bank ATM?)

So, basically, the Japanese 7-Eleven slogan can be loosely translated as "Oh Thank Heaven for Booze, Smokes and Cash."

It has a nice hoser ring to it. It's a slogan that would work equally well in a Canadian trailer park.

Not only can you buy cigarettes at 7-Eleven, but they also provide large, upright ashtrays outside the front doors. The sides of these ashtrays are usually plastered with various philosophical musings related to smoking. Some are easy to understand, others are not.


"I moved to avoid him. But my smoke didn't."

What is the moral of the story? What kind of message are we supposed to take away from this? Don't bother side-stepping because even if you move to avoid him, your smoke won't? Or don't smoke because your dirty habit is forcing innocent bystanders to breathe in your second-hand smoke? Is the message pro-smoking or anti-smoking? I'm not sure.

After meditating on the magic of 7-Eleven while riding through endless suburban sprawl, I finally arrived in Nara. The city was clogged with cars and tourists. I'm a pretty shitty navigator so I inevitably got lost trying to find the youth hostel. I knew the hostel was on Route 44 somewhere. But the road signs were confusing. Turn right or go straight? Your guess is as good as mine.


After stopping at a 7-Eleven to ask for directions (see what I mean? the place is a total lifesaver and I thank heaven for it), I was on my way.

I arrived at the youth hostel early, which meant I had to sit around in my (offensively fragrant) cycling clothes for a few hours because "bath time" wasn't until 6 p.m. So I sat in the common room and watched TV with a group of Japanese senior citizens.

The average age of people staying at the Nara Youth Hostel was about 75. Which was great and everything. But it raised a question. Why are they called "youth" hostels? The name implies an age limit. Why not just call them "hostels"? Calling them "youth hostels" reeks of ageism. I hate ageism.

I'd way rather share a dorm room with a bunch of senior citizens who are in bed by 8:30 than with a bunch of drunk 20-somethings spewing obnoxious generalizations about some country they spent like a whole week in.

Calling them "youth" hostels is stupid. What the hell does "youth" mean anyway? Someone should start a petition to drop the word "youth" from youth hostels.

Anyway, all of this talk about 7-Elevens and so-called youth hostels is really just a distraction for the fact that I have nothing much to say about Day 5. It was a completely uneventful and unremarkable day. In a good way, of course.

The trip was quickly winding down and I was a little sad to think it was almost over. Tomorrow, I'd roll into Kyoto and right back into my regular routine of school, books, tests and studying. Tonight was my last night on the road. My last night of freedom. I celebrated in style by going to bed at 8:30 with my elderly dorm mates.

One more day to go . . .

Previous day | Photos

Kochi to Kyoto by bicycle: Day 4

Day 4
May 3, 2009
Start: Tokushima
Finish: Gojo
Distance: 75 km
Departed: 6:30 a.m.
Arrived: 5:00 p.m.

Day 4 of my bicycle trip can be summed up like this: Everything that could go wrong did go wrong.

I got completely and utterly lost, but didn't realize I was completely and utterly lost until I had cycled in the wrong direction on the wrong road for two hours.

After I finally found the right road, I ran over a nail and got a flat tire. After I patched the flat tire, I found out my pump didn't work. After I found out my pump didn't work, I had to push my bike down the road for an hour. After I pushed my bike down the road for an hour, I found a grumpy motorcycle mechanic who agreed to fill my tire with air but not before letting me know it was a huge imposition on his precious time. After my tire was inflated, I forgot to apply sunblock and ended up with painfully pink thighs.

It was an epic day. And not epic in a good way. It was epic in the kind of way that leaves you with a deep desire to throw your bike off a cliff or drink enough alcohol to stun an elephant.

That's not to say the whole day was a washout. Day 4 actually got off to a great start.

I left the Tokushima youth hostel at 6:30 a.m. sharp. I was planning on catching the 8:15 ferry to Wakayama but had to ride 15 kilometres to the ferry terminal first.

I arrived with just enough time to park my bike and join the queue for walk-on tickets. Because it was a national holiday, the ferry terminal was rammed with Japanese tourists heading to the mainland. There was a long queue for tickets and it took 20 minutes to reach the front of the line. I handed over my cash but was told by the woman working behind the counter that I couldn't buy a walk-on ticket.

"You have a bike, right?" she asked me in Japanese.

I told her I did.

"Did you take it apart and put it in a bag or are you taking it on-board as it is?"

I told her my bike was in one piece.

"Well, then you have to line up with the cars and go through the drive-through ticket window," she said.

Line up with the cars? I didn't have time to line up all over again. If I missed the 8:15 sailing, I'd have to wait two hours for the next ferry. I wanted to get on the road early in order to make the most of the daylight in case anything went wrong (little did I know how true that would turn out to be).

So I resorted to the one fail-proof tactic I was sure would speed my way onto the ferry. (All foreigners in Japan have a special "get out of jail free" card that they can use in case of emergency. The secret weapon? English.) I got amnesia and forgot how to speak Japanese.

"Sorry," I said in English. "I don't understand."

I saw a twinge of panic cross the woman's face. She explained the rules again, in Japanese.

I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders. I figured if I kept up the clueless tourist act, she'd cave in and sell me a ticket. But my plan didn't work. The ticket lady waved a male colleague over. He walked me out the door, motioned for me to get on my bike and then showed me where I needed to go to get to the drive-through ticket window.

So I rode my bike to where the cars were lining up to buy tickets. I pulled in behind a silver minivan. A huge transport truck pulled in behind me. It was all very surreal.


After the driver of the silver minivan ahead of me bought his ticket, I rolled my bike up to the window. The guy working inside the booth assured me I would be able to make the 8:15 sailing. He took my money, printed off a ticket and told me to merge into Lane 8 with the cars.

So I rode into Lane 8 and parked my bike with the other vehicles waiting to board the ferry.


Anyone who has ever taken a ferry in B.C. will appreciate the absurdity of this situation. Cyclists in B.C. don't line up with the cars to buy ferry tickets. And they certainly don't merge into Lane 8, waiting to board the ferry with the cars.

B.C. Ferries regards cyclists as a kind of two-wheeled pedestrian. You have to buy a walk-on ticket and you have to wait in a designated waiting area. You either board first or last (depending on the destination) and you have to dismount and push your bike onto the ferry.

It was a completely different story in Japan, and it was awesome. I didn't have to dismount and push my bike. I waited until the crew motioned for Lane 8 to start boarding. I followed the cars ahead of me and actually got to ride onto the ferry. Safety be damned!

It was incredibly exciting. Riding up to the drive-through window, lining up in Lane 8, cycling onto the ferry with the cars. I experienced the same kind of euphoria mountain climbers must feel when they summit Everest. It was a highlight of the trip, for sure.

The other big difference between Japanese ferries and Canadian ferries is the food on board. You can't buy a Triple O Burger on a Japanese ferry but you can buy a bento box. This was my on-board breakfast.


I found a quiet spot on the upper deck and settled in for the two-hour crossing back to mainland Honshu.

I was sad to be leaving Shikoku. I knew the second leg of the trip through southwestern Honshu would be anti-climactic. There would be no more mountain climbing, no more rural towns, no more spectacular scenery. Just the soul-deadening monotony of cycling on roads hemmed in by never-ending sprawl and jumbled power lines.

Apartment, store, power line, store, store, store, traffic light, store, house, store, power line, apartment, store, house, store, traffic light, store, power line, store, traffic light, apartment, store, power line, traffic light, store, store, store.

This is the landscape of suburban Japan, multiplied by infinity.

So long Shikoku.


Hello Honshu.


The second I set foot on Honshu, the magic of Shikoku's mountain roads disappeared. The ferry spit me out on the outskirts of a big city, which I had to ride clear across in order to get to the road that would take me 60 kilometres east to Gojo, my destination for the day.

Navigating my way out of Wakayama City was a nightmare. The main problem was that the streets on my map were numbered but the actual streets weren't. I couldn't match up the streets on my map with the streets I was riding though. It was a random mishmash of busy urban roads. I figured as long as I headed in the right general direction, I'd hit the main road eventually.

Unfortunately, I got completely and utterly lost. Even worse, I didn't realize I was completely and utterly lost until I had cycled in the wrong direction on the wrong road for two hours.

When the route numbers finally started showing up on roadside signs, I pulled over to check my location on the map. It turned out I had been heading south when I should have been heading east.

At this point, I had been off the ferry and on the road for almost two hours. I had managed to go a grand total of 40 kilometres -- in the wrong direction. I was beyond frustrated. I had no idea how to get to where I needed to go.

I pulled off onto a quiet side street to study the map. I must have looked especially confused because a Japanese woman driving a blue car in the opposite direction came to a stop in front of me.

"Can I help you?" she asked in English.

I told her I was lost and needed to find Route 24. She looked at my map and figured out how to get me out of the city and on my way to Gojo. It was clear she wanted to help but it was also clear she was quite the English conversation enthusiast who wanted to impress me with her vast vocabulary.

"Okay," she said. "I know how to get there. I'll drive slowly and you can follow me!"

She got back in her car and zigzagged through a maze of back roads (with me pedaling furiously behind her). After about 20 minutes, she came to a stop in front of the turn-off for the elusive Route 24. I don't know how I would have found it on my own. I couldn't thank her enough.

After two hours of backtracking, I was finally on my way. Albeit on a busy, crowded road hemmed in by never-ending sprawl. There's something vaguely claustrophobic about suburban Japan. I don’t know if it's the way the buildings butt right up against the road or the way the buildings butt right up against each other but it feels like the oxygen is being squeezed out of these places.


Eventually, old Route 24 merges onto new Route 24 and I wasn't sure if I had already merged onto the new road or if I was still on the old road or if I was on a different road altogether. I hadn't seen a road sign in miles and my confidence in my navigation skills was pretty much non-existent at this point.

I pulled into a convenience store to make sure I was going the right way (I was). But immediately after I got back on my bike, I rode over a nail and got a flat tire. Fuck.

It was the lowest moment of the entire trip. Getting a flat tire after being lost for two hours was like rubbing salt in the wound. With a sigh of resignation, I got off my bike, rolled it back into the parking lot and got down to the dirty job of fixing the flat.

Now, fixing a flat tire is one of the simplest and easiest bicycle repair jobs around. The only problem is that it takes me forever to fix a flat, so I had gotten into the bad habit of letting my male friends do it for me. My roadie friends can fix a flat tire with lightning speed. Watching them in action is like watching mechanics in a Formula One pit stop.

I let them do it partly because I don't want to hold the group back but mostly because I am lazy. Plus, whenever I change a flat tire it takes, like, a week for the dirt to work its way out from underneath my fingernails.

Let's just say my bicycle maintenance skills were a little rusty when I set out to change that flat tire in the convenience store parking lot.

Still, fixing a flat tire is kind of like bicycle-riding itself. You never really forget how. Turn the bike upside down, release the wheel, slip a lever under the lip of the tire, hook the lever to the spoke, use the other lever to pull the lip of the tire over the rim all the way around, pull the tire and tube off the rim, find the source of the puncture, pull out the offending object, inflate the tube, find the hole, patch it up, put everything back together and off you go.

The only hitch was that my hand pump wasn't working. I mean, the pump itself worked fine but it kept pulling the top part of the valve right off. I was able to fill up the tube with air but as soon as I removed the pump, the top of the valve would come off with it and the tube would immediately deflate.

The problem was that I was dealing with a Woods valve. My hand pump was compatible with both Presta and Schrader valves but I couldn't seem to get it to work with the Woods valve. I had to take the nut off the valve stem for the pump to fit properly but without the nut, there was nothing holding the top half of the valve in place. Which is why it kept popping off. But with the nut in place, I couldn't fit the pump over the head of the valve. There was nothing I could do.

I think this photo captures how I must have looked at that moment (crazy swirling eyes, furrowed brow and clenched jaw).


I pushed my bike down the road for an hour before I found a motorcycle shop that was open (it was a national holiday and almost everything was closed). Ironically, I was no longer cursing the fact I was riding through the suburbs. Had this happened in the mountains, I would have been SOL.

A very grumpy motorcycle mechanic agreed to fill my tire with air but not before letting me know it was a huge imposition on his precious time. I was terrified that the patch wouldn't hold or that I had broken the valve but the tube inflated without trouble.

What had started off as a major pain in the ass ended up being a minor victory. I fixed a flat tire all by myself, and my handiwork had held up. It may have been a small accomplishment but it was one I felt hugely proud of.

The rest of the ride to Gojo was blissfully uneventful. I almost kissed the ground when I finally pulled into the youth hostel. But I decided it would be more sanitary to get drunk instead.

Two of these was all it took.


I passed out immediately after dinner.


Day 4 couldn't end soon enough. I was looking forward waking up and starting fresh the next morning. I was planning on making Day 5 a stress-free and leisurely ride to Nara, the ancient capital of Japan . . .

Next day | Previous day | Photos

Kochi to Kyoto by bicycle: Day 3

Day 3
May 2, 2009
Start: Mount Tsurugi
Finish: Tokushima
Distance: 90 km
Departed: 7:45 a.m.
Arrived: 3:45 p.m.

I didn't want to get out of bed this morning. Not because I was sore or tired from two consecutive days of riding. But because I could see my breath in the cold, cold air of my unheated room at the base of Mount Tsurugi.

I was buried under five heavy blankets on top of a futon on the floor. It was a warm, cozy cocoon and I didn't want to leave it. Not when white clouds of frozen breath were swirling above my head. Forcing myself to get out of bed was like steeling myself to jump into an icy lake. It hurt but it woke me up.

Dressed in three layers of clothing, I headed downstairs for a delicious, yet somewhat confusing, traditional Japanese breakfast.


The meal came with an egg, which I assumed was hard-boiled until I smashed it against the side of the bowl and the whole thing cracked into pieces, covering my hand with runny, messy yolk. A raw egg? What was I supposed to do with a raw egg?

I thought maybe someone in the kitchen had accidentally switched my hard-boiled egg with a raw egg, and I was on the verge of pointing out their mistake, when I looked around and saw that everyone else had raw eggs, which they were eating with gusto.

They weren't chugging back the eggs Rocky-style. My breakfast companions would crack the egg in a small bowl, add some soy sauce, beat it with their chopsticks and then pour the raw egg/soy sauce mixture over a bowl of rice. Then they'd stir the raw egg/soy sauce mixture in with the rice and eat it just like that.

I didn't try it. I like raw fish but I have an aversion to raw eggs. (It's a long, boring story that involves cream-filled donuts and projectile vomiting.)

As I was getting ready to leave, the manager of the minshuku came running outside to say goodbye. He handed me some fruit, which I happily accepted.

I was looking forward to getting on the road. Day 3 was going to be a good day. There would be no complicated navigating or dangerous highways. Route 438 would take me all the way into Tokushima. I had gotten the serious climbing over with the day before and it would be, quite literally, all downhill from here. I would barely have to pedal or think. Just sit back and coast. Or so I thought.

The road descending Mt. Tsurugi turned out to be narrow and fairly technical, with lots of switchbacks and blind corners. I couldn't fly down the mountain too quickly. If I didn't watch my speed, I'd take the corners too wide and end up on the wrong side of the road, directly in the path of oncoming traffic. So I snaked my way down conservatively and carefully, keeping an eye on the mirrors that stand sentinel at every bend in the road.






Cruising down Route 438 was maybe my favourite part of the entire trip. The scenery was spectacular. The air was crisp and smelled like pine needles. There wasn't a single car on the road.

There's something magical about being on a bike that's difficult to put into words. A bike is this inanimate, mechanical thing. It won't go anywhere unless you make it move. Your arms steer the handlebars, your legs pump the pedals. And so, the bike becomes an extension of you. It sounds weird, but you start to develop a relationship with your bike. It's a not just an extension of you, it's a part of you. It's hard to know where you end and the bike begins. Together, you and this technologically marvelous thing can cover distances much further and faster than you could on your own. And, even better, you're not caged in and sealed off from the elements the way you are in a car. You get to really feel the road and the wind and the sun. Being on a bike is just . . . magical.


Like the previous two days, most of the towns I passed though on Day 3 were either completely abandoned or inhabited solely by people over the age of 70. I passed through another creepy doll town in the middle of nowhere. I found these doll towns deeply unsettling, and didn't linger for long.




After a few hours of riding, I was starting to get hungry. Having eaten all of my snacks several kilometres back, I kept hoping pass a convenience store but was SOL. (Interesting fact: Japan has more 7-Eleven stores than any other country in the world. There are almost twice as many 7-Elevens in Japan than in America. You can't buy Slurpees at a Japanese 7-Eleven, but you can buy sushi and sake.)

I finally found a small variety store, where I bought a UFO for lunch. I thought UFO was a clever acronym for something else (Unidentified Frying Object, perhaps?). But, no. It was literally an Unidentified Flying Object, as advertised on the packaging.



A few more gradual climbs and descents took me closer to Tokushima. As the roads started to flatten out, the surrounding area became more and more developed. I knew all of the best riding would be behind me as soon as Route 438 ended.



Arriving in Tokushima was anti-climatic. It was a sprawling city with lots of traffic. I had to navigate my way through crowded streets for six kilometers to get to the youth hostel where I was staying for the night.

Unfortunately, the hostel wasn't easy to find and I ended up horribly lost. I pulled into a convenience store to ask for directions. The girls working behind the counter told me they didn't know where the hostel was either.

(Stopping to ask for directions in Japan is a completely different experience than stopping to ask for directions in Canada. Back home, if you ask someone where something is and they don't know the answer, they will shrug and say, "Dunno. Sorry." And that's that. In Japan, if you ask someone where something is and they don't know the answer, they will shrug and say, "Dunno. Sorry." But they will then go the extra mile to doggedly figure out where it is and refuse to give up, no matter how long it takes. This is mildly annoying when you are in a rush, but incredibly helpful when you are truly lost.)

The girls behind the counter started pulling out maps and working the phones, trying to pinpoint the exact location of the hostel. An old man with a young boy by his side (his grandson, I presumed), walked up to the counter and asked where I was going. When I told him I was trying to find the Tokushima Youth Hostel, he told me he knew exactly where it was. Instead of showing me where it was on the map, however, he said he would take me there himself.

So the three of us -- me, the old man and the little kid -- hopped on our bikes and rode down the road together (with the kid excitedly ringing his bell the entire way). After about two kilometres, we hit the turn-off for the hostel. The old man told me to go left and follow the road for about three kilometres. The hostel was at the bottom of the hill in front of the beach. Couldn't miss it.

I thanked him profusely. To my surprise, the old man and the little kid turned their bikes around and headed back in the same direction we had come from. I suddenly realized they had gone completely out of their way to help me. Four kilometres out of their way. I wouldn't have let them do it if I had known. I had assumed they were heading in the same direction as me. I felt like shit. I had been on the receiving end of so much random kindness during the past three days and what I had I given back in return? Nothing.

I followed the old timer's directions and easily found the hostel. It was right where he said it would be: at the bottom of the hill, in front of the beach.



Most hostels in Japan serve dinner for an extra 900 yen. But you generally have to reserve a meal in advance and I had forgotten to call ahead. The closest grocery store was three kilometres uphill and I didn't want to get back on my bike.

I tried to squeeze my way into a last-minute dinner reservation. This request was met with strong hesitation from the woman running the hostel. She clearly wanted to say "no" but Japanese etiquette prevented her from giving me a direct answer.

"You don't want dinner, right?" she asked (after I had just told her I wanted dinner).

"Yes, I do," I replied.

"No?" she asked.

"Yes."

"No?"

"Yes."

"No?"

"Yes."

This went on for a good two minutes. I could tell she wasn't going to back down so I explained that I had ridden all the way from Mt. Tsurugi and couldn't bear the thought of getting back on my bike in search of food. She sighed and told me to wait while she conferred with the cook. After a few minutes, she came back and said she could give me a "simple" dinner for 800 yen. Sold.

This, by the way, was my "simple" dinner.


Another quirk peculiar to Japanese hostels is that almost all of them have a set "bath time," which is always in the evening and never earlier than 5:30. Because I usually arrived at the hostels around 3:30, I had to sit in my filthy bike clothes for two hours before I could have a shower.

I was always the first person in the shower, which was a good thing in Tokushima because I had forgotten my towel back at Mt. Tsurugi. I improvised by drying myself off with the bath mat (I was the first person in the shower room, so I figured it was clean. Or, at least, clean enough).

There were only two other foreigners staying at the hostel -- a girl from Switzerland and a guy from Chile, both in their late 20s. They had met the day before and were now planning on hitchhiking across Shikoku together. They were both ridiculously attractive, with glossy hair, shining eyes and perfect teeth, and I could tell by the way the girl from Switzerland kept sneaking looks at the guy from Chile that a fling was forthcoming.

I left the two of them alone in the common room and went to bed early. I was planning on getting up at the crack of dawn to catch the ferry to Wakayama. Tomorrow, I would leave the island of Shikoku behind and start the second leg of my journey on mainland Honshu.

I quickly fell into a deep sleep, blissfully unaware that tomorrow was the day everything would go horribly wrong . . .

Next day | Previous day | Photos

Kochi to Kyoto by bicycle: Day 2

Day 2
May 1, 2009
Start: Tosa-Iwahara
Finish: Mount Tsurugi
Distance: 75 km (uphill)
Departed: 7:00 a.m.
Arrived: 3:30 p.m.

Today was the day the serious mountain climbing began. My destination, the base of Mount Tsurugi, was only 75 kilometres away but it would be uphill almost the entire way. On roads that resembled coiled intestines.

This was going to be the most physically demanding stage of the entire trip. If I could reach Mount Tsurugi it would be, quite literally, all downhill from there.

I wanted to get an early start. Partly to make the most of the daylight. But mostly because I had to endure another 10 kilometres on terrifying Highway 32 before I could start my ascent up the mountain roads. I wanted to get the highway from hell over with as early as possible. Before it became rammed with 10-tonne trucks traveling at high speeds.

Unenclosed in steel and glass, without airbags and anti-lock brakes, I felt naked and vulnerable on Highway 32. Riding a bicycle on a shoulder-less highway with massive logging trucks bearing down on you makes you realize how pathetically fragile the human body really is. Rear-ended by one of these trucks and I'd be squashed like a bug on a windshield.

I hammered as hard as I could along Route 32 and got it over with in less than half an hour. As soon as I turned off the main highway, the twisting mountain roads leading up to Mount Tsurugi were almost devoid of cars. Routes 439 and 438 were the stuff of dreams. Ribbons of perfect pavement, winding their way up higher and higher into the mountains. Switchback after switchback.


At 6,500 feet, Mt. Tsurugi is the second-highest peak in western Japan. Getting there by bicycle was long and slow. But the scenery along the way was spectacular.






Cycling aficionados looking closely at my pictures will notice that I spent the day in my lowest gear. Using the smallest chainwheel on a triple crank set generally brands you as a pussified rider in cycling circles. But I don't care. I am a big fan of the Granny Gear and I am not ashamed to use it.

Although my spirits were high, my body was beginning to break down. My hands were covered in calluses, my knees were starting to ache and I was developing blisters in places too X-rated to mention. Advil helped. So did frequent stops for ice-cold cans of sweat. Mmm . . . sweat.


I made a deal with myself. If someone stopped to offer me a ride, I would take it. Why not? I had nothing to prove. I'd ridden plenty of mountain passes tougher and steeper than this.

The only wrench in my plan was that no one actually stopped to offer me a ride. I got plenty of smiles and waves and thumbs-up from passing drivers. I would smile and wave and give thumbs-up right back. Maybe I should have tried to look more pathetic and less energetic. Maybe they would have stopped.

It wasn't that bad, though. I took lots of breaks. Chatted with lots of random Japanese people. Everyone seemed impressed that I was planning on cycling to Mount Tsurugi. Wow. That's really tough, they'd say. Be careful! It’s dangerous!

But the thing is, it wasn't really that tough. And it wasn't the least bit dangerous. It was a gradual ascent the whole way. (I'm starting to learn that Japanese people love to exaggerate.)

I was making good time so I decided to take in a tourist attraction along the way. I took a two-hour break in the Iya Valley, stopping for a long lunch and a trek across the area's famous vine bridges.



This thing was just begging me to jump in and ride it. So I did.



Unfortunately, I got stuck halfway across the river. Fortunately, this guy came to my rescue.


I learned one particularly valuable lesson today: Keep your mouth shut. If you ride with your mouth open, bugs will fly into it. And then you will waste precious energy violently gagging and coughing and spitting to rid your mouth of said bugs.

I also learned that rural Japan can be mildly creepy. I passed through ghost town after ghost town. Each one likely abandoned by people seeking work in the cities. There would be long stretches of nothing and then suddenly a few houses and shops strung together. I never saw anyone under the age of 70 in these towns. Sometimes I never saw anyone at all.

At one point, I rounded a corner and saw what looked to be a vibrant town with lots of people out working the fields.


Except when I got closer, I realized they weren't even human. I had wandered into a town populated by stuffed dolls.




What made it even creepier was the fact that I was the only living person around for miles. I took a few photos and got the hell out of there.

By 3:30 p.m., I finally made it to the base of Mount Tsurugi, where I had booked a minshuku for the night. A minshuku is best described as halfway between a hotel and a hostel. Like a hotel, you get your own private room. Like a hostel, the bathrooms are communal. But it's a uniquely Japanese experience. You sleep on a futon in a simple room.


And you get a traditional dinner and breakfast. This was my dinner. I ate all of it. In about five minutes flat.


I was the only foreigner staying at the minshuku. As a result, I attracted a fair bit of attention, especially among three middle-aged Japanese men commandeering the communal dining room. They were very drunk and very loud and they would yell things out at me every time I passed by ("It's the Canadian cyclist!" "Can you eat sushi?" "Oi! Where are you going?"). I spent most of the night hiding in my room to avoid them.

Eight hours earlier, as I was setting off in the morning, I thought about hiking to the top of Mt. Tsurugi if I got there early enough. A good idea in theory. But I didn't realize how tired I would be by the time I arrived. I felt obligated to at least spend a little time on the mountain. So I took the chair lift halfway to the top. And then I rode it back down.



Happy to have made it to Mount Tsurugi, I breathed a sigh of relief knowing the toughest part of the trip was behind me. Or so I thought . . .

Next day | Previous day | Photos

Kochi to Kyoto by bicycle: Day 1

Day 1
April 30, 2009
Start: Sakawa
Finish: Tosa-Iwahara
Distance: 110 km
Departed: 7:30 a.m.
Arrived: 3:00 p.m.

To be honest, I wasn't entirely convinced cycling more than 500 kilometres across rural Shikoku and up through southwestern Honshu was a good idea.

I was about to set off on an epic bike trip in Japan with almost no preparation or training. Up and down mountains twice as high as the ones in Vancouver. On roads that resemble coiled intestines. For five days straight. Solo. On a bike I hadn't ridden in almost two years. The enormity of the challenge in front of me suddenly seemed overwhelming.

I was plagued with self-doubt. Was I in over my head? What if I couldn't make it up the mountains? What if the chain broke? What if my knees gave out? Panic and anxiety were corroding my confidence. I was tempted to call the whole thing off.

The six-hour trip by bus and train from Kyoto to Sakawa didn't help either. I was forced to see exactly how far I had to ride. Five hundred kilometres was no longer just an abstract series of lines on a map. It was a long fucking way.

I spent most of the bus ride feeling both intimidated and exhilarated. I would look at the mountainous terrain outside the window and feel a rush of terror one moment and a shiver of excitement the next. Would I really be able to ride up and down those mountains all the way back to Kyoto?

My starting point was Sakawa, the town where I used to live. I spent the night at my friend Miho's house. She and her husband had organized a small barbeque party to send me off. There was beer and endless bottles of sake. I drank until my jittery nerves were numb.

Yoko popped by to drop off my old bike. I took it for a quick spin around the block. It felt horribly uncomfortable. The handlebars, the pedals, the seat. It was all wrong. This wasn't the same bike I remembered. How was I going to ride this thing all the way back to Kyoto when I could barely ride it around the block? I moved the seat up. And down. And then back up again. Nothing helped.

Back inside the house, Miho was studying my map and shaking her head at my planned route out of Sakawa. I had picked the shortest, most direct route to Tosa-Iwahara, where I would spend the night after the first day of riding.

You shouldn't go that way, she warned. It's too dangerous. The road I had chosen was a major highway that would be rammed with cars and trucks traveling at high speeds.

Miho pored over the map for an hour and finally came up with an alternate route. It would add about 30 kilometres to the trip by taking me on a wide loop west before heading northeast to Otoyo on winding back roads. It would be longer, steeper and harder but safer and relatively car-free.

I was worried about adding 30 kilometres of hilly riding to my first day but in the end decided to scrap my original route and go with the quieter back roads. Anything to get away from the cars.

I spent the night tossing and turning. What had I gotten myself into? I told myself it wasn't too late to back out. I could leave the bike behind in Sakawa and hop on the train back to Kyoto. But I didn't want to give up before I had even begun. It was an adventure. A challenge. As soon as I started pedaling, my fears would melt away. Or at least that's what I told myself.

I managed to fall asleep for a few hours and woke up the next morning tired and hungover. I was feeling too queasy to stomach the huge breakfast Miho had prepared. I only managed to nibble a tomato and sip a bowl of miso soup before hitting the road.

It was only 7:30 a.m. but the sun was already warm. The air was still and there was nothing but blue sky in all directions. Perfect riding conditions. After a few adjustments, I got my bike to fit me exactly right. My anxiety and panic completely disappeared after the first few pedal strokes.

I turned back to see Miho waving goodbye before she grew smaller and finally disappeared. I rode out of town on familiar streets that used to be mine. My confidence returned and my entire body vibrated with excitement. I was really doing this! I wasn't just biking to the grocery store. I was biking all the way to Kyoto.

The route Miho suggested turned out to be great. There were almost no cars. Just me, my bike and the open road. The steep hills she warned me about turned out to be gentle rollers. I got into a good rhythm and really started to enjoy the ride and the scenery.






After a few hours my stomach finally settled down and I stopped for a mid-morning snack at a roadside sushi stand.


Cold beer or hot coffee? You can't go more than 25 feet without running into a vending machine in Japan. Even in the middle of nowhere.



The route was pretty straightforward but at one point there was a major fork in the road and not a single sign in sight. I pulled off to the side of the road and puzzled over the map. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't pinpoint my exact location.

A few minutes later, a woman on a scooter came to a stop beside me. She asked if I needed help. I told her I couldn't figure out whether the main road branched left or right. She asked me where I was going and pointed me in the right direction.

Surprised that I was able to speak Japanese, she ended up asking me a whole bunch of questions. Where was I from? How many days was I planning on riding? Where would I be staying? She told me she thought my plan was amazing. And then she told me to wait for a minute while she rummaged through the trunk of her scooter. She pulled a plastic bag out of the trunk and thrust it in my hands.

"I don't know if you like this sort of food but please take it," she said.

It was her lunch. Two salmon rice balls, an omelet and a strawberry-filled bun. I tried to refuse but she insisted. I thanked her profusely and watched her drive off.

Her lunch, by the way, was delicious.


I was riding light and fast with just a backpack. There was nothing in it but a waterproof shell, a fleece jacket, fleece pants, a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, a pump, some food, money and a first-aid kit.

I stored a set of tools, a spare tube and a patch kit in a small bag fastened to the rails under my seat. I kept the map and fuel bottles in my basket for easy access. The only problem was that whenever I hit a bump at high speed, the bottles would launch out of the basket and fly all over the road. I had to stop my bike a few times to recover the airborne bottles. But, generally, it was a system that worked well.


The riding was spectacular all the way to Otoyo. Unfortunately, once I reached Otoyo I had to get off the back roads and ride the main road to Tosa-Iwahara. There was no other option. Tosa-Iwahara was located in a deep river valley carved between the mountains and there was only one way to get there.

I'd have to ride Route 32 for about 17 kilometres. Route 32, as I quickly found out, was a busy two-lane highway with no shoulder. I'd have to ride on the road with trucks and cars whipping past me at high speeds. Making things worse was the fact that the road was winding. This meant I would be practically invisible the whole way. Trucks and cars would have almost no time to react to my presence on the road.

They wouldn't be able to see me until after they whipped around a corner. And then they would have only a few seconds to register and react to the fact that there was a bicycle on the road ahead of them. And because it was a two-lane highway, they couldn't veer too far around me because they'd cross into the path of oncoming traffic.

It was incredibly dangerous. If I were rear-ended here, it wouldn't just be a trip-ending injury; it would be a life-ending injury.

But there was nowhere else to go. I couldn't go back. I could only go forward. Even if I wanted to give up and put my bike on the train, I'd have to ride on Route 32 to get to the train station. I was going to have to ride on the highway whether I wanted to or not.

I took a deep breath and turned left onto the highway. Just put your head down and hammer as hard as you can for the next 17 kilometres, I told myself. My heart leapt into my throat each time I headed around a blind corner. The trucks behind me were hugging the tight turns to avoid the cars in the oncoming lane. I knew they might not have enough time to swerve around me. So I pedaled furiously around each turn.

It was a white-knuckle ride the whole way. I heaved a huge sigh of relief when I finally made it to the turnoff for Tosa-Iwahara. I had to get off my bike and sit down for a few minutes just to calm my rattled nerves.

After my heart rate returned to normal, I made my way to my home for the night. I was staying at an old guest house high up in the mountains. It was run by a pot-smoking Japanese hippie named Teru.

I met Teru outside the tiny Tosa-Iwahara train station. He threw my bike in the back of his pick-up truck and drove me up to his house. During the 15-minute drive, Teru told me he used to live in Kamloops, working as a ski instructor. His eyes shone as he spoke about B.C.

"That was the first time I smoked weed," he said.

He told me about his one-man campaign to legalize pot in Japan. He wasn't having much success.

Originally from Gifu Prefecture, Teru moved to Shikoku 10 years ago. He bought an abandoned house in the mountains, converting one half into a hostel and the other half into his home. When he isn't renting out rooms in his house, he guides rafting tours through the river that snakes its way along Route 32. He uses the money he makes to spend the winters kayaking around the world.

This is Teru's house and the view from Teru's house. If you look closely, you can make out Route 32 winding its way between the mountains.



After a long, hot shower, I cooked up a huge pasta dinner and ate until I was stuffed. I was about to climb into bed when Teru dropped by to invite me to a party at his friend's house. I wanted to go but had to decline. It was only Day 1 of my trip and I was already exhausted.

I needed to conserve my energy for the serious mountain climbing that was about to begin the next day . . .

Next day | Photos

Kochi to Kyoto by bicycle

I'm heading out on an epic 500-kilometre bike trip tomorrow. Up and down mountains twice as high as the ones in Vancouver. On roads that resemble coiled intestines. For five days straight. Solo. On a bike I haven't ridden in two years.

Peter Mansbridge is the spur. He's the reason I'm doing this in the first place. Night after night, all he talks about is how the Canadian economy is spiraling deeper into depression. He has me convinced I will be facing months of uncertainty and instability upon my return home next year.

So, rather than dragging my unemployed ass around in search of jobs that don't exist, I've been toying with the idea of cycling across Canada instead. Why look for work when there is no work to be had? I will hop on my bike and literally ride out the recession.

Besides, cycling across Canada is something I've always wanted to do. I've just never had the time. A year from now, when my stint at Kyoto University is up, I'll be unemployed for the first time in my life. I will have nothing but time. This might be the best chance I get.

But I'm jumping ahead of myself. Let's get back to the bona fide bike trip that's happening two days from now.

I figured I should take a test ride in Japan before committing myself to cycling from Vancouver to St. John's. I've done lots of riding in the past but have never toured longer than three days. I need to find out if I actually like cycling long distances for days on end. There's no point locking myself into a two-month ride if it's just going to be a suffer-fest.

(Although, I have to admit that suffering is half the fun. It's what makes the experience that much more rewarding. The easy stuff fades into the background. But the tough stuff -- those times when you pushed yourself beyond your limits or were left broken and sobbing on your way up a steep mountain pass in driving wind and freezing rain -- that's the stuff that forces you to come face-to-face with your deepest, darkest self. What happens when you hit the pain barrier? What do you do? Push through or back down? The trick with long-distance cycling, and endurance sports in general, is learning how to get comfortable with being uncomfortable. If you can do that, you can tolerate all kinds of misery.)

But I digress . . . I wanted to bike across Canada but not without testing the waters in Japan first. The only hitch was that I didn't have enough money to buy a proper touring bike. What to do? What to do? I was mulling this over when it hit me: Wait a minute! I already have a bike in Japan!

When I left Sakawa two years ago, I lent my mountain bike to my friend Sachi. As far as I knew, she still had it. What if I went back to Sakawa, picked up my bike and rode it back to Kyoto? The more I thought about it, the more excited I became. There was no reason I couldn't do this. Cycling from Sakawa to Kyoto wouldn't require any skill. Just stamina.

I could take the train to Sakawa and then ride my bike all the way across Shikoku. And then when I hit the easternmost point of the island, I could take the ferry to southwestern Honshu and ride up to Kyoto from there.

The more I researched it, the more doable it seemed. The total distance between Sakawa and Kyoto is about 500 kilometres. I figured I could comfortably do it in five days. Golden Week -- a string of four national holidays all occurring around the same time -- was right around the corner. I'd have to skip two days of school to make the trip work, but the timing was perfect.

Sachi gave me the okay to borrow my bike. She even took it to the local bike shop to get it checked out and tuned up. I started buying maps, plotting out a route and booking hostels. This is the route I eventually decided on:



It looks straightforward. But don't let my crude maps fool you. Most of the mountain roads through rural Shikoku resemble coiled intestines. I'll be riding Routes 439 & 438 for three days straight. I suspect I'll be pushing my bike up a lot of these hills. If it gets really bad, I can always throw my bike off a cliff and hop on a bus back to Kyoto.


My limited budget dictated a bare-bones trip. But I decided against camping mainly because I didn't want to spend money to buy stuff I already have (unfortunately, all of my outdoor gear is sitting in a storage locker in Vancouver). I wanted to spend as little money as possible but there were certain things I couldn't scrimp on. A pump, a patch kit, some basic tools, painkillers, gloves, padded bike shorts. (Especially padded bike shorts.)

There were other things I decided I could live without. Leg warmers, arm warmers, an odometer, panniers, bottle cages, booties, clipless pedals, bike shoes.

Yes, this means I will be doing the whole trip in running shoes while wearing a backpack. It's not ideal. But it could be worse. The guys who rode the first Tour de France raced their single-speed bikes on dirt roads without a single stitch of spandex, gortex or coolmax on their backs.

I may not have any fancy equipment but at least I have gears and quick-dry fabrics. Besides, this is just a rehearsal. A prelude to the real thing. If all goes well, it will galvanize my plan to ride across Canada. Or not.

I'm heading out to Sakawa tomorrow and I'll start riding on Thursday. I hope to arrive in Kyoto five days later on Monday night. Adventure awaits . . .

Day 1

One door closes. Another door opens. And so it goes

A couple of weeks ago, I was told I couldn't join Kyoto University's swim team because it was for Japanese only.

I didn't want to fight it but I didn't want to throw in the towel either. So I went back to the sports office to try again. But instead of trying to force my way onto the swim team, I thought I'd ask if I could join the long-distance running team.

The swim team is a varsity club and the long-distance running team is a recreational club so I thought maybe I'd have more luck joining a less competitive club. It was either that or the "life philosophy" club. (Also, they have a "mushroom study" club. How awesome is that?)

When I went to the office to ask about joining the long-distance running team, the same guy who told me the swim team was off limits to foreigners was working behind the desk. He gave me the same frustrating speech about why it would be "difficult" for me to join the team. He didn't tell me outright that I couldn't join the long-distance running team. But he didn't tell me that I could join it either.

Eventually, we came to a compromise. He said he would take down my name, phone number and email address and pass it on to the running club. And then it would be up to them to contact me. I left the sports office not entirely convinced that he hadn't immediately thrown the slip of paper with my contact information on it in the garbage.

But a few days later, I got an email from the running club. The message was written in Japanese but it was filled with smiley faces and exclamation marks. The president of the club invited me to come to a meeting for new members on Monday night. They would be more than happy to have me, he wrote. The club was open to any student at Kyoto University.

"Maybe they read your blog and were too terrified to reject you," my friend Seema joked. Or at least I think she was joking.

Excited about finding a group of people to run with regularly, I went to the meeting on Monday night. The long-distance running team shares a clubhouse with the climbing team in a small portable squeezed between the tennis courts and Building 4 (yes, that's its official name) at the south end of campus.

I showed up at the clubhouse promptly at 6 p.m. I poked my head in the door to see 12 unnaturally skinny guys sitting on the floor around a pair of low tables. Intimidated but unbowed, I stuttered my way through broken Japanese.

"Um . . . I'm here for the meeting? To join the running club? Morita-san emailed me and told me to come? Is it okay?"

A couple of guys immediately jumped up and ushered me in.

"Come in! Sit down!"

I was bombarded with questions. Where are you from? What's your favourite Japanese food? Can you drink alcohol? Do you read manga? What’s your favourite movie? Can you eat raw fish? What do you think about Japan?

I felt like I was on a first date. With 12 Japanese guys. Who were all at least a decade younger than me.

I spent a good hour sitting in the clubhouse answering their questions. When they ran out of questions, they handed me a sheet of paper listing their social events for the next month. Barbeques, parties and (my personal favourite) a 40-kilometre forced march from Nara to Kyoto starting at midnight.

It all sounded great but I was a little confused. I thought this was a running club, not a social club.

"So when do you actually run?" I asked.

"Oh, we don’t have any official practices," one of the guys said. "You can just drop by the clubhouse after class and see if someone is around and wants to run. Otherwise, we just run on our own."

Before I could tell them this wasn't exactly what I was looking for, they offered to treat me to dinner. Who was I to turn down a free meal? And so off we went to the cafeteria.

After dinner, they told me they were having a little party back at the clubhouse and would I care to join them? They offered to buy me drinks. Who was I to turn down free drinks? And so off we went back to the clubhouse.

A few drinks later, I tried to beg off. I had a kanji test the next morning and I needed to study.

"We will help you study!" they declared. Before I knew it, three guys were writing up an impromptu kanji quiz. And so I spent the next hour writing and reading various kanji characters to the delight of my new friends.

They were so nice and so welcoming that I felt like I couldn't back out. I'm the newest member of Kyoto University's long-distance running club whether I want to be or not. I joined the club thinking it would help me stay in shape. Instead, I feel like I'm in a Japanese study group. With beer.

The long-distance running club will be good for my Japanese. But bad for my liver. As for the running, I guess I'm on my own. Oh well. At least I found a club that happily accepts foreigners.

The girl and the construction worker

I'm in love with a geriatric construction worker. Although, describing him as a "worker" might be a bit of a stretch.

His job entails little more than standing in front of a half-finished building, waving a red baton to let drivers and pedestrians know it's safe to pass. It's a completely redundant and unnecessary job. The construction project is taking place on a quiet side road where few cars go.

I've never seen him actually stop traffic. Why would he? All of the work is taking place on a plot of land set back from the mostly deserted street. There's no traffic and nothing to divert it around.

But still. He seems to take his non-job very seriously. He stands in front of the construction site directing the non-existent traffic day after day. He wears a navy blue uniform and a white hardhat. He even wears those ubiquitous white gloves that cover the hands of every taxi driver, train attendant and police officer in Japan.

If I had to guess his age, I'd say he's probably pushing 70. Seventy years old and 100 pounds soaking wet.

I pass him every morning on my way to school. He waits until he catches my eye and then he bows deeply at the waist and wishes me a good morning with a hearty "Ohayo gozaimasu!"

I bow and say “Ohayo gozaimasu” in return. And then we smile at each other. I think he has a grandfatherly crush on me because I've never seen him saying good morning to anyone else walking past the construction site. He simply waves them by with a flick of his baton and a little bow from the neck. He saves the deep bows, the chorus of good mornings and the smiles for me. Maybe this is the Japanese equivalent of catcalls and wolf-whistles.

I have no idea what it is they're building exactly (an office building? an apartment? a house?). It's all hidden under layers of scaffolding and blue tarps. Whatever it is, it's taking forever. Our morning ritual has been going on for more than four months now.

I look forward to seeing him on my way to school. It's the only male attention I get in Kyoto. Not that I'm the kind of girl who bases her self-worth on her attractiveness to men. But when no one looks at you when you walk down the street, you start to feel invisible. Like you don't really exist. Or you exist in a paradox: a strange halfway place where you're highly visible as a foreigner but invisible as a woman.

The only eyes that follow me down the street belong to a 70-year-old construction worker. Who wears thick glasses. And who is probably bored out of his mind. But who somehow manages to make me feel special.

(Has it really come to this? Am I so hard up for male attention that all it takes is a bow and some eye contact from an elderly construction worker to make my heart flutter? Have I become so starved for affection that I'm grateful for any scrap thrown my way?)

Anyway, after months and months of this morning routine, my construction worker friend had a little surprise in store for me on Friday. As usual, he waited until he made eye contact with me before we began our daily exchange. But this time, instead of speaking in Japanese, he said "Good morning!" in English.

It was the first time he had ever greeted me in English. It was such a sweet gesture. I wanted to hug him. It was like he had been practicing it in front of the mirror for weeks before screwing up the courage to finally test it out on me. I couldn't stop thinking about it. And when I thought about it, it made me smile.

One day soon, I'll walk past the construction site and all of the scaffolding and tarps will have been torn down to reveal a shiny new building. The construction crew will have moved on to another project. There will be no old man waiting to shower me with deep bows, a chorus of good mornings and smiles. I'm going to miss him when he's gone.

Going, going, gone

Same tree, different day. The first photo was taken two weeks ago. The second photo was taken two days ago. Fleeting pink has given way to lasting green. Kyoto's cherry blossom season is officially over.

Blindingly beautiful and then gone.

Old-school racism?

I realize what I'm about to say is going to be somewhat controversial and sensitive. So I'm going to write it carefully. And I hope you'll read it carefully too.

I'm not writing this post to single out Japan as a racist country. Racism is alive and well the world over. But the truth is I've had a few brushes with racism in Japan that range from the mildly backwards to the downright ugly.

Before I get into it, I want to stress that living here has been an overwhelmingly positive experience. The vast majority of people I've met have showered me with kindness and generosity. I have Japanese friends who treat me like family. My day-to-day life is generally smooth and uneventful.

But it would be dishonest to only write about the good stuff. The isolation and alienation are just as much a part of the experience as the fun and adventure.

I once wrote that sometimes I feel like my life in Japan has been a lesson in loneliness. As much as you try to fit in, you never really will. You are an outsider living on the fringes of a world you are part of but don't really belong to.

No matter how enmeshed in the community you are, no matter how good your Japanese is, you are constantly being pushed back into the gaijin box. It can be as benign as having no one sit next to you on a crowded train or as blatant as being refused entry into a bar.

It seems counterintuitive but I've experienced more xenophobia in Kyoto than I did when I lived in a small, rural town in the south of Japan. I may have been followed around with stares in rural Japan but I was never once barred from a restaurant or told I couldn't join a club because I wasn't Japanese. Never. I was welcomed into the community with open arms.

It's a different story here in Kyoto. During the last six months, I've had three brushes with blatant racism. It was never a hostile or confrontational experience. It was a calm "this is the way things are and it's not going to change" experience. But this normalcy is what makes it that much more profound.

The first time it happened was in November. My friend Kathleen and I had spent the day taking in the fall colours. That night, we decided a few drinks were in order. We picked a bar at random. We slid the door open and asked the hostess for a table for two. She told us to wait while she conferred with the manager.

The hostess disappeared behind a corner. Kathleen and I heard a male voice asking her if the two women waiting for a table were gaijin. Kathleen and I are far from fluent in Japanese but we both understood that part loud and clear. The hostess confirmed we were foreigners. The manager then said something else neither of us could catch. The hostess came back and told us there were no seats.

No seats in a half-empty bar? Kathleen and I were dumbstruck. I think Kathleen tried to ask if there was a waiting list. But we were told again, adamantly, there were no seats. So we left. Neither of us could believe we had just been banned from a bar because we were foreigners.

"Maybe all of the empty tables are reserved?" I said, holding out hope that we had misread the situation, although we both knew we hadn't.

We eventually found another bar that was more than happy to have us. But, still, it left a bitter taste in both our mouths.

My second brush with racism happened at a travel agency last month. My friend Elena and I were using a Japanese travel agent to book a trip to Hong Kong. The travel agent printed out a quote for the plane fare. A few minutes later, she realized she had made a mistake and had given us the wrong quote.

"Sorry," she apologized. "That price was for Japanese only."

She quickly printed off a second quote, which was $50 more expensive than the original price. Once again, I was dumbstruck. How could there be one price for Japanese people and another (more expensive) price for everyone else? Was that even legal?

Once again, I didn't fight it. I just accepted it. Why take our business elsewhere when every other travel agency in the city probably had the same policy?

My third brush with racism happened last week. I went to the sports centre at Kyoto University to ask about joining the swim team. The guy in charge wasn't affiliated with the swim team itself. He's an office worker at the sports centre, but you have to go through him to get to the sports clubs.

He hummed and hawed.

"The swim team trains very hard," he said. "They swim almost everyday. They are very serious. It's not for fun."

"Yes, that's the point," I replied. "I used to train like that back in Canada and I want to do the same thing here."

Seeing that I wouldn't be easily dissuaded, he broke down and told me the real reason I couldn't join the team.

"It's for Japanese only," he said.

Japanese only? What is this? 1950s America redux?

Once again, I was dumbstruck. I didn't even know what to say. So I said nothing at all. I just left. But I can't stop thinking about it. Should I complain? Or should I just let it be?

Again, I want to stress that these are isolated events and not an everyday occurrence. I don't want to come across as being gratuitously negative. Japan is no more or less racist than any other country.

The thing is, I'm not really that angry or upset. If anything, I feel sorry for Japan. Sorry to see this kind of stuff is still going in 2009. It's all just so stupid.

Cherry blossom fatigue

What I'm about to say probably borders on blasphemy in Japan. But I want the cherry blossoms to hurry up and die already.

It's not that I'm anti-flower. It's just that the cherry blossoms in Kyoto are so blindingly beautiful that you can't not admire them. It's all I've been doing during the past two weeks. I want my life back!

There's no escape from the sakura. The blossoms are absolutely everywhere, turning an already lovely city into a gossamery dreamworld. Even the garbage dump behind my apartment is covered under a canopy of fluttering flowers. Trash has never looked more magical.


Different trees have been blooming at different speeds, so while some petals have already passed their peak, others are just beginning to flower. There's no end in sight!

And the parties. Don't get me started on the parties. There's only so much sake you can drink while contemplating the ephemeral nature of life under a cherry tree. Celebrating all of this fleeting beauty is starting to become monotonous. It feels like there's nothing fleeting about it.





I feel like a kid who has overdosed on candy. The first taste was so sweet and wonderful that I gorged on it to the point of revulsion.

Despite my cherry blossom fatigue, I have agreed to go to two more flower-viewing parties. One tomorrow night, and one that starts at 11 a.m. on Saturday morning and ends never. (I'm not exaggerating. People actually set up tents under the cherry trees and camp out until the last petal falls.)

After Saturday, I'm swearing off cherry blossoms for the rest of the season. No more photos. No more parties. No more gorging on beauty until I feel sick. I can't take it anymore!





As always, you can find the rest of my photos on flickr.