THE GREAT BICYCLE TRIP OR “TOUR DE JAPAN” 1983

As you have seen from my previous stories and memories, my life was full of bad choices or errors in judgement. Most of them costing me major abuse and Inca style punishment. Well this next one is no different. It has to do with the wise decision to purchase bikes for myself and Bubbaloo. These were to make touring around on the weekends much easier. For a time I also used it to travel to and from work. The streets in older parts of the city and surrounding villages were extremely narrow. They barely provided room for one car to pass down the street at once. I forget exactly how it went but every second street was a one way in one direction, and the next street, one way in the other.

Anyway we purchased bicycles. My friend from work biked each day and had biked for years. He had legs 6 feet long, with calves the size of watermelons hanging off them. He could seriously move. Our first trip to work was traumatizing. We left our complex and headed into the maze of streets and lanes in the first village we encountered. With a couple of good leg pumps, he had swished around a corner and disappeared into this rabbit’s warren of housing. I rounded the corner and could not see him. Now I realized that, I was immediately and irrevocably lost.

I was stunned. Not only did I not know which way to continue, but also did not know which way too get back. I just stopped and sat there looking as confused as a gaijin could get. A few minutes later and with another “swishhhh” my bud came flying around a corner to rescue me. He then proceeded to lead the way to work a bit slower, but only moderately. He went just slow enough that with my utmost effort I could keep a glimpse of him in sight. Was I pooped when we finally arrived at work. The difference between biking to work or driving down these narrow, narrow streets was only minutes. Anyway that is not the story.

I could ride a bicycle, although it had been years since I had done so. Ol Bubbaloo on the other hand, might have ridden a few times in her youth. But to say the least, she was no Lance Armstrong! We gave her lessons around the complex and pretty soon she got the hang of it. Not, I might say, without giving me shit for my bad idea of getting a bike for her. Well we got her to a level where she could, pretty much, control her bicycle. She was getting pretty good at moving in the right direction. Now, never having been able to leave well enough alone, my friend and I came up with the idea of a bicycle trip. We would cross to Shimabara Peninsula to see some sights that he knew.

Not one of my wisest decisions as it turned out. What we planned was biking from home to the ferry terminal. And from there across on the ferry to Shimabara. Where we would unload the bikes and make another short trip on the other side. Bubbaloo inquires as to how long of a trip it is, to which my friend replies “oh about a half an hour on each side”. So she considers this solid info and decides “I can deal with a half hour ride, that’s not so bad”. Oh Lord why could I never stifle myself and my bad ideas.

So one bright Saturday morning, mounted on our bikes, and with Bubbaloo carrying our girl in a basket, we embark. What could go wrong, eh? A few blocks in, I now realize that the half hour was based on my friends speed, with each one of his leg pumps churning out about 50 meters of distance. We are about an hour in to this journey and not much closer to the ferry.When I am starting to get this itchy feeling on the back of my neck. As if someone is burning me with a laser.

She is behind me struggling to keep up and struggling to keep our daughter upright in the “car seat”. Why am I not carrying her? Because I was not allowed to be in charge of such a special package. After all, she knew the crap I could get into. Whether or not I was ever guilty of anything was unimportant to her. We arrive at the ferry, she’s exhausted and somewhat pissed at my bud, but holding it together. “So how long is it now, on the other side?” And like an idiot he says “oh no more than another half hour”. There I am standing like a fool and not saying anything. Although I had this feeling that “one half hour”, was the only thing that it wasn’t going to be.

Now we are on the other side and preparing for the next step in our journey. I didn’t really think of it, however laid out in front of us was, a very, very, narrow road, extremely busy and winding upward thru a maze. Well Friend jumps on his machine and with one or two kicks disappears into the distance. Bubbaloo and I take a more calm approach and ease our way onto to the road. We are now, into heavy traffic, with room for two vehicles to pass if the paint jobs on them were not too thick. I know she is not happy. However, I manage to just stay far enough ahead of her so that she can’t threaten me, insult me, or otherwise accuse me of ruining her life.

I am now riding in the middle, I can just barely keep ol buddy in sight in the front and barely keep an eye on Bubbaloo in the back. This was not the most fun I ever had. After the passage, of what must have been, a solid hour of complete stress with wall to wall traffic. I realize, with all of my being, that I am in big, big trouble. My friend wants to wait for her. However, I can see her look and I am not surrendering at this point. I tell him just keep going and stay far enough ahead so she can’t catch me.

We proceeded like this for a while more, when I looked back to see our girl now slumped over sideways and taking a little rest. Of course the shift in weight makes it even more difficult for Bubba to control her bike. The traffic is whizzing by about a foot from her sleeping head, and you can see a look of extreme anxiety in Ol Bubbaloo’s face. I also doubt, even at that point, whether we were even within a “half an hour” of our destination. I surrender at this point and know what is coming. We wait until she catches up and was she pissed? The only thing I am happy about is that she does not have a gun or anything sharp in her possession. Our daughter is still slumped over racking up the zzzz’s and oblivious to all this fun we are having.

At this point it is painfully obvious that she is not going any further. Nor, has she the strength left, to go back to the ferry. Here we were in a small village, tight packed with traffic and people. Each, busy, with their Saturday chores and in a place where we understood not one word, nor could we read one sign. So while we are sitting there with two of our heads hanging low, in shame, and after having been stripped of all defences, Bubbaloo spots a garage and proceeds to go in. I do not know how, but she somehow explains to the guy inside the shop that she needs a taxi to return her to the ferry, because she can no longer bike. And like a miracle he somehow understands.

She is asking if he knows anyone she could hire to give her, her girl and her bike a ride back to the ferry. His response was a bow and “I’m going to take you”! Out she comes, out comes this tiny truck, in goes her bike, baby and herself and swishhh, off she goes. In some ways it was a relief because she could no longer abuse us and breakdown our ancestry or our abilities to think coherently. On the other hand we both knew it was only delayed, because we still had to go back to the ferry. So with our tails between our legs we slink back to the ferry for the return trip home.

I might say there were no “high fives”, no “atta boys”, nothing like “wow wasn’t that fun”, we just road back in silence. Once home I suffered the old “Inca Stoneface” treatment for a few days, until I had sufficiently whipped my own back, with thorns, in order to be partially forgiven. My friend stayed clear of her for three weeks and never commented on my blood stained shirt sticking to my back. That was the last “Tour de Japan” that we entered in. From this point on, a half hour meant a half hour Bubbaloo’s time, which really boiled down to a bout 5 minutes of real cycling.