The Himedomachi Cycling Club

I was sitting in Kansai airport when the ground began to vibrate with a noise like an engine. My subconscious mind said, “Lorry.” The vibrations went on and the sound got louder. It wasn’t a lorry or a jet. I messaged a friend who lives in Kyushu.

“Earthquake!”

He sent me the weather forecast for Wakkanai, the town in northern Hokkaido I am starting from tomorrow. Heavy rain. I looked it up myself. Snow. He sent a photo of his living room armchairs bathed in the glow of his wood stove.

I got a window seat on the plane. The Japanese flight attendant said, “You’re Japanese must be fluent!” She gave me the Japanese instructions on how to open the emergency exit. “I get by, somehow it other,” I told her. When she turned away I flipped the sheet over and read the English translation.

When we popped out the cloud on the approach to Sapporo I was expecting the checkerboard fields of Canada or the Midwest. They were there, and so were the irregular fields of family farms farms and the plains were still dotted with woods. I looked down a dead straight highway and counted just two cars.

On the train to Sapporo I waited for salarymen to come onboard and colonise the scores of dangling triangular hand holds. Instead we passed through ploughed fields, their ruts frozen in the cold, and empty stations. A recorded voice set on repeat told us to report any irregular activities.

Sapporo, green neon and skyscrapers. In the 7-11 you put your money in a slot now and the assistant checks out your purchases without having to look at you. There is no where to park a bike on the street.

My bike is in one piece. Bear spray costs 10,000 yen. The restaurants I wanted to eat at were both closed. The weather report for Wakkanai says 4 degrees but no rain.