The Himedomachi Cycling Club

I left the guest house as early as I could. I had accidently unplugged the fridge to recharge my lights and devices and the ice box had defrosted and leaked over the hardwood floor. Fortunately there were no stains and I dried everything up and subtly moved the furniture in my favour.

I rode past the elementary school kids walking to class in groups of five or six and wished them all a good morning and performed my ‘sitting bow from bicycle seat’ to the hi-vis crossing guards. I bought my usual breakfast from a ye olde 7-11 (cold coffee, egg sandwich, tuna/mayo onigiri) and stuffed snacks into my pockets and pouches (energy bars, cold green tea – a new favourite – more rice balls, Chewy Gummies). Across the road a shop called ‘Cr∆p.’

After 2,000 odd kilometres I’ve developed a kind of shell shock for the sound of traffic. The 212 was busy with the normal collection of lorries, boxy K-cars and farmers trucks. The joy of Kyushu is that the plains are wide enough to accommodate towns and small farms which I could duck in and out of to avoid the main road. It added a few k to the journey, but I got to see people going about their business, wish farmers a good morning, peer into their greenhouses and wonder what they were growing.

I a sign with the kanji for Kumamoto Prefecture and knew that I was getting close. My friend Julian was driving to meet me at his daughter’s house. He did the same job I did in a different town, married a Japanese woman. He meant to stay for one year and 32 years later he’s still here and still loves it. He’s my alternative life, the one I would have had if I’d married a Japanese woman and stayed (although I’ve never even had a Japanese girlfriend). It’s a good life. I envy it. I’m glad other me would have been happy.

I reached Oguni and I stopped outside a convenience store. Across the parking lot was a bank. The sign read, Kumamoto Bank. I looked at the number plates. Kumamoto. I messaged Julian, sniffing back tears.

“I’m having a little moment. I’m in Kumamoto.”

“Welcome home,” he replied.

Inside the convenience store I met two long distance cyclists, the first since Hokkaido. One of them called me a “credit card bike packer,” because I’m not camping.

If you’ve read this blog enough you’ll know that if you give me 50k and a grain of discomfort, by the end of the ride I’ll have turned it onto a pearl of disgruntlement large enough to stick in my craw. I’ll have cub scout badges made, I muttered to myself, with a picture of someone lying in a field and hand them out to people like him.

The road climbed towards the Aso Caldera. 90,000 years ago there used to be a volcano. Now there’s a crater 25 kilometres long and 18km wide, containing fields, pastureland and three towns. From Hita, it’s a 40-odd kilometre climb, although the gradient seldom rises above 4%.

From the lookout it’s like gazing into Death Valley, although verdant green with smoke rising from where the farmers were burning their fields.

I cycled around the caldera and, on Julian’s advice, took the Milk Road towards Kumamoto, which is flat, flat, flat then descends 500m in through an exciting number of hairpins.

I reached the outskirts of Kumamoto in time to play Asteroids with the junior highschool students.

The 57 is a two-, sometimes 3-lane straight road into town. It was rebuilt after the 2016 earthquake, but they’d left the old road as a kind of cycle lane and it was exactly the kind of no brain, no navigation cycling I needed after the mountains. I was physically tired but, for the first time in this journey, I looked back on the miles I’d ridden and thought, ‘I’m going to do this.’

Julian’s daughter, Milly, lives near Suizenji Park which means she lives near Kumamoto Budokan, which meant I had to go in.

I sat in the bleachers and thought about the fights I’d had on its hallowed floors against men whose indigo dyed leather armour was turning white with age. Of course, the people I fenced against wouldn’t remember them, supposing they are still alive, but those combats left marks on my soul.

The Budokan has the names of all the people who have run it, going back to Miyamoto Musashi’s senpai, all the way to the present day. I know the current head. The calligraphy he wrote for me is still on my wall. Eight winds blow, my heart does not move. I asked someone to say hello to him from me. I know he, at least, will remember.

At Shin-Suizenji station Julian met me with this sign.

His daughter came home and we sat in her balcony drinking beer and watching the golden hour as the sun set over the distant mountains. Milly works for the largest semi-conductor manufacturer in the world, who have set up a major factory in Kumamoto and have two more planned. When Julian and I went out to eat and then drink the streets buzzed with life. We had ramen then played shiri-tori in a bar with a 70 year old man, watching TV and chatting to the mama-san – oolong-cha for me – until the clock struck ten and my eyes started closing. The streetcar was busy and, unlike so many others places I’ve visited, Kumamoto knows what the future looks like.

I promised Jared that I’d go to McDonald’s tomorrow for old times sake. We used to make the trek up here to eat burgers and play arcade games. It was too late to blog and I fell asleep to the sound of the traffic.