The Himedomachi Cycling Club

I slept badly on the last night of this journey. Light off at 10, on again at midnight, off again at 1, wondering if it was worth sleeping. I could get up at 4 and ride with the dawn. Sleep.

I thought about not cycling to Sata. I knew the why of this journey, I’d articulated to myself for the first time as I thought about the woman at Yukate station.

“It’s going to rain. Take care!” she’d called, as she’d ascended the steps to clean the graves of her relatives.

It’s been to listen to people’s stories, speak to them in a way only the temporary visitor can.

In that sense, my journey ended in the ramen shop in Ebino after I chatted to the owner. I have not spoken to anyone since, other than everyday courtesies.

Of course, I did ride to Sata, a bookend to Soya. The road climbed into the mountains and away from the coast when I left Kinko, the town where I am staying. It’s bordered by jungle and palm trees and bamboo hangs over the road. I came to a tunnel. There was no sign showing its length, so I assumed it was less than 200m. It was 2 kilometres long and climbed steadily along most of its length.

Traffic noise bends inside tunnels. Cars sound like trucks. Trucks sound like the gates of hell opening. You can only tell which way a vehicle is approaching by turning your head 90 degrees.

I sat on a bench outside a supermarket. The bench was donated by the tunnel’s Safe Driving Association. They should have spent the money on speed bumps, or signs stating the tunnel’s length, or even a system alerting drivers to when there is a cyclist in the tunnel.  Instead, all we got was this lousy bench.

I came to the turnoff for Cape Sata. Incredibly there was a post office just beside it. Maybe for tourists so their postcards would have a Sata stamp? There didn’t seem to be any tourists on this rainy day. The sightseeing buses were virtually empty.

It’s an 8km climb from here that I really didn’t feel like doing. I heard my father’s voice in my head. “Come on, Matt. You can do it!” I often hear him when I’m struggling to do something difficult. I had to shut it off. I couldn’t deal with the emotions. Too late!

I reached the Cape Sata monument which tells you you’re on the 31st parallel. It’s the pair of the one in Soya, except this one has a wooden panel to stand in front of with a cartoon of the town mascot and the date. I would have dragged the panel out the way, but it was weighed down with breeze blocks. I took a selfie of me and Ribena. I look serious. Ribena appears to be thinking of something else. It wasn’t quite the shot I wanted, but it was the authentic shot.

I cycled around the corner to the actual cape. I had to leave Ribena behind for the last 850m because bikes aren’t allowed.

Ribena has been a faithful partner in this adventure for the last 3,200 kilometres. On the train to Wakkanai, when I wondered whether this was a good idea, she exhaled the smell of chain oil as if to say, “We’re doing this.” She’s never once let me down. She’s always wanted the fight. People have told me over and over again, “You’ve got a really cool bike.’ Yes, and I get to ride her everyday. Her bar tape has worn away, she needs her cassette cleaned and her bolts greased and her rear tire examined by Tom the mechanic. She keeps on going though and it felt like betrayal to leave her there.

When you get to Cape Sata you walk 850m to the observation deck, up and down steps that go from concrete to metal to stone to wood. It was raining hard and the wind whipped over the deck. I passed a man wearing a storm cape and a young couple grasping umbrellas. I stayed the amount of time it took to take two photos.

I walked back to the gift shop, where I drank a coffee and wrote a message in the guest book in my illegible scrawl. Something for future archaeologists to puzzle over.

I wheeled Ribena into shelter, put on everything I owned, ate everything I’d brought with me and felt much better. I took another selfie with Ribena under the actual Sata sign.

Cycling back was much easier than cycling there. I guess the gradients are shallower. There’s a sign pointing the way to Soya. You don’t get that in Hokkaido. Just a sign stuck to a tree reading, “Good luck, mate” followed immediately by a bear warning sign.

I intend to continue this blog for a few more days – until at least the gates of Amakusa – so I’ll save the summing up for later. My emotions feel too big now.

I’ve loved this ride in large parts, the beautiful bits, the people, the adventures, the friendships. Other times I would have happily been anywhere else except on the bike. I’m grateful I didn’t have an accident. None of my plans survived first contact with reality. I didn’t cycle as far as I wished, but I’m not sure I’m ever going to count the kilometres.

I have improved my Japanese, seen a tiny slice of what this country, that has fascinated me all my life, is like in 2024. I believe I’ve sharpened my powers of perception and articulation. I’ve lost 6kgs despite eating non stop all day. My face, forearms and knees are a deep tan, the rest of me is still lily white. My bum, I presume, is bright red.

Julian has asked me not to say this, but Kyushu is the best. Widest roads, the tastiest food, the best views, the nicest people. No bears. What more could you want?