Bob Sanchez’ BS

On a remote mountain road, the scruffy dog with grimy, matted fur leered at me as I frantically tried to change a bike tire before my fingers froze and broke off.

“Shut up!” I yelled at it, mostly to get my blood circulating again so that I could continue replacing the wheel. I planned to kick it or box it if it came any closer, but that tire simply had to go on before I froze to death in what was basically fancy underwear and a helmet.

The impolite old man returned to the scene before I was finished pumping the tire up all the way, and I pointed out the dog, which had skittered up the hill on the other side of the narrow road. He scooped up the dog, chained him up with the other three, and peeled out toward an unknown destination with nary a word said.

He was as icy as the wind. I was very close to seriously needing help escaping the bitter cold, and I am so glad that it didn’t come down to asking him for a ride. He may have refused.

I had little choice but to turn around and go back the way I had come. I was about 20 miles out of Kochi and well over the second set of mountains, but continuing would have guaranteed the need for a ride home.

I shivered and sniffled my way back up the mountain, and tears seemed forthcoming but I doubt that they could have squeezed their way out of my frozen eyeballs.

It was at the top of the pass that I realized that it was not pollen blowing around in the air, but snow. I had seen snow fall from the sky but three times in my life prior to that, and this snow was hardly doing what I would call falling. It floated in the air, moving to and fro, and when the flakes made contact with my clothing, they just stuck there without melting.

My feet were bricks of ice, but luckily their work was done. It was 16 miles downhill to the city, and I exhaled a huge white cloud of relief. It didn’t take long for it to dawn on me that 16 miles downhill in that weather would mean fiercer wind and less body movement, therefore less warmth.

The frigid air sliced through my two week-old beard and burned my face. I never doubted that I would find a way home, but the prospect of getting home healthy was vanishing quickly.

Then I passed the Kawamura Farm. I didn’t know it was the Kawamura Farm until I looked up and saw a middle-aged couple throwing twigs and small branches onto a bonfire in front of a dilapidated shed and ramshackle farmhouse.

There was no better time for some good old Kochi hospitality. I pried my feet loose from the pedals and walked gingerly up to the pair, asking them as politely as possible if I could partake in their pleasant pyre.

“M-m-may I please b-b-b-borrow s-some of your f-f-fire?” I murmured, finding it difficult to manage moving my mouth much.

Mr. Kawamura laughed and beckoned me closer to the blaze. I struggled to strip off my gloves and finally defrost the fingers that had worked so hard on the shady side of the mountain.

I gazed up at the lazily falling snow and tried to follow it to the ground, but I lost sight of it in the white ash of the fire pit. Sap sizzled and spat from one of the pieces of bark in the pit, and dozens of tiny ants scurried and hurried in vain to try to escape their fiery fate.

The Kawamuras and I engaged in conversation, and I learned that Mr. Kawamura had spent the first ten years of his life in that very farmhouse, walking three miles each way to school every day. His parents and he moved away to Kochi City, leaving his elderly grandparents on the mountain alone, where they would live out the rest of their lives.

Mr. Kawamura returns to the farmhouse and small plot of land a few times each fall and winter. The roof was about ready to collapse, and it sagged precariously over one side of the building. The shed, too, was on its last legs. Nobody has lived on that land for twenty years, and Mr. Kawamura just gathers twigs and fallen branches and burns them to keep the plot relatively clear.

The Kawamuras were just sitting in front of a bonfire all day, and I began to think that they might have been bored before I came along. I changed my mind when a postal worker zipped by on a little red scooter, nodding to us before disappearing down a side road to deliver some mail.

I heard the man’s voice shout, “Good afternoon!” but there was no reply. The scooter popped back into view, and the postal worker eyed the fire with the same wistful look that I had probably had on my face when I passed by. His deep, coal-black eyes watered over the scarf that covered the rest of his face.

He slowly unwound the scarf and stammered out the same question that I had asked, and Mr. Kawamura bellowed in his booming baritone, “Come on over, there’s plenty of room for you!”

We talked about the postman’s lonely route all the way from the distant town hall to the top of the mountain. He knew how many houses were on his route (214) and regaled us with stories of delivering through rain, snow, sleet, and hail. Contrary to what I believed, there are indeed days when even the postal service can’t get through.

Mr. Kawamura asked after certain people on the route, and both he and the postman knew them all. It was amazing to me not only that he could remember people after forty years, but that they would still be around to talk about. A lot is said about Japanese longevity, and legend has it that many of the centenarians we hear of live in rural mountain towns like that one.

It was very educational for me to be a part of that conversation, if a small one. It reminded me again how easy it is to fall into the trap of talking about my hometown and how long I’ve been studying Japanese, which I will invariably have to speak about every day that I choose to be in this country.

The postman eventually had to get back to work, and it was late enough in the afternoon that it wasn’t getting any warmer. I would have to face the cold sooner or later, so I dragged myself away from the inviting flames after getting the Kawamuras’ contact information.

I narrowed my eyes, gritted my teeth, and let my cheeks flap in the wind as I raced down the face of the mountain. I was going as fast as I could both to end the experience more quickly and to keep my body moving. Thirty long minutes later, I was in the city, where I saw that the high temperature had been 46 degrees. It was most certainly below freezing in the mountains.

I stopped at the Bike Shop to ask about the gaping hole in my tire, and Mr. Bike Shop took a look at it, shook his head, and said, “Hurts, don’t it?”

“What hurts?” I strained to say. My mouth still wasn’t working very well.

“The 35 bucks you spent on a tire that’s no longer useable,” he said plainly, pursing his lips.

I think that he is not-so-secretly counting down the amount of money he would’ve gotten from me had I bought an expensive new bike from the Bike Shop. I’ve bought every new part for the used bike from him, but I think he’s going to wait until he’s recovered the entire “balance” before he starts being friendly again.

I bought another tire and looked forward to getting more practice and more pumping. Whooppee!!!

All in all, it would have been a fantastic ride on a hot summer day, and I will definitely remember the spot, but the mountains are closed until March as far as I am concerned. The hour I spent in the shower and hot bath undid all of the pain, and I awoke Monday morning fresh and as ready to go as ever.

Wouldn’t you know it, it warms up again and there isn’t a hint of white in the mountains. I look out the window at school, at the beautiful reds and yellows of the trees up in the hills, and think, “Maybe one more weekend . . . “

I got all excited about buying the mad, new machine that would catapult me to the front of the group on KCTC rides, and promptly spent four weeks away from the club.

Consecutive weekends took me away from Kochi on baseball and other business, and one Sunday featured a silly meeting at the English school that contracted me to my high school. Pair that with a curiously sudden and heavy workload at school, and you have a guy who is itching to sleep in instead of hopping on the hobby horse.

Last weekend, it came time to break away, to disappear from everyone’s radar and just ride. I have a map of Kochi Prefecture on the wall in my room, and I’ve traced my routes with a thin marker so that I can blur my focus and see what my radius looks like.

Saturday, I set out to expand it and chose Kubokawa Town, a small river village halfway between Kochi City and the mouth of the famous Shimanto River in Nakamura City. Kubokawa Town is only five miles away from the Pacific Ocean, yet sits aside the same river. The “River of 40,000 tributaries” carves out a very interesting and meandering path.

The national highway that leads out of Kochi City goes right through Kubokawa Town and on to Nakamura City, but it is a two-lane road most of the way and is jammed with freight trucks up through steep passes and tunnels. No thanks, said I.

I decided instead to follow the numbered prefectural roads, which usually offer hours of intimacy and solitude to the bike rider. I sneaked around the national highway and up into the mountains, and the road that I chose spat me out close to the main source of the Shimanto River.

I had just made it over the tallest pass and to the downhill run when I got stuck behind a logging truck for about 5 miles. The truck was as wide as the road and hung out over the white lines on both sides of the road for most of the time. I saw the outer wheels leave the road twice, and the driver had to slow down to avoid clipping trees and mailboxes on many occasions.

I drummed my fingers on the comfortable, curved handlebars and waited impatiently for the road to widen considerably so that I could get by safely. I imagined the shock of seeing a beast like this behind me and decided that it was better off in front of me after all. “Objects in mirror” and all.

That episode passed along with the rest of the ever-shortening afternoon, and I arrived in Kubokawa Town right at sunset. I sought refuge at Iwamoto Temple, the 37th stop on the journey of 88 temples that takes enlightenment-seeking pilgrims around Shikoku Island.

It is very common to see these pilgrims daily around Kochi, as there are several of the 88 temples within city limits. They are usually dressed in white, wear rice hats, and carry big backpacks and walking sticks. I think part of Kochi folks’ open-hearted spirit comes from helping so many complete strangers pass through.

I’m no pilgrim, but two buddies from east of Kochi City had arrived before me and arranged for the three of us to share an extra room at the inn next to the Iwamoto Temple. We ate a prepared meal at a long, low table with a bunch of pilgrims, and bathed with them as well.

I was asked many times over if I was a pilgrim, and a number of people do indeed elect to complete the trek by bicycle. The ultra-modern, sedentary lifestyle-types do it in tour buses. The man who ate next to me was doing it in pieces around his job; he had been at it for a year and managed to get 37 temples in.

We turned in early, as the 38th temple is quite a haul and many pilgrims can’t get there in one day. Meditation and the incantations were set for 6:00 a.m. sharp.

We arose before six, shuddering at the cold, late autumn wind that whistled through the temple grounds. The monks floated around in their mustard-yellow and brown robes, lighting candles and incense and preparing the temple for the service.

The chanting and praying were by far the most foreign things I have ever done. The monks kneeled on pillows, facing away from the pilgrims, and led them in the swiftly-moving, monotonous chant. One monk tapped rhythmically on a small, deep-toned bell next to him and kept the crowd on pace.

I didn’t say very many of the words, as I was too busy observing the monks and pilgrims and soaking up the scene. Most of the chants were done in classical Japanese, which even normal Japanese people can have trouble understanding.

I was able to grasp the meaning of the characters on the page in front of me, but the readings were rather odd, and there were definitely some parts that weren’t Japanese at all. I caught a few boddhisatvas and Amida Buddhas in there.

The monks fed us breakfast, and then I suited up and struck out in the direction of Kochi City. The plan on Sunday was to follow the coast as much as possible, still avoiding the national highway.

The temperature hovered in the low forties, but I was properly equipped and didn’t feel much as long as I kept moving. I expected to have to climb a bit to get out of the basin in which Kubokawa Town sits, but to my surprise I found a steep, twisty road down into Shiwa, a small fishing hamlet on the coast.

It so happened that Sunday was Shiwa’s day to shine - they were holding their annual Konbu Seaweed Festival. The villagers bustled about, preparing huge pots to make konbu soup and setting up tables and chairs for their expected visitors. One old man was running around with a portable blowtorch on full blast, and I didn’t see him light anything with it, but nobody was freaking out so perhaps I met Shiwa’s village idiot. I watched him for a good minute and there appeared to be no reason to have the torch going.

I declined to stay for the festivities and turned toward the lone road leading north out of Shiwa. The pavement was gritty and the street shot straight up the face of a rocky cliff, and I would see similar geography all the way back home. Challenging slopes followed by screaming downhill stretches, a fantastic way to spend a Sunday morning.

At nine o’clock, I phoned Mr. Bike Shop, who was just about to hold court with KCTC and decide the day’s route, to beg the bikers and him to head west and meet me somewhere in the middle. They went east.

Shortly after hanging up, I encountered a strange-looking roadblock in front of a shaded hillside graveyard. Three cones stretched across half of the road, but there was no signage and plenty of room for a bicycle to pass by, so I proceeded with care.

Not far beyond the cones, a lone car was parked off to one side, and I could see the driver and his passenger burning some leaves up on one of the plots of land that stuck out from the hill. The road was littered with twigs and leaves and looked like it hadn’t been traversed in years, but curiosity got the better of me and I continued climbing.

I got my answer at the relative peak, where a rockslide blocked off most of the road. There was plenty of room for a person (or a biker) to step over the ropes and onto the other side, but it was impassable by car. I tiptoed through the rubble and plopped the bike down on the opposite side.

It was a little scary, and I debated whether or not I should continue. Around the next bend, however, was an old man sitting on the pavement, smoking a cigarette in front of his pickup truck. He was startled to see me coming from the direction of the landslide; this abandoned road appeared to be his secret space, his escape.

I asked him if it was safe, and he nodded, but quickly shook his head from side to side, expressing his surprise at seeing someone emerge from the rock pile. At the bottom of the road, a similar half-roadblock stood next to a sign that described the landslide that had forced closure of the road in March. No plans existed to fix the road, and there was no need because of a brand new tunnel through the shaky mountain.

On I pedaled, up and down, over and over, past magnificent rock formations and wonderful, craggy islands in the ocean near the coast. I spied some fishermen standing out on some of the rocks. I stopped to enjoy a banana and some mikan and, as I do nearly every day, thought myself lucky to be in Kochi at that very moment.

Finally, I reached the Yokonami Peninsula, which is basically a small mountain range separating a narrow bay from the ocean. The hellish, badly-paved road rises and falls and tests riders of all levels, but it offers some absolutely breathtaking views.

There is a road on the backside of the bay that I usually take, and I had a choice to make. I had sworn off the Yokonami Skyline because of the impossibility of the slopes and the coarse conditions, but I was feeling feisty and decided to give it a shot for the first time on my new ride.

It was nothing! Oh, I love this bike!

I coasted home, cleaned the bike, showered, bathed, and set out for an all-you-can-eat cake and pasta deal at a restaurant down the street. I had been looking forward to stuffing my face with spaghetti and strawberry shortcake all morning and afternoon, but when I arrived at the restaurant, I was met with the totally lame X-mark explaining that the restaurant was full.

Bummed, I exited the place, right into a gaggle of college-age girls wearing matching hats and holding trash bags. I asked them what the get up was all about, and they explained that they were picking up trash around the area for the next hour. I put on a hat and joined them. Didn’t take long for that situation to turn around!

Later that night at the supermarket, I bumped into a young woman who works at one of my favorite restaurants. The last time I had seen her, I had made a badly-timed, badly-delivered joke that ended up sounding very rude. The restaurant had gotten quiet at just that moment, so everyone, including the shop owner, had heard it, and I was sure that I was banished from the restaurant for life.

Finally given the chance to apologize (after kicking the idea around and not doing it of my own volition), I did, and she brushed it off and said that I was still welcome at the restaurant.

What a weekend!