Since coming to Japan, I’ve spent the night in a few rough places, among them a stairwell at a bus depot, the ground outside of a baseball stadium, a park bench, and a smoke-filled booth in an Internet cafe. But that was all before I ever did what Japanese call nojuku, which is literally “field-lodging” and basically means “sleeping under the stars.”
Truth be told, I’d only done that once before for a five-day stretch on the Klamath River in Northern California. Even there, we were on a guided river rafting tour and everything was set up for us.
Nojuku, on the other hand, has a kind of unplanned feeling to it, as though we set out to travel until we’re tired and then set up camp at wherever that place happens to be. It is also looked upon fondly by older folks, as it is typically something done by the young and the restless. Given that Japan is a country where you can sleep on a park bench and hardly have to worry about getting mugged, nojuku is something that a great many Japanese people try.
Last spring, I decided to try a nojuku bike trip and combine it with my desire to see the sun come up over the Pacific Ocean, something I’d never seen before even though I spent some time in Hawaii. While the west coast of Kochi is characterized by jagged shorelines and mountains that seem to shoot straight up out of the water, the east coast is straighter, smoother, and more subtle. Think Gaviota or Malibu in California.
Since I didn’t have to worry about returning home until the next day, I wanted to make the ride out there count. I wanted distance and elevation like I’d never had before, and I knew that I wouldn’t get it by going around Cape Muroto and following the coast the whole way. That was the easy part that I was saving for Day Two.
I decided to go up into the mountains, cross over into Tokushima Prefecture, and find my way to the Pacific from there. There was only one road up, but there were many options going down. I chose the one that looked the most direct and would allow me to log 105 miles for Day One.
Up the mountain, through the tunnel into Tokushima, hang a right at the reservoir, follow the salty breezes, and set up camp. Simple, right? I didn’t have this nifty map tool at the time, and I ended up missing something very important on my trusty paper map.
Nonetheless, I packed a sleeping bag, mat, sweater, my journal, the equivalent of ten bucks, and a fresh set of biking clothes into a hiking backpack and set off for my first nojuku. The sun shone on high the entire time I was in the saddle, and the air got fresher and sweeter as I ascended the narrow, two-lane road out of Kochi Prefecture.
The pack yanked down on my shoulders and neck to the tune of the weight inside, and I couldn’t lift my head up very high, making it impossible to ride in the drop position safely. That limited me to two riding positions instead of three, further taxing the muscles used for each.
I learned that having a large pack requires taking more breaks and changes the way gravity and the wind work on the bike and body together. It alters the center of gravity slightly and makes the bike handle differently, so I had to descend with a measure of tentativeness until I figured out the bounds of my new physical unit of bike, body, and bag.
All of this became much more important later in the ride. I located the reservoir with no trouble and stopped for a break. It felt great to unclip the pack and break free of the yoke, and I sat with my legs dangling off the edge of the bridge that stretched over the reservoir and on to the ocean, or so I assumed.
My odometer showed that I had only covered a little more than half of the planned distance, and it didn’t strike me as strange that I couldn’t see anything but mountains. I knew that the road ahead was full of switchbacks, but it didn’t occur to me that it would take all that much climbing to get out of the gorge.
On I pedaled, without preparing myself for climbing a mountain that was higher than the first one. I didn’t see the elevation or the mark for “mountain pass” on my paper map for some reason, so I had no idea what I was in for.
Sometimes, it’s better not to know how difficult something is going to be before you do it. When I was on the hybrid bike and always bringing up the rear on our KCTC trips, Mr. Bike Shop would frequently and purposely misinform me of elevations and distances because he knew I’d probably turn around and go home if I knew the true numbers.
On the other hand, an experienced cyclist can use accurate information to begin tackling a particularly steep or long obstacle mentally, well before the actual challenge begins. He can use that preparation to extend his physical limits and overcome the obstacle handily. I use this power now to do difficult climbs after long periods of time without cycling and to conquer the fear that crops up every time I know I’m going to have to sweat and strain to make it over the hill.
So, I was blissfully unaware of the 1,500-foot climb ahead, as well as the two-mile stretch of it with an average grade of 6%. Neither of those is that big a deal, but they became huge monsters because I didn’t know that they were coming. I ended up flat on my back, gasping for air, looking up at the deep blue sky, and asking when the hell was going to end.
I descended joylessly and followed a river for about 12 miles until it emptied out into the Pacific. I had less than an hour of sunlight left and still had no idea where I was going to sleep, so I explored every road off the main highway, looking for a good patch of sand that was close to enough driftwood for a fire.
Many places had signs that explicitly banned camping, and the best-looking beaches had too many buildings around to get away with nojuku if a nosy neighbor decided to call the authorities. Nojuku sounded like a great idea when Japanese people waxed poetic about it, but in reality, I felt like I had to be somewhere where I couldn’t be seen easily because I’d be shooed away.
I finally found a spot as the sun slipped behind the mountains to the west, and I dismounted and tried to figure out what to do with my bike. I had forgotten to pack a pair of shoes for walking, and I wouldn’t dare walk on the sand in my bike shoes, so I would be barefoot for the rest of the night.
A grizzled old lady came out of the worn-down inn across the highway, and she shouted, “Hey! Are you lookin’ for a place to stay?” in a thick Kochi accent. I said no, that I was going to sleep on the beach. Mrs. Roadside Inn ambled across the street without checking for traffic, and took me by the hand into her inn despite my polite refusal of room and board.
She asked a lot of questions and we chatted as she whipped up a gigantic okonomiyaki for me. It was longer across than my hand, and I wolfed it down hungrily, replacing some of the 8-10 pounds I had probably dropped on the trip over. A couple of surfers from Kobe came in to eat before they went to bed in their rooms, and they taught me a little bit about Japanese surfing culture as we ate.
Mrs. Roadside Inn would not let me pay for the okonomiyaki and once again implored for me to spend the night in one of the tatami rooms upstairs. This level of generosity is not uncommon in the Kochi countryside, but for this suburban guy, it is surprising and refreshing every time. I hated to turn down the offer, but I had come out to do nojuku, and I had only ten bucks in my shoe. I left my bike in the entryway and made my way down to the beach.
I gathered driftwood and kindling in the dark, dug a hole in the sand, and started a fire. It marked the first time I showed up without a pallet or the $5.99 bundle of firewood from the market and actually made a fire. It took 26 years and some change, but I finally understood this feeling:
There was barely enough light to write in my journal, but I got it done. I rolled out the mat and sleeping bag and attempted to sleep. The wind blew sand in my face, and the waves were so loud that I felt like I was just keeping my eyes closed all night long. Mrs. Roadside Inn kept the light on for me, but I had come out to sleep on the beach and that was what I was going to do.
Morning didn’t come quickly enough. I opened my groggy eyes and sneezed, sending droplets of water jumping out from the sleeping bag in all directions. I hadn’t planned on the wind, the sand, the sound of the waves, or the dew. Clearly, I need to get out more.
The sun peeked up over the surface of the water and only took a few minutes to separate itself from the ocean. The white circle hovering over the sea confused me – I honestly had difficulty interpreting what I was seeing. A SUNRISE over the ocean. It was beautiful and serene, and the best part was that I still had the whole day ahead of me.
I crossed the highway to grab my bike and change clothes. At the Roadside Inn, Mrs. Roadside Inn scrambled an egg and put it on top of a thick piece of toast for me. “Americans like this kind of thing for breakfast, right?” she asked expectantly.
I laughed and thanked her for leaving out the fish, rice, pickles, and miso soup that makes up the typical Japanese breakfast. She wouldn’t accept money for breakfast and informed me that I could stay at the Roadside Inn for free on Sundays through Thursdays. I have yet to take her up on that, but I still have her phone number.
I saddled up and began the 75-mile journey back to Kochi city via Cape Muroto. The flat, two-lane highway hugs the coastline most of the way, and it is certainly a gorgeous ride if you only have to take it one way. I got back home in just over four hours, tired and disheveled, but much better and wiser for the experience.
Mama Sea Turtle looks surprised at what is happening behind her.
Lone Fisherman off Cape Muroto
From that point on, I vowed not to travel on the bike with the sleeping bag and to limit the packing so that I can move my head when I put the backpack on. There won’t be any more nojuku on the bike, and probably no more alone for that matter. However, it was a great way to begin making solo two-day trips, which I did a lot more of after the baseball season ended and I became a translator.
