Eclesiastes 3:1
I was a bicycling enthusiast with no intention of motorizing the perfect machine. Bicycles took me everywhere, commuting or trekking, but by my second year in Japan (1998) I was feeling fatigued. Japan, you see, has mountains that punish bicylists, especially in Nagasaki where I was living. Always hating busses, I needed something to take me up the steep hill leading to Gaigo Tandai, my university. Thus, like many professional wanderers in Asia, I bought a scooter.
Later, my motorcycle mentor, Canadian Tim, would open my eyes to the extreme ugliness of the scooter. Nasally engine screech, billowing stink smoke, fat little chasis--scooters are about as far away from the beauty of a bicycle as you can get. But I took the step of riding one to ease the strain of climbing the hills of Nagasaki.
When I moved to Kumamoto in 2001 I was ready to upgrade. Being naturally cheap, and unsure of how deeply I'd get into motorcylcing, I planned to buy a rusty old used motorbike when I met Tim, a colleague at Kumamoto Gakuen University. Tim is a conneseur of beauty and excellence. As a motorcycle expert and mechanic, he offered to take me shopping. With well timed, logical remarks, he brought me round to seeing the advantages of buying new. Through him, I ended up getting a nice deal on a brand new 250cc off road Honda. The great point of going with a 250cc rather than a 450cc or higher was that I wouldn't need a motorcycling license. She was beautiful bright red, a fine machine.
Now, six years later, I reflect on the great pleasure cruises and experiences she led me too. I can't say I've ridden her so much--just 10,000 kilometers or so--but I have had some exquisite experiences. I'm writing past tense about her because I plan to put her back into the skillfull and caring hands of Tim. Six years later life circumstances have changed dramatically: I've gotten married and have two young sons. Perhaps even more to the point, I'll be moving from a rural location, Akita in northeast Japan, to Tokyo, perhaps the largest city in the world. Money is tight, and it's hard to justify keeping her considering the number of times I'll be able to ride her a year. Thus, as a tribute to this machine, I would like to post my five best rides and the experiences she brought me to.
Number 5 - Shortly after I bought her in 2001, Rika came into my life. From spring 2002 Rika was climbing on the back of my bike to explore the mountains outside Kumamoto city. Truly, I wish my friends in Akita could see the splendor of Kyushu. In particular we have a ride captured on video where we discovered a lovely mountain restaurant. In the back was a clear stream where I frolicked and splashed around in the cool water for 15 of the afternoon's hottest minutes. Some of the video was taken by Rika while I drove, jerky greenness and beauty.
Number 4 - I departed Takayama at 5am for the long drive to southern Nara prefecture. Although it was summer, I was leaving in the mountains, early in the morning. It was freezing, and all I had was my ratty old 25 year old jacket from high school days. I wrapped as much as my body as I could around the engine for her warmth. By the afternoon I was approaching Kansai--exhausted. I had ridden through rain and sun and expressway traffic jams, and when I reclined in the shade of a tree, I was too tired to care about the extreme humidity, heat, and bugs, snagging a badly needed 20 minute nap. I didn't reach my friend's house in the country till around 4pm, where we enjoyed playing the Japanese game "go" for several hours. I was hoping--counting on--an invite to stay the night, but by 10pm it was clear the invite would not come. Weary, I climbed onto my bike as clouds started to spit rain on me. Where would I find a hotel on that rural road? After 30 minutes or so, on the way to the ferry terminal in Wakayama, I saw a hotel sign but had trouble finding the entrance. It was a love hotel. I took the room, but declined the offer for female comfort (see number 1 to better understand why). 5,000 yen ($42USD) for a lovely, comfortable room. I plunged into a deep sleep.
Number 3 - Bosozoku are Japan's version of "Hell's Angels." Well, they're somewhere between that and rude punks. Their usual mischief is revving the engines of their mufflerless motorcycles in the dead of night, or speeding through cities, or just looking tough. Meanwhile, one negative experience I've had cycling is dealing with aggressive cars. To be fair the road conflicts usually arose because a car was offended by my riding tactics. In Japan, it's generally acceptable for a motorbike to ride the shoulder to pass stopped cars waiting at stoplights or in traffic jams, a technique which I thoroughly enjoyed utilizing, sometimes literally passing hundreds of cars. Most cars take it in stride--after all, before you know it, I'm clear out of sight, having passed a subsequent line of cars--but some, some touchy, righteous, testosterone laiden male drivers take deep offense. To get revenge, they might come back and cut you off while speeding down the highway, leaving very little space. This is a stupid and danerous response to an altogether innocent (even if rude) act on the part of a motorcyclist. At times I found their revenge response tought to swallow, and either passed back, or gave them some gesture of contempt. One day, after a long ride down the peninsula south of Kumamoto, a car pulled that shit with Rika on the back. Without thinking, I gave them the finger. Then, at the next stoplight, the host of hoods--bosozoku Rika called them--rolled down their windows to give me shit and apparently challenge me to a fight (I couldn't make out what they were sputtering). They looked like rich brat punks and, in my imagination (and possibly actually) they looked like yakuza, Japanese mafia. My heart beat fast. I briefly avoided them and felt relieved when they turned off the road. The experience has become part of Rika and my personal motorcycling lore.
Number 2 - With wife and son away at her parent's, I had the chance to ride up to Aomori prefecture from Akita. The first night I camped near a quiet beach. The next morning of brilliant sunshine I tramped around the hills and still managed to hit the road early, like 6am (I wake up early when camping). I targetted a very rural road leading up to the mountains, and hit it full stride. The road was unpaved, through deep woods, not another vehicle in sight. Like the above experience, I absolutely froze. The gravelly road and chill put a test to my fortitude, but as I traveled on I settled into an exquisite feeling of tranquility. I want to choose words carefully, and not exaggerate, but it's fair to say the for thirty minutes or so I entered into a different state of consciousness. I felt no separation, and extreme peace. One wouldn't think a "higher" state of consciousness could come on a machine (one that, after all, pollutes) but it was very special, akin to the brief bouts of raised 
consciousness I felt in India and once, as a youth, listening to Genesis' 30 minute classic song, "Supper's Ready." Eventually I was jarred out if it to face physical needs of a deep bone chill. No sun shone on the mountain road, and it was still morning. The wild ruralness showed no end in sight. Then, like a mirage offered a desert wanderer, I saw a huge complex with a parking lot filled with 100 cars or more. How could this be? Perhaps I was dreaming, I thought. Later I realized all the traffic had come from the paved road on the Aomori city side. I dared to hope they had onsen (hot spring baths), a hope as delicious as any I could imagine. To my delight they did, and for a few hundred yen (few dollars), bliss was mine. It was late morning, and I could soak alone, letting out a primoridal sigh of profound pleasure. I melted in that beautiful, hot water, the outdoor tub outside overlooking the mountains. Not "almost" heaven. Heaven.
Number 1 - I arrived in Kyoto after crossing Kyushu, taking the overnight ferry, and driving from Osaka, for my grand summer motorcycle tour. The plan was to go to Noto Peninsula, then a conference in Toyama, then around the mountains. When I told my go playing antique dealer friend, he strongly recommended I visit a small mountain village in Gifu prefecture, Takayama, also known as "Little Kyoto." At first I silently resisted (yeah yeah) but as he went on praising this town's charm, I decided I would, after all, check it out and spend a night. The morning I arrived was absolutely brilliant, sunny, perfect temperature for riding. I arrived at the temple youth hostel in high spirits. That afternoon I wandered the town on foot. At one point, carrying a strawberry Haggan Das ice cream, I spotted an Asian goods store. Always on the lookout for an ankle bracelet, I decided to stop in after chowing down my treat. Inside, I struck up a conversation with the lovely shopkeeper. I remember the feeling of the conversation well, and some visual details, but nothing of the content. After about 15 minutes of chatting I was suddenly struck with the idea to ask her out for the evening, which I did. She accepted. Back at the temple youth hostel to get ready, I was naturally excited. Traveling alone has its peculiar charms and exquisite moments, but it can be lonely. Now I had a date with a lovely woman. As I gazed out the window I strongly intuited something I had considered but never felt dedicated to pursuing: a baby. I suddenly knew it was time for me to have a child. I'd like to emphasize that this thought came to me, from somewhere in my subconscious--or outside my consciousness altogether. I consider it mysterious, because it was very strong and very clear. I felt strongly that I had met the woman who I would marry, who would give birth to my child. That night (after I very nearly couldn't find her shop) we had a lovely chat at an izakaya (Japanese bar). I recall being impressed because she said something mildly critical of the U.S.'s propensity to use military force, unneccesarily, to solve conflicts 
(surely it was a feeler because she would prove to have no interest in discussing politics). That night, she walked me back to the temple hostel. I had suggested and resuggested that it was time for her to take a holiday and visit me in Kyushu. I promised to take her around Kumamoto where we could enjoy sea delights together. The hostel had a curfew, and as the temple bell tolled midnight I spoke to her in English for the first time that day: "You have to come," I told her, thinking, "It's your fate." She came, traveled for several days, then we met again a month later in Kyoto, then again in Gifu for New Year's holiday, then she moved in with me in Kumamoto. We are now happily married with two beautiful sons, Vicent 3 and Andre 1.Now it's time to day goodbye to my red off-road Honda motorcycle. On April 1 my family and I will start our new life in Tokyo. I'm tempted to take it with me, but when will I have time? Riding thru the city streets sounds convenient, but parking in Tokyo, even for motorcycles, is hard to find and expensive. I might have some time on weekends, but Tokyo has numerous non-motorcycling delights, and no coastal roads that tempt me to motorcycle. It's time to go back to my roots, the bicycle, the perfect machine. But there'll always be a place in my heart for my red Honda and the places of exquisite beauty it brought me to.
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