Riding the Shougatsu 600: chasing ghosts up the east coast of Japan

I have never met Itaru Sasaki but his cousin’s death has always stuck in my mind.

He died in 2010. I only know this because of what Itaru did next. After losing his cousin he still wanted a way to talk to him, somewhere to connect. So he installed a phone box in his back garden. It wasn’t plugged into anything but it was a space for him to talk out loud. “It uses the wind” Itaru would say. It was Kaze no Denwa. The Wind Telephone.

The phone box had first been a personal project but that was before the 2011 Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami hit Japan. The coastal town of Ōtsuchi — where Itaru lived — was just one of the devastated areas. It was the most powerful earthquake ever recorded in Japan killing nearly 16,000 people. Even now 2,537 are still missing.

For many it was this not knowing that was most difficult. So Itaru’s phonebox slowly gathered a larger audience. People from the town — then further afield — would come to speak to lost husbands, wives, daughters, sons, mothers and friends.

The beauty of Itaru’s story and the tragedy of Ōtsuchi stayed in my mind for a long time. After seeing the story on an NHK documentary, the heartbreak and honesty of those grieving is not something you easily forget.

A few years later I moved to Japan for work; along with my bike and big plans to ride all over the country. But as it tends to, life — new friends, jobs and other plans — got in the way. Every so often the story would pop back into my head. It’s eight years on but the disaster still looms in unexpected places. Sometimes a small tremor will start up old conversations about where you were on 3/11. We’ve just had one now as I write this.

Last year was the first time I did the Festive 500 abroad. It’s a cycling challenge where people around the world try to ride 500km between December 24th and 31st. It doesn’t matter when and where, as long you make the distance. It had been different from previous years but very rewarding. Reflecting on this I wrote about the connections with new friends, myself and also those back home. This year I wanted to try something different and looking back at past plans inspired another kind of journey. Some people don’t like reflecting, looking back on the year but I do.The dreams that might have been overlooked can suddenly get some new attention. Riding up to Ōtsuchi and visiting the telephone was one of many that needed another chance.

I had been off my bike for months. Tokyo’s summer was particularly bad last year and walking to the shop, let alone attempting long exercise, left you coated in sweat. I had started running and that was enough to keep me sane, so the bike was left alone. The return of the Festive 500 became the perfect excuse to get back on the bike and build up some distance before setting off north. I wanted to explore a new part of the country and also understand what had happened there. Beyond stories in bars and grainy YouTube videos.

Japan doesn’t follow traditional Christian holidays (which throws its own challenges up during the Festive 500) but it does have “new year” holiday in January: Shougatsu. In Japan working holidays are notoriously short so any space to get a week off is a time to be seized. The distance wasn’t crazy — just over 600 km from my home in Tokyo — but I was out of shape, I would be carrying everything I needed and the temperatures in the north had really started to drop. Despite this, my plans of the Shougatsu 600 had been set.

The start of my trip coincided with the last day of the Festive 500. For most of the challenge I had been building up distances on the flat banks of the nearby Arakawa river. It had been the perfect place to get used to time on the bike again. Now I was setting off into more challenging terrain, from a route I had built using Strava.

Knowing I would be camping in the mountains on the 31st I decided to head out for a few drinks with some friends. It was only supposed to be “a few beers” but at 3 am I was finally calling it a night, stepping out of a bar called “Dragon Men” in Shinjuku’s gay district. I don’t know much about the pro’s pre-race routines, but you need to do what works for you.

I set off with a sore head as well as tired legs. I hadn’t been on a long ride for a while so it felt strange to pace my bike out of Tokyo. A saddle pack containing a one-man tent and a change of clothes, as well as a sleeping bag strapped to my handlebars.

The first day went well. I enjoyed weaving between the farmland that emerges out of Tokyo’s city sprawl. The weather was bright and clear, but as the sun set the temperature dropped. Due to my late start I ended up riding in the dark for several hours. That morning I had located a patch of forest on Google Maps where it looked like I could put up a tent and not bother anyone. By the time I arrived at my pitch, which turned out to be nothing more than some scrubland between farms, it had dipped below freezing. Tired and cold, I managed to put the tent up in a sagging state. One-man tents can be like coffins. You only realise this once you’re inside. I shotgunned a beer, spoke briefly to a few friends on the phone and then tried to pass out.

It would be wrong to say I woke the next morning — that implies sleep — but I had managed to doze enough to punctuate night and day. Listening back to the recordings I made on my phone at 5 am, I can hear how fucked my chest is. Wheezing out a few thoughts that I hoped might be useful later.

During the night, the tent had quietly folded in on me, leaving little protection from the frost. After forcing myself outside I couldn’t even take it down because the poles were frozen together.

The second day was simply a slog to survive. It’s strange but sometimes no matter how ill you feel off the bike, after 20 minutes of turning the pedals and concentrating on that you feel so much better. It’s only when you stop it catches up with you. As the days went on my chest gradually got better and I could take off my jacket inside without feeling the cold in my bones.

After that first night I decided on hotels from then on. I needed recovery and the weather was only going to get colder as I climbed higher and headed north. At times I found it difficult to find a bed at the end of the day. It seems Japanese hoteliers aren’t always keen to rent rooms to tired and grubby-looking gaijin who roll up with a fully loaded bike. Having been told they were “regrettably full” by a few places I learned to phone ahead and book, rather than inquire in person. This didn’t stop me spending long stretches of time thinking about the crippling abuse I would leave on the TripAdvisor pages of those who had turned me away. Something I didn’t bother to do in the end. Or maybe I just haven’t done it yet.

One of the things I find about longer trips is a sense of “road madness” that creeps in. Even when you’re riding with a group there are certain thoughts, or even songs, that bounce around your head of on quieter parts of the journey. Submitting to this is a strange form of meditation. When you’re on your own this is amplified.

As I rode north the landscape changed from built-up housing, full of the same big signs of chain restaurants and department stores to crisscrossed farmlands. At times I would see mountains all around me. It was an amazing sight but also a concern for my tired legs. Further on the snow became more common. Most of the roads were cleared but the cycle paths that followed the bigger roads would often have large patches untouched, meaning slow progress.

Closer to the coast black kites would circle, riding high on thermals before diving down to catch something they had identified as dinner. I never know if it’s pollution or the powerful Japanese sun but we seem to have the most beautiful sunsets here. Pink will fade into powder blue and neatly pointed mountains will start to disappear into the haze. My Garmin would always switch over to night mode ahead of this. A warning that sunlight would soon be gone.

Along the east coast the impact of the tsunami can be seen everywhere. There are still cordoned-off buildings and cleared patches of land, but also giant areas of new construction where defence infrastructure is being built. These massive banks of concrete often dwarf the residential areas they are looking to serve. Coastal towns being blocked off for their protection. Fishing has always been the big industry here. The sushi is still fantastic. But a great deal has changed.

On the final day I’m not sure what to expect. For the first time in the trip I’m in a real rush. I need to ride up to the phone and back to a town called Kamaishi. From there I’ll take the train to Shin Hanamaki where I can board the bullet train to Tokyo. I’m aiming for the last trains to line up, so I can’t miss any of them. I need to get home before Shougatsu holiday ends.

The 45 is a highway that shrinks down to a winding road as it curves up the coast. It’s nice and lumpy and the views across the sea to tiny islands are beautiful. My legs are done after the last four days, and the Festive 500 before that. As I get closer and closer I keep checking Google Maps. I can’t help but notice that my pace has really slowed.

Arriving at the spot logged in my phone I panic. I look around and can’t see any of the landscape I recall from the documentary. Where is it? Did they move it?

Stopping to check sows an extra layer of doubt in my mind. What am I actually doing here? What am I going to do when I get there?

After looking closer I realise I have one final hill to reach and turn a corner. Here the phone box sits. As unassuming as any white box in somebody’s garden should be.

There was no revelation, just momentary stillness for my mind and legs.

I’m lucky enough to be in a position where there aren’t too many people I can call. Only my grandparents have passed away but I’m still not sure who to talk to. I leave my bike and enter the phone box. I can’t see anyone around. In fact, I haven’t seen anyone in the entire town before arriving here.

I pick up the handset, as I have seen many others in the documentary do, and start to speak to my grandma and grandpa. But after a few words it feels more apt to take a moment of silence. After the last few days on the road, appreciating the stillness in this place feels like what I have been waiting for.

Riding, like any journey is a learning experience. Internal and external growth. I’m in no way religious, but I do love the narratives of adventure. What are the stories that drive us to make these pilgrimages and how do they change once they have been completed. A stupid idea, or a comment in the pub that becomes something real and experienced. Then, so very quickly it only exists as a memory, a photograph, a data file.

There was no revelation, just momentary stillness for my mind and legs. I left some messages to let family and friends I had arrived. Then got back on bike to ride back to the station.

On the train home I had planned to jot down a few notes but I struck up a conversation with a woman called Mika. She spoke of her panic at the time of 3/11 until she saw her parents’ names on television to say they were safe. They lived up north but she had been in Tokyo at the time.

“If you like cycling, there’s an amazing peninsula you should go to on the West coast. They have a festival there. It’s around the same distance as the one you’ve done to here from Tokyo.” she said drawing in my notebook.

I think back to the first time I heard about the wind telephone. Months after watching the documentary I made a few notes about routes in an email to myself and left it at that. Now those kilometers are more real than ever. I can feel them in my legs.

I take look at Mika’s suggestions on my phone’s maps. The distances look good. Sure, it might not be anytime soon but there’s no rush.

This is how these things start.

Sometimes when it comes to riding you just need any excuse but then sometimes the excuses also find you.

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