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A Cannonball Under the Rising Sun
Monday 4th August. The world is pulling tighter, or rather it’s coming to a head. Past the light, airy space of the piping bag and now I’m pressed, facedown, clawing with nails and teeth for grip against cold-steel as time forces me out through the tight, cross-shaped pin of light.
That’s an analogy I came up with last night in a cramped hostel in Ueno, Tokyo.
I’ve been travelling for two weeks now. First in Italy. Between Bologna and Ljubljana, visiting Luka, a friend I met during the Great Alleycat in Slovenia’s capital last year, and later my grandad in Campolo, a mountain town 3 hours from Bologna.
My luggage is maximal. I’m pioneering the Ultra-Bogged-Down discipline.
I’m travelling with my bike in a backpack. Once both wheels are removed, with the dismantled frame jammed between, there’s just enough room for my Skream Magnum22 to fit into the bag I had custom-made in London.
What a fucking slog. For a weekend trip, even a weeklong trip? Sound. But, while it’s mobile, it’s a serious ballache to navigate transport with.
Not to mention my primary backpack (worn over my chest when moving with the bikebag), packed like a brick with clothes, my camera, laptop and travel essentials. It’s up for debate which is heavier.
Busy stations are nightmares and walking further than 15 minutes is torture. This trip was ambitious from the start.
︎︎︎ Golden hour in Meguro city.
I left London on the 13th of July. Setting out on what is planned to be 6 months of backpacking through, Europe, Japan, Vietnam, Mexico and Chile beyond.
As of today, I’m a week into Tokyo. And here’s the kicker.
At the heart of this bikebag-packing trip, was this mammoth of a challenge.
The hallowed Cannonball from Tokyo to Osaka. 500+ kilometres of mountains and headwind, riding flatout along the long beach of Oiso until some sheer ups and downs as you come into Osaka. A whole 25 hour journey if the cards are in your favour. Suprise suprise they were not...
A bit of history on this run:
When was the last time you’ve caught wind of something mythical? I’ll tell you mine.
In the modern world, on rare occasions you come across something that only exists in thought and word. It’s not in video or data, nor pitures or even writing. In fact there’s nothing to it but a name. It’s stupid, even unbelievable, yet kind of possible.
There’s whisperings of a legendary time, set by a man named Yuki, of 22 hours.
For reference, over the entire 500km+ ride, you’d have to average 25km/hour or more for the entire time. Again, frustratingly feasible, like any good myth. No breaks. Don’t stop.
The conventional ride, the more popular route, is naturally from West to East. Osaka to Tokyo. With the tailwind along the coast, and ending in the bigger, more popular city. But what’s conventional about fixed-gear?
Enter Shogun Toro, Alleycat titan, track bike superstar and Bronx native, Toni. While in Japan with the Weis MFG team from NYC, Toni heard of Yuki’s run, the spark caught wind and soon Toni took to trying this Cannonball, backwards. Tokyo to Osaka was born. He did it in 28 hours on a brakeless track bike. Savage.
No breaks. No brakes. Don’t stop.
Here’s parts 1 & 2 of Terry B’s video on the Cannonball:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1a1LQaAe6Yc
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SJi9A4Mk-XA
Toni and I have been friends for a few years, after meeting in London at the Great Alleycat in 2022. By that time I was involved with the organisers, shooting races and working on the event marketing side. So my meeting Toni would repeat in Mexico city at the end of the year, a wild week in its savage streets, to the tune of Hispanic rap and the flavours of good Mexican weed.
We would meet again in London, Berlin, New York and most recently Barcelona, where the plan to challenge his time was put in a handshake.
︎︎︎ CDMX with Toni, Mat, Pancho and others.
Fast forward a few weeks, Saturday 26th, Barcelona been and gone. I’m in Tokyo. The run is on. I’m preparing to take it on, the route established and refined. It’s efficient and achievable, eliminating the gnarly climbs of Toni’s run in Hakone. My legs are itching to go, my mental is nervous and my hands shakey (I’ve been drinking heavily in the wild streets of Shinjuku I’m staying in). But here’s the problem. The sun. Rising at 6am, and streaking with the urgency of a cigarette on a full stomach. The constant 35 degree heat bakes the life and salt out of you.
Here’s the getup. A water bladder, strapped into a runners pack. Pocari sweat on left shoulder, electrolyte mix on right. Frame bag crammed with food, gels and suncream. No going back, Yen’s spent and my head’s hellbent.
︎︎︎ Magnum22 OLC edition, street spec.
︎︎︎ Route on ridewithgps.com
06:00AM - 0KM. The run is off and cooking, starting early to avoid the heat, my focus was on a 25km/h average speed which would put me in Osaka anytime before midday the next day. Start cautious. The Japanese police won’t take ‘foreigner’ for an answer when I’ve run a light and whipskidded the morning school-run. I’m stopping, but pushing in-between, the traffic flow is starting to grease, and before I’d even checked the time I was flying through Kawasaki. 50km down.
The roads I’d chosen were direct. They had to be to make the run a world record, we’re talking about Elapsed time here, not Moving time. The seconds are gold, so when the trainline level crossings are closing, best believe I’m diving through. So, once I was out of the city, the roads were big, the cars are flying and the bike lane is a strip of paint in the left-most lane.
The Japanese are polite by nature... or are they just tolerant?
The way I see it, if the space cars gave me to remerge was any measure of respect, I was no more than a roadkill-to-be. A white one at that!
Where is the shade?
Good joke. There is none. It’s now midday and the sun is directly overhead. The Senbonhana beach is a gentle curve, offering some sort of heat relief with the sea breeze, anything but cool. The surfers can bugger off, maybe I’m just salty they get to dip in. Maybe I’m just salty because I’m sweating to fuck.
Keep yer chin up pal! Otherwise you’ll get sweat on the Garmin.
The green mountains on the horizon pretend to retreat, ‘atmospheric perspective’ I’m told that’s called. I’m crossing bridges, gravel bike paths, keeping a strong average while blowing by old folks on beater-step-throughs and kitted-out time-trialists alike. I study faces through mirrored glasses. Are they impressed? intimidated? Just another blur of bike and legs?
Into the hills, the scenery more dense and the temperature cooler as I started climbing. A look at the parcour of the route, the first is worst when it comes to elevation. In planning, I’d chopped off 400m of the 850m in Toni’s route, with a sweeping loop around the terrains of Hakone, rather than over its peak. The Izu peninsula stretches South, hacked off and hidden by rich terrain. It stunted Toni’s time with sideways rain, but spurred me on into the shaded canopy of trees, out of the sight of the rising sun. Up we go.
09:30AM - 80KM in. The heat is unbearable. As much as I drink, seeps through my skin along with my will to continue. The mental battle against stopping is playing out on my shoulders, the angel and devil wearing wellies on my sopping Wateraid kit.
Don’t look back Jack. No joke man, the barrier between this road and the sheer cliff is lower than your bottom bracket. I can’t watch.
Around hour 5, kilometre 100, I start to crack. My brain’s curling at the edges, salt stains have spread to my frontal cortex and I watch myself pull over at a vending machine. Coffee. Me want it cold. Shaking fingers unzip frame-bag and rattle through coins. I sit, with the weight of a dead man on the low wall between two flower pots, my pockets emptied in a sad collection of snacks, cans and pennies. I’ve hit a wall, I’m nodding, eyes heavy, head heavier. Thought is impossible, words spill out, as if the gravity of my upright foetal position pulls them from my heart.
I can’t go on. I’m in pieces.
Every minute my time gap elapses, I’m at war with time and body, battered on all fronts and sides. Legs are okay but the brain is in danger. You know, when you’re brain can’t form ideas, and it still decides it’s a bad idea to go on, you better believe it’s a shit idea to push-on. But what else can I do?
I need a sign Lord, anything!
I stagger to my feet, some energy restored in the shade, and wobble to the vending machine. A cold can of Pepsi? I can taste it throught the perspex window. My hand is possessed. Coins in. Button, button, beep.
Thud-d-d. A heavier sound than I thought was possible to buy with 120 yen. I dive into the machine. Holy shit. An entire pint-sized can of Pepsi, ice-cold, sweating and gazing up at me, one big blue and red eye. Did it just wink?
I crack it, sinking to my knees. I neck it. Fuck that shit is good. I’m on the floor, alternating between drinking and holding it against my neck. This is a sign. Pepsi carry me on.
11:11AM - 100KM. Second wind is a thing of beauty. The sails have caught a gust, I’m tearing up the elevation, playing that delicate game of momentum and effort. After my last stop at the vending machine, my bottles full, I have canned coffee on deck and energy is up-up-up. What could go wrong? The valleys seem to grow as I pass through them, bridges open up to views of giant walls of forest, the Japanese woodland a deep, scaley green. Trees likes puffs of matcha popcorn, make for a spongey looking surface, bridges string across at angles. Cars, trains and trucks alike, move steadily as if on rails across the spiderweb of raised structures. I feel organic.
What happens next? It’s not nearly dramatic enough. So I’ll use this time (fuck you) to wax poetic on a little pet theory of mine, written on the train back to Tokyo.
Predetermination of the Wheel.
I can fly.
If flying is floating in motion, I can put myself in a place where the road is far away, out-of-sight.
In this place I don't see, but feel my way around from a vantage point above the top tube.
The me that is flying has a great view.
From where I sit, the legs below pound like meaty drumsticks,
finding rhythm with something deep inside the swaying torso above.
The drumset of the body banging a powerful and strained bassline, the arms, head and shoulders cling on to the beat in a helpless twist.
But the immersion is lost every now and again.
Check the route.
Right.
Check it again.
How long's it been?
Again.
This time, I was totally present.
The road had been switchbacks on switchbacks, carved out of the green wall. The roads were 50km/h for cars, and the route danced on and off the carriageway, making for lots of merging in and out. Japan is a car-headed nation and doesn't give an inch for a bike that can't wait. Unfortunately, that's mine. Breakless had been no problem this far, some long skids for traffic lights and the odd emergency stop, nothing unusual.
11:40AM: 120KM I checked the route. The road was leveling out and I was at the top of the big boy. The big cheese. The 'eight of Izu.
The game is on I thought, my average was above my goal, the time was good and my legs were cool. Another bridge cut across the road. That's the ticket, I was approaching at a confident 30km/h, looking right to see traffic.
One lorry, check. But what's with this cop on the corner?
Middle of nowhere, a random meeting of roads, and here's this guy whistling at me to stop. Sorry pal, no can do.
I lift slightly out of my saddle and hit the backpedal, just enough to control the turn, a slow left along the wall as the lorry passed on my right. Whistles. Honks. Noise from either side, unheard.
Uh oh, it’s a tricky move, a deep gash in the road, metal teeth of a join that never met (like if Jaws had an underbite) is lying bang on my line.
I couldn't even see it until I was right ontop, and at my speed I could have cleared it with a hop. So hop I did. Hands grip, torso up, legs pop. HUP!
Fucks sake. Too early. Pfiiiissshhhhhhh. Rim on road, back to Earth, shoulder to shoulder between lorry and bridge barrier, thrashing water far below.
Fuckkkk, keep her on the road Jack.
The law behind me, narrow road ahead, I kept rolling, pushing across the bridge. The run was over, but the ticket was avoidable. Rim screaming, legs churning rubber, yet my mind was at peace.
11:11AM - 111KM Run over.
︎︎︎ My protoype Magnum22, paint designed by Beg4Cred.
Pre-determination.
The fixed cog is a glimpse into the future.
I pull into a motor repair garage 100 metres down the road and collapse on the concrete. The teeth had taken a big bite out of my tire, I could practically see my spokes through the tube. Game over, no spare tire meant the death of my run.
It was good while it lasted, but relief was the chief emotion, sticking it out in that heat was dangerous. In the face of a full 6 hours of 36 degree riding to come, my shaking body embraced the excuse to quit, the mental battle was lost and the troops had gone home.
Well, that’s that.
Anyone who can control a brakeless fixed-gear understands, that there is something more than just transport going on down there. It takes balance, strength and timing, like a dance. Now, it’s my belief that, like in a dance, the steps ahead are already in motion, ever since the song began.
Picture this...
You’ve caught the lights and are in-between waves of traffic. The crest in front, is lumbering down the road and you’re alongside it, spinning-away over the potholed bus-lane. Now imagine a bit before that.
That morning you carried your bike over the threshold and set it down on the street, you clipped-in with your dominant foot and make a full rotation with your pedal as your hand lifts the back-wheel. Free rotation.
Inertia makes you wobble, as power from your calf is sent through your rusty chain and into the worn cog that rattles away, until you set the wheel rubber-side down.
That’s your starting position.
Now I want you to imagine that, between the wave of traffic and your first turn of the crank after tire-touched-tarmac, you did not skid or interrupt the steady drive of the chain once.
Riding as you naturally do. You were always going to go as far as you have. Without knowing, you have rolled over that shard of glass in your tire exactly 47 times. Just because that’s how many times the wheel will turn between home and that pot-holed road.
Alright, bear with me.
Fixed-gear bikes are no more in control of the journey than you are.
As you catch up with a bus in the lane ahead, you go to overtake in the lane to your right, not before resting for a moment in its draft.
You don’t think about it, but there’s a sweet-spot in the flow, you can swing out from the bus, timing it so your crank is a prime 45 degrees for a quick kick in speed. Bang! There it is. You lean right, as your right crank clears the ground, and left again as the pedal gets to its apex, tires never leaving the ground, just gripping with a different patch of rubber. You kick down and cruise past bus windows, too fast to see if anyone saw the move.
The move was already written. The two seconds of motion pre-determined by the stored potential energy in the chain-drive, you were never going to stop and you sure as hell weren’t looking to crash. This is what I mean.
We aren’t interested in stopping distance, instead we’re playing a game of energy displacement into traffic.
While the line may change, the distance covered by X amount of rotation doesn’t, even if the speed is different.
(A commute is no different to a new route, apart from where it finishes)
When I’m on my trackbike, I often forget my legs are even turning, just as much as I’m pedalling, the bike pedals itself. Initial effort manifested into an object in motion. If you’ve ever swapped between a bike with freewheel and fixed, you’ll notice the kick of the crank (don’t get the buck you motherfuck!).
Conversely, on any bike with a freewheel hub (assuming it all works), you are always at liberty to stop and roll. During that time, the chain is inactive and therefore the magic is gone. Imagine the chain as a reel of film, it’s frozen and the audience’s belief in chronology is suspended.
If you’re anything like me, a song that skips is no song at all.
In my mind, riding fixed is like listening to an album with no skips, just bangers after bangers. Some of them are fast, some are slow, they have swelling chorus’ and technical breakdowns for transitions, you appreciate the whole painting for what it is, rather than looking at the brushstrokes.
Next time you’re on your fixie, ride without music.
Try listening to the rattle and hum at your feet, imagine your chain as a film reel with its frames projected ahead of you, your ride an animation that plays out as fast as you can pedal.
My Cannonball ended where it did and I’m not upset.
That story was written when I left Tokyo, if my starting crank position were just a few degrees lower, I might have been able to hop the puncture better.
Ah well. I’ll come back for that one... maybe.
@cdsandcities
