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 grandfather 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 fixed-gear 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:
There’s whisperings of a legendary time, set by the mystical character Yuki, of 22 hours. For reference, over the entire ride, you’d have to average 25km/hour or more for the entire time. 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? Leave that shit to the weekend roadies.
Enter Shogun Toro, Alleycat titan, track bike superstar and Bronx native, Toni. On a whim, hearing of Yuki’s run on the wind, 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.
Toni and I have been friends for a few years, meeting in London at the Great Alleycat in 2022. At the time I was already 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 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, 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 _. The constant 35 degree heat bakes the life and salt out of you.
Water bladder, strapped to back with a runners pack. Pocari sweat on left shoulder, electrolyte mix on right. Frame bag crammed with food, gels and suncream. No going back, all that set me back some serious Yen!
The run was off and cooking, starting at 6am to avoid the heat, I had my focus 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 ‘foreignere’ for an answer when I’ve run a light and whipskid 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.
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.