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Talkin’ ship at the pinch.
3.8.25
Okay here's the situation, I've had my fill of travel cycling, my style is far too fluid/mobile for a huge bag and a bike I don't want to ride inside it. I'm in the process of shipping it home, but the logistical hurdles are difficult
I booked the shipment for the 4th, but the email I woke up to tells me it takes at least 3 days to get the shipping label to me.
10.8.25
I've been in Japan for 2 weeks and three days.
Today it's raining for the first time, I'm running on six hours of sleep, sitting in a cafe to get away from the others. Where has the party gone?
Last night I tried steering the ship through Shinjuku, but the anchors down, miserable and flaking.
I guess it's dragging on the cheap all-night ramen, curry and ricebowl joints that pepper the seabed. The clubs are upstairs buddy... maybe the changing pressure in the lifts scares him off.
My advice? Chew on something. Neglected retainers do the trick.
Back to the ship talk; I'm taking on water, we're due to hit rocks in 4 days and I can't face abandoning. Basically. I still have the bloody bike-bag, the shipping company's progress is snail-pace, it helps none that the timezones don't align. At all. They close at 9am, open again at 11pm.
Dilemma: the bike's gotta go. The core, I don't want to carry this bike around anymore.
Not the most social thing to have on a car boat, bus, train or tram - ooo I can't wait to ride a track bike with the savage scooters of Vietnam. Good joke. Who knows what the next two months of hostels will do to me, but we leave in three days, so we'll find out soon.
Maybe if I get lonely I'll roll up the bag and cuddle it, that big greasy hunk.
O, V and I are flying to Vietnam from Tokyo in one week, shoehorn in a three day trip to the coast of Shimoda, we're looking at a 3.5 day turnaround for this shipping business to deliver.
Notes:
Get a tape rule for measuring box
Pre-draft an email, rearrange location - ATTENTION TO DETAIL
Leave for Shimoda on 12th
11.8.25
Welcome to the pinch point (happy ending?).
No, not that kind of pinch. The kind that forms frowns, wrings hands and chews nails.
The shipping company I'm dealing with is a whole 16 hours behind. For them, it's still the weekend. For me, I'm facing facts on a bright, grey, humid Monday, the last of my days in Tokyo.
16.8.25
Early start. Up at 5:30 after a shit nights sleep - too hot, too naked.
Today we fly to Hanoi. Today I ship the bike - bring on the cram.
We're on the train back from the Izu Peninsula to Tokyo after a few days on the Shimoda beach. Four, tall English boys crammed into Japanese sized seating
A dragonfly managed to get on the train at the last stop. For a while it was skimming around at knee-height, up and down the carriage. It got behind me, I went back to reading. I hear a fizz, and the yellow and black thing lands on the seat next to Oscar, opposite mine. Coo-er that thing had some weight. Like the first heavy raindrop on tarp.
It had met its maker, deliverance dished-out by a cold steel fan above my head, it almost landed directly in our binbag, what a shame. I brush it off the seat, and flatten its colourful head with my the toe of my converse.
Okay, I'll admit that the Dragonfly was definitely an omen.
Shit hit the fan right after the train when I set out to ship the bag, I split off from the others, getting off at Ueno to pickup and navigate the UPS system. Things are finally going right?
What a lovely Saturday morning.
The market is setting up, big wads of shade bathe the street in cool relief from the swelling sun.
Under the weight of two bags, I stomp through Akihabara, now familiar with the road under the overpass. After some time spent locating the hidden dropoff, I try the doors handle. Nada.
Hesitating, I dig around my pockets for my phone to translate the door, my fingers shaking and slippery, drenched in sweat again.
Closed on holidays.
CLOSED ON WEEKENDS.
Oh fuck.
I check the web. Every, single, dropoff. A cooler kind of sweat begins to perspire.
Panic? No. Too sleep-deprived for that, instead, blind determination takes over as I shoulder the bags again. Awkwardly rotating to fit the cargo back down the narrow stairwell. This isn't it man.
︎︎︎ You get the message
After hustling back to the train and rerouting across the city, I hunt for what's described as a 24hour UPS location. Worth a shot? Tell me it's worth the train fare at least...
At the foot of a tall, glass building, I step into the marble foyer. Against a wall stood a post-box, smaller than my bag.
A plastic pathetic gimp of a box, a dumb ugly grin smeared over its face. I collapse in a pile beside it, leaving perfect prints of sweat, glistening on every surface I touch in this cold stone building. I'm fucked.
Five hours 'til my flight, fourty-eight 'til UPS opens.
︎︎︎ UPS gimp
No other option. Well, there's one. Hide it in a bush, come back for it in a couple of years. How curious could the Japanese be? It's camoflaged, purpose-built for this level of neglect.
Nope. Allez allez! I get back on my feet, give the UPS can a good middle-finger and steam out. Maybe someone can ship it for me... anyone. I head for another hairdresser offering bag storage, three nights booked, paid in-advance.
Prepping the bag outside the barbers, I fail to attach the labels I printed. Shitty tape? Or repellent material.
Sweat covers everything. The barber's yammering away in Japanese, but in the high-stress situation, we understood each other.
'Yo this shit is messed up man'
Yeah dude, I can't get it to stick...
You used up half of my nice tape! Show me the QR code for the booking and fuck off!
You see? The tape was never going to work, where's you sewing kit? We'll have to knit the bastard down!
I back out eventually. The labels are tucked in the case. Good luck to it. A hairy weigh-in at the flights boarding gate fit the bill, but now we're off. Hanoi, be kind to this boy.
︎︎︎ Last seen, Tokyo.