https://jacklowndes.com cdsandcities Sat, 03 Jan 2026 14:02:05 +0000 https://jacklowndes.com en https://jacklowndes.com/Outdoors Sat, 03 Jan 2026 14:02:05 +0000 cdsandcities https://jacklowndes.com/Outdoors <img width="2318" height="3184" width_o="2318" height_o="3184" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/f7e42d88aa735b74d62ed1b86e3296171e96fccfe96038c9fe9a6b594d78273e/BFG_7194.jpg" data-mid="244547139" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/f7e42d88aa735b74d62ed1b86e3296171e96fccfe96038c9fe9a6b594d78273e/BFG_7194.jpg" /> <img width="2783" height="4197" width_o="2783" height_o="4197" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/a399e244c50df23354686dca918d1473e8e667a1b7c3222c61fb9d656f2e4396/BFG_7244.jpg" data-mid="244547140" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/a399e244c50df23354686dca918d1473e8e667a1b7c3222c61fb9d656f2e4396/BFG_7244.jpg" /> <img width="2525" height="3579" width_o="2525" height_o="3579" 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src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/b86cbccd16513673a42a08c3324c5969719804de02c14a29d2a86367db45584d/JCK_8297.jpg" /> <img width="3000" height="4000" width_o="3000" height_o="4000" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/1b1b73e9b3cb4600cde8bf1f62e38424ca50325fdb96e732726ca6e407af26be/DSCF3506.JPG" data-mid="242391331" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/1b1b73e9b3cb4600cde8bf1f62e38424ca50325fdb96e732726ca6e407af26be/DSCF3506.JPG" /> <img width="4016" height="6016" width_o="4016" height_o="6016" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/d4a83179f3e786e20721e12fb899ec65126a89370c99c61adaefe89d3e3499bd/JCK_0244.jpg" data-mid="242391352" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/d4a83179f3e786e20721e12fb899ec65126a89370c99c61adaefe89d3e3499bd/JCK_0244.jpg" /> https://jacklowndes.com/Cycling Tue, 28 Oct 2025 06:33:41 +0000 cdsandcities https://jacklowndes.com/Cycling <img width="4961" height="3508" width_o="4961" height_o="3508" 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data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/ae98b24cce6682dff664ae7dd12930f86800bb4ceacef29bf578eea981a8508e/JCK_9701.jpg" data-mid="243083828" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/ae98b24cce6682dff664ae7dd12930f86800bb4ceacef29bf578eea981a8508e/JCK_9701.jpg" /> <img width="2959" height="3579" width_o="2959" height_o="3579" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/29771c08fff49f71ad0054a4dfb6d72682b6154e3cc492a74cb1f6d1f34421db/JCK_9751.jpg" data-mid="243083829" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/29771c08fff49f71ad0054a4dfb6d72682b6154e3cc492a74cb1f6d1f34421db/JCK_9751.jpg" /> <img width="4016" height="5284" width_o="4016" height_o="5284" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/5771081bf38a0ca9a3030ad70096fa29de073999b9b72d60cc1020d85c4cfe9a/JCK_1561.jpg" data-mid="243083820" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/5771081bf38a0ca9a3030ad70096fa29de073999b9b72d60cc1020d85c4cfe9a/JCK_1561.jpg" /> <img width="4016" height="6016" width_o="4016" height_o="6016" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/0e33bd2d82aa5bc2fc55c64799af785f3941671fd9a203999751206231977f2f/JCK_4246.jpg" data-mid="243083821" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/0e33bd2d82aa5bc2fc55c64799af785f3941671fd9a203999751206231977f2f/JCK_4246.jpg" /> https://jacklowndes.com/Blog-Home Mon, 25 Aug 2025 04:01:56 +0000 cdsandcities https://jacklowndes.com/Blog-Home Bigfoots Blog London San FranciscoMexico City Tokyo 15.11.205 Something Wicked This Way Comes 01.11.25 San Fran’s a Howl 22.10.25 Frisco ‘Feelers’ 19.10.25&nbsp;MASH SF in Modern Terms07.10.25 Gringo Frijole 16.08.25&nbsp; Izu Ship-talk 04.08.25 A Cannonball Under the Rising Sun 30.07.25&nbsp; Fear and Loathing in Shinjuku 24.07.25 Highball on Arrival https://jacklowndes.com/Something-Wicked-this-Way-Comes Sat, 15 Nov 2025 21:45:08 +0000 cdsandcities https://jacklowndes.com/Something-Wicked-this-Way-Comes 15.11 21:45 Something Wicked this Way Comes 137 bus, southward. To see a child operate a phone as an adult does, with tiny pink fingers and legs swinging out the pram, like a twisted mirror. Mixed feelings of impressed and impressed upon, like a twisted mirror can't turn away from in vanity.“Bumping out through the Mirror Maze they saw two, four, a dozen Miss Foley’s ... Her eyes, flexed wide as blasts of photographic powder, were skinned white like a statue’s. Deep under the glass, she spoke. She murmered. She whimpered. Now she cried.” * Click through adverts, dismantle pop-ups and make a decision on the next video, only to pick a new one from the new recommended select. Full intent. Total choice autonomy. She chooses a crap and colourful animation. I barely recognise the difference in thumbnails, but I guess you learn to read them quickly when you get to needing that fix. At age ... 4 maybe?Something tells me she just likes the navigational challenge, smooth fingers never still, poking to home to youtube and back. “The carousel, deserted, empty, traveled on its way through its own special time, forward. ... The brass poles flashed by into the future, pulling the flesh like syrup, stretching the bones like taffy, the sun-metal color burning Jim’s cheeks, flinting his eyes.Fourteen-year boy, fifteen-year hand!” Take a seat on Bradbury's carousel, sit on the horses head if you get travel-sick backwards. How many spins for my phone to grow too heavy to hold? I’ve harboured this idea for a long time, that progression is cooked with obscelesence, that everything learnt is eventually forgotten or adapted. Things are bigger quicker and easier and I’m not even trying to keep up.Call me old school, but my iPhone 11 is just fine. Still, check my old Walkman.Yo, Vinyl night? Dude. My discs take lazer. The wide cresting wave leaves it water behind. What a sight! A huge tunnel of aquamarine glass, potent energy rushing in a wide curl but for the curtain ahead, leaning in patient suspense against the still air. The exact moments of design and innovation roll on. <img width="512" height="512" width_o="512" height_o="512" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/d0684bee54085ca07215b1dd4dbfbaac1443ad848d9bf8826c177664d06546fb/Mozilla_Firefox_3.5_logo.png" data-mid="240690682" border="0" data-scale="19" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/512/i/d0684bee54085ca07215b1dd4dbfbaac1443ad848d9bf8826c177664d06546fb/Mozilla_Firefox_3.5_logo.png" />&nbsp; ︎︎︎2009 Mozilla Firefox 2025︎︎︎ &nbsp;&nbsp;<img width="1723" height="1719" width_o="1723" height_o="1719" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/20eda2f6257ce250cb5bb0d353c5b1ea40077a91286a31fa4cafa00fccc5c720/Master-Brand_Icon_300ppi.png" data-mid="240690683" border="0" data-scale="19" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/20eda2f6257ce250cb5bb0d353c5b1ea40077a91286a31fa4cafa00fccc5c720/Master-Brand_Icon_300ppi.png" /> * ‘Something wicked this way comes’ written by Ray Bradbury (1963). It’s a funny book I picked up. An old copy (my collecting habit), written in chilling description and preserved in yellow musty pages. A boyhood fantasy horror, two friends, neighbours, sneak out in the night and investigate a ghostly carnival travelling into town.&nbsp;Autumn people, the Illustrated man, a witch and the Skeleton just a few of a cast of a spooky crew all preying on youth. No diddy! Circus freaks that feast on the fear of ageing and the lost joy of youth, with carousels that sap age as they spin. Borrow the copy if you like. https://jacklowndes.com/The-Frisco-Feelers Fri, 24 Oct 2025 22:14:23 +0000 cdsandcities https://jacklowndes.com/The-Frisco-Feelers “The Beat generation in San Francisco”, a literary walking tour in the footprint of poets and writers at the turning point in 60's American literature. Wednesday, 22nd October.&nbsp;At the end of the third Beat tour of the book, I had to cave for food, gambling on sushi opposite Beniamno Bufano's sculpture at the Longshoreman's Hall. Inside, it's a strange scene. I've walked in, late for lunch and early for dinner, a near empty shop as I approach the counter. Near I say. With as much interest as if he were a fly caught in the blinds, I notice a shabby hooded body 'walking' between the chairs, basic movement reduced to skittery stomps on the spot. He's stuck. Trapped in a prison of strip LED's and shiny chrome stools, I see that'll he'll never escape laone. The restaurant owners peer over the plastic counter at him, hoping the problem will fix itself. I'm no wuss. And this is no dangerous person. I see that this can be rectified easily with a bit of guidance. Sidling over the shabby frame, I get a closer look... One dirty hand, held-out like a probe, wrinkly fingers poke at the air looking for something. Searching, feeling, reaching out with grotty digits. Carefully avoiding its extremities, I place a light hand on his shoulder. "Here y'are mate, let me help you out" Mutter mutter mutter. Christ. His thumbnail is a long splintered talon, gone from off-white to a spore-like yellow. Easy there man, right this way. Boom! He's out, and I order my food, sitting down at the window bar to watch the the statue bless traffic. But he moves at snailspace. Had he been helpless, they may have left him there for the opening shift. Observing him 'leave', I see how he follows the wall. With legs like vibrating stilts that poke out from filthy clothes, 20 tiny stomps for one regular footstep. A bad conversion at any rate. Uh oh, he's lost. Untethered from the wall he's in space, one too many stomps right, not enough left, he begins to steer ship through an arms-reach desert. Painfully, I gaze on, like a tired harbour-master behind glass, while the shuffling pile of clothes banks a wide turn, unbothered by the silent passer-bys, on a collision course with the window between us. My food arrives. Gross timing. Hobo Jo (slowbo) slowly walks into the window, thumbnail first with a 'tack', leaving a playful line of grease that trails after his pinky finger, back to square one. God forbid a guy have an appetite. The sushi was fine, but too much stodge. <img width="1848" height="3059" width_o="1848" height_o="3059" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/6cf4eb1b973b0e04ef0a5c9213950b5bfaf11d0467f79950f8f1da98b0ee61b3/IMG_7676.jpg" data-mid="239846804" border="0" data-scale="70" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/6cf4eb1b973b0e04ef0a5c9213950b5bfaf11d0467f79950f8f1da98b0ee61b3/IMG_7676.jpg" /> ︎︎︎ Two days later, same spot. Before he vacates the area, he has a cursory rifle through the bin. Old boba? Yummers. A plastic bag? Useful. May as well empty out the piss bottle while I'm here, put it back in the bag (also emptied) with a new coffee cup. There's a logic in his pocket management, but it needs to be studied. Boba in hoodie pouch figures, accessible and spacious. But piss bottle in the general bag?&nbsp;Inconclusive. https://jacklowndes.com/MASH-and-other-observations Fri, 24 Oct 2025 21:58:47 +0000 cdsandcities https://jacklowndes.com/MASH-and-other-observations Monday 19th October: "I don't wanna touch ketamine, or ..." A conversation I snatched on my first day. Two discuss drug limits, seems like the door is closed on Ket and one other. Fear not, an impending 'but' lurks on the sentence corner. Some doors shut, others open. The story of my time hopping-hostels in San Francisco. <img width="2844" height="3793" width_o="2844" height_o="3793" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/1605ae5b6012a839c394181674c9be84054f2311be5914a4dd5ce44d5bfe4ced/street-clean.jpg" data-mid="239846699" border="0" data-scale="60" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/1605ae5b6012a839c394181674c9be84054f2311be5914a4dd5ce44d5bfe4ced/street-clean.jpg" /> 9:36am, shop-owners hose down the pavement, getting rid of the smeared lumps and stains of patchy shit from the night before. Monday today. the big dogs are out, San Francisco publics works with their soapy hydrospray leave suds on this block. It's like hopscotch! i've never seen so much street poo. a bowl of cereal, a cup of coffee, half a banana and two slices of jam on toast orange village hostel, very international. breakfast was .. less than contintental to H-ashbury the hippie capital, Thompson's fitting moniker for Haight Ashbury in the late 60's.[https://londonflowscreedinfo.wordpress.com/2017/07/20/the-hashbury-is-the-capital-of-the-hippies-hst-1967-2/] <img width="1980" height="2640" width_o="1980" height_o="2640" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/c55407b1247b2b7204eaa3173a1a65802843edfecfe24399efb7f6570726bba7/mash-shop.jpg" data-mid="239846698" border="0" data-scale="68" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/c55407b1247b2b7204eaa3173a1a65802843edfecfe24399efb7f6570726bba7/mash-shop.jpg" /> An afternoon outside MASH, in sunny San Francisco. On the day I visit the shop, Mike Martin (founder and owner) greets me through the door. Half-door I should say, we speak over the sandwich-board that details Mash's "curb-side shopping" experience, despite the enticing display inside. Full-bikes hang on the left wall, opposite, a rail of shirts hang above neat piles of folded clothes. The window is full of collectibles: patches, topcaps, pins, socks, frames, hats, pedal-cages and a big neon sign, "Psychic Mechanic on duty". Mash hasn't operated as a retail shop since 2019 when it losing money keeping FoH staff employed, so it's a one man shop now - run by Mike himself. Mike is VERY tapped-in with the worldwide scene. Toydog at Slowsquad, Pancho at Bombardiers and even the London scene. Aware of the Pirates, Hop Kingdom and Matt Leonard (bookmaker/photographer in London). "London has a good scene, but it has no more fixed-gear shops" Not totally true, Brick Lane Bikes has the works, but I agree. Nothing like MASH. As I hang around the door, he shows me a busted up track frame, dark blue with flecks of silver, heavily-used and chipped by a courier in NYC with a chainlock. It's a steel KCH frame, with a curved seattube and a bright pink fork - the Chris King headset is worn down to silver, under where the headbadge used to sit. He's looking for more parts to build the rat-bike back to life, busy day it seems... "The scene needs more journalists" he cries as I reference LOOP magazine. "That's dead now too", Mike tells me in a sad way - Toydog cut its production, probably for the same reason I'm stood on the street (and not inside)... money money money. From what I gather, skateboarding was here first, fixed gear followed after a New York courier brought it over back in the 80's - and like most things alt and expressionist in San Francisco, it stuck. Back then, Cannondale 'C-tracks' were $600 a pop, hence why they were used by messengers and riders in the 90's, and such grail pieces today. Chas Christinansen's wicked steed a prime example, the heyday of fixed.Love it here. <img width="2787" height="3716" width_o="2787" height_o="3716" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/eb5069752f9b4b7c406e66b677d16e69f2064218f8762cca59c56987515970f5/bag.jpg" data-mid="239846697" border="0" data-scale="60" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/eb5069752f9b4b7c406e66b677d16e69f2064218f8762cca59c56987515970f5/bag.jpg" /> https://jacklowndes.com/Gringo-frijole Sat, 15 Nov 2025 23:32:27 +0000 cdsandcities https://jacklowndes.com/Gringo-frijole 07.10.25 I've got a plan. On Wednesday night I'll fly from Mexico city to Tijuana. I was hesitant to do a border crossing on foot, mostly because the available flights arrive at midnight, but I've just spoken to a friend I made in Tokyo who says it's safe, and that I can crash at his in San Diego! So I have the next location. San Diego is a perfect first stop. A liberal coast, sheltered from the wide frying pan that is the state of Arizona by a long wall of mountains starting in Mexico, and widening into vast parks in California. For a couple of weeks I can move up and down the coast digging the scenes (so Kerouac). Los Angeles, San Jose, Fresno, San Francisco, and eventually the hills. Yosemite park, Some kids just called me a Gringo frijole as they jumped into the door to the building I'm leaning on. 80 for 1, 200 for 3 https://jacklowndes.com/Izu-Shipping Tue, 28 Oct 2025 00:04:40 +0000 cdsandcities https://jacklowndes.com/Izu-Shipping 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. <img width="3024" height="4032" width_o="3024" height_o="4032" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/ed6572b400c3d08a85baeb37b884b9cfea91c48ecaaacc3858646c9a65255a87/IMG_5098.jpeg" data-mid="239951529" border="0" data-scale="50" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/ed6572b400c3d08a85baeb37b884b9cfea91c48ecaaacc3858646c9a65255a87/IMG_5098.jpeg" /> ︎︎︎ 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. <img width="3024" height="4032" width_o="3024" height_o="4032" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/cf48f9338ed2df24a351f5dd3bbe0ea13121fd35128715fe3cf19d62d281e524/IMG_5101.jpeg" data-mid="239951530" border="0" data-scale="51" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/cf48f9338ed2df24a351f5dd3bbe0ea13121fd35128715fe3cf19d62d281e524/IMG_5101.jpeg" />︎︎︎ 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. <img width="3024" height="4032" width_o="3024" height_o="4032" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/287fa54e7d03d2f29b9ba0aa9fa868b08ea126a1540215cb25f27ac5dfa8603f/IMG_5102.jpeg" data-mid="239951531" border="0" data-scale="53" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/287fa54e7d03d2f29b9ba0aa9fa868b08ea126a1540215cb25f27ac5dfa8603f/IMG_5102.jpeg" />︎︎︎ Last seen, Tokyo. https://jacklowndes.com/A-Cannonball-Under-the-Rising-Sun Mon, 04 Aug 2025 08:01:02 +0000 cdsandcities https://jacklowndes.com/A-Cannonball-Under-the-Rising-Sun 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.<img width="1080" height="1920" width_o="1080" height_o="1920" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/7ea9f035909e3162087915a58a732ef05c90e58c4a41af1e1300f5e0cf382533/bogged-down.png" data-mid="239255143" border="0" data-scale="45" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/7ea9f035909e3162087915a58a732ef05c90e58c4a41af1e1300f5e0cf382533/bogged-down.png" /> 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. <img width="4016" height="5627" width_o="4016" height_o="5627" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/54f554c118e017baefcd2cebfdc1aabef9a0403f103163eb4e6137f7db8d6b04/JCK_4236.jpg" data-mid="236631701" border="0" data-scale="69" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/54f554c118e017baefcd2cebfdc1aabef9a0403f103163eb4e6137f7db8d6b04/JCK_4236.jpg" /> ︎︎︎ 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 &amp; 2 of Terry B’s video on the Cannonball:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1a1LQaAe6Ychttps://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. <img width="1708" height="1012" width_o="1708" height_o="1012" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/29b64e20a313b9edb4b19220d6879d6ed5d32841a503e2c76c9e64b3b08933c2/img20231204_14500077.jpg" data-mid="236698202" border="0" data-scale="77" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/29b64e20a313b9edb4b19220d6879d6ed5d32841a503e2c76c9e64b3b08933c2/img20231204_14500077.jpg" />&nbsp;︎︎︎ 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. <img width="5868" height="4016" width_o="5868" height_o="4016" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/2e8b2c63b1981e20fd21b46c6dec7ee6e0cef7f8d1541a7e3887ed9c483a01d9/JCK_4196.jpg" data-mid="236631700" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/2e8b2c63b1981e20fd21b46c6dec7ee6e0cef7f8d1541a7e3887ed9c483a01d9/JCK_4196.jpg" /> ︎︎︎ Magnum22 OLC edition, street spec. <img width="1774" height="1004" width_o="1774" height_o="1004" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/d60bf2903dd0100fe1125455412da8015c126715577460380079cbfb9e9a482b/Screenshot-2025-08-27-at-14.26.30.png" data-mid="237527710" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/d60bf2903dd0100fe1125455412da8015c126715577460380079cbfb9e9a482b/Screenshot-2025-08-27-at-14.26.30.png" />︎︎︎ Route on ridewithgps.com 06:00AM - 0KM.&nbsp;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. <img width="3024" height="3832" width_o="3024" height_o="3832" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/8fa6897d30c167e8034326918a15e3e5185d5a20fbdd6bb0d76ce2bb7befd749/IMG_4358.jpeg" data-mid="237416988" border="0" data-scale="50" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/8fa6897d30c167e8034326918a15e3e5185d5a20fbdd6bb0d76ce2bb7befd749/IMG_4358.jpeg" />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. <img width="2819" height="3907" width_o="2819" height_o="3907" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/da5d9840ad0093c76f9ebb0326a0b5805ff8605fad2d18e0b4e7beec79b2d9f5/IMG_5082.jpeg" data-mid="237417095" border="0" data-scale="98" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/da5d9840ad0093c76f9ebb0326a0b5805ff8605fad2d18e0b4e7beec79b2d9f5/IMG_5082.jpeg" /> 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. <img width="2072" height="314" width_o="2072" height_o="314" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/5195271ff728a0f16cc54b1da3d95c9acf0e0b5510c3cace29fd86c3b89b582b/Screenshot-2025-08-27-at-14.25.35.png" data-mid="237527709" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/5195271ff728a0f16cc54b1da3d95c9acf0e0b5510c3cace29fd86c3b89b582b/Screenshot-2025-08-27-at-14.25.35.png" /> 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&nbsp;Run over. <img width="3246" height="4879" width_o="3246" height_o="4879" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/e22e4741e714a250b5b5d2dc03a0adde21ed182932d08b1ae88517abb2ab3cbf/JCK_4203.jpg" data-mid="236631702" border="0" data-scale="57" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/e22e4741e714a250b5b5d2dc03a0adde21ed182932d08b1ae88517abb2ab3cbf/JCK_4203.jpg" /> &nbsp;︎︎︎ 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.&nbsp; 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 <img width="1080" height="1920" width_o="1080" height_o="1920" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/0493d318984486f22c8b97fa7f3454377013f4138a34b8bcf8b71b213e0b6698/funnel.png" data-mid="239255177" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/0493d318984486f22c8b97fa7f3454377013f4138a34b8bcf8b71b213e0b6698/funnel.png" /> <img width="1080" height="1920" width_o="1080" height_o="1920" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/7ea9f035909e3162087915a58a732ef05c90e58c4a41af1e1300f5e0cf382533/bogged-down.png" data-mid="239255143" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/7ea9f035909e3162087915a58a732ef05c90e58c4a41af1e1300f5e0cf382533/bogged-down.png" /> https://jacklowndes.com/Fear-and-Loathing-in-Shinjuku Mon, 25 Aug 2025 01:58:18 +0000 cdsandcities https://jacklowndes.com/Fear-and-Loathing-in-Shinjuku Wednesday 30th July.&nbsp;My last night in Shinjuku, fly-on-the-tittybar-wall.It started in a sports bar meeting with some Canadian’s I’d met a few nights earlier, they had made two Aussie friends and had sourced some sniff on a trip to Osaka. If this was the recipe for disaster, the three Brits that walked in spouting Rugby talk were the gas we'd left on the night before. Here we go. So. Four Canadian schoolmates, three Toronto, one from the sticks. Two Western Australians, one short'n'wide the other tall'n'skinny. A pair of real bogans. One Glasweigan, two Devoners (all "squaddies" aka Army types), boasting brothel experience and mysog-madness. And finally me. I felt it was my duty to observe this petri dish of the English-speaking world. A control experiment in international hooliganism. A safari of self-serving. After a few beers and grape flavoured cigarettes, there was a vote on either the titty bar, or karaoke. The vote quickly swung the way of the sing. The Toronto-ites with the majority. The karaoke was on a second floor, a bar the length of the room. The three Japanese drinkers hightailed out after hearing the babble of loud banter climbing the stairs. We sang, we screamed, we cried. I ordered two grapefruit cocktails, paid and tipped. All ten of us (plus the German and a Kiwi that heard us from the street) filled the bar's length and height, curling around my drink on the further stool was all I could do, a position designed for the crooning drinker who's irritated in a loud bar, forced upon the lanky in Japan's scaled down diorama. Somewhere between American Idiot and Wonderwall, the three Brits gave us the slip. No real loss, the fun was with the Canads, blushed red with beer and belting the lyrics till the end. Back out on the street, squinting in the artificial light and noise of Shinjuku, suddenly small again, Godzilla's mug resting on a billboard with a glazed stare, a million miles away from the line of girls selling girls below. The British trio dodged the bill. All $80 worth of shots they had ordered. True class. The money was quickly covered by the all-too-polite Canadians. One even bought a round of icy 7% cans, where's next? <img width="4032" height="3024" width_o="4032" height_o="3024" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/840c02ed91e9efcda23ee525dcd893d5e5776ef239bcdfa9f4fdf07e3d2a0ceb/IMG_4439.jpeg" data-mid="237416784" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/840c02ed91e9efcda23ee525dcd893d5e5776ef239bcdfa9f4fdf07e3d2a0ceb/IMG_4439.jpeg" /> <img width="3024" height="4032" width_o="3024" height_o="4032" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/3462f8ba781c95919ddb2a55de5b6c24e139354426aac707ea10249b6f1fc041/IMG_4440.jpeg" data-mid="237416783" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/3462f8ba781c95919ddb2a55de5b6c24e139354426aac707ea10249b6f1fc041/IMG_4440.jpeg" /> It was up in the air. The night was turning sour. The Canadians were drunk, the Australians were wild and the German we'd picked up was talking too much. Chris, the boss-eyed leader of the moose-pack took us, encouraged by a surly tout, up some stairs and through a door. A bar, three not-so-Japanese, not-so-attractive ladies perch on stools and eye up our company. A long sofa ran along the opposite wall, two girls pawing a lonely Japanese drunk, lounging at an angle with a wide smile, wearing a glazed look, like a familiar face without glasses. I'm out. I said. I didn't even sit, turned right around and hit the lobby through the blast-door. The German followed, I think he was glad for my decision, I was glad for his company. But soon after, the rest poured out, the more level headed Canadian, Max, shaking it in disbelief. Then came the Aussies, loud and steaming. What happened in there? As I'd left, I noticed the big black man who'd led us up the stairs, standing, arm across the door. He had blocked the others from leaving without a major tip, some sort of fight had followed, headed by the two from down undah. That was it. The lanky Aus from the West was livid and charged. We walked away, I hung around the extremities of the group, keeping a mental distance as the vibes curdled. Right on cue, the lanky shitcunt started hurling slurs down the road at the other Black touts, unprovoked and venomous. We shut him up. The Canadians playing diplomat and called a "team meeting", I resigned to a smoke on a low wall, observing, the Deutsch man continuing to flirt at my side. End of the line.<img width="3024" height="4032" width_o="3024" height_o="4032" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/b539ef82b7cf67ce911a4fb542e289956d66e14508292a1972b17e59de5249ef/IMG_4454.jpeg" data-mid="237416782" border="0" data-scale="42" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/b539ef82b7cf67ce911a4fb542e289956d66e14508292a1972b17e59de5249ef/IMG_4454.jpeg" /> I walked away. Parting with the company, paying respects to the moose, while the kangaroo's stuck their heads behind a vending machine to jam coke in their flared nostrils. The line was drawn and it led home, an ugly turn to the night, an expected outcome to the English experiment. Typical of drunk blokes abroad. The soundest of the slim-pickings were the Toronto boys and the German. The rest can do-one. For the record, I held my liquor the best (unanimous and concerning).