“For everything sacred has the substance of dreams and memories, and so we experience the miracle of what is separated from us by time or distance suddenly being made tangible.” Yukio Mishima

You can’t rush a story. Well, at least that’s what I tell Larry when he’s giving me wrap it up sign. I think it best to sit back and just enjoy the journey. Don’t you?

Maybe that’s why I’m the stoker and not the captain when we ride in tandem. 

Larry and I signed up for a bike cruise to Japan when retirement was only a glamorous idea, and admittedly, we were panicked about how we would spend our newly unencumbered time. 

Little did we know this would not be an issue.

When we found out about Bill and Jan McCready, who cycled the world together before starting Santana’s Cycling Cruises, we were compelled to book a cabin on a chartered ship bound for Japan. Each day the ship docks at a new port, the rides are elective, and you hop on your bike for an intimate view of the countryside. Seems ideal.

All we have to do is figure out how to ship our bike from California to Japan.

For months Larry watched youtube videos on how to prepare a tandem bike for shipping. He talked to the Santana people, watched more videos, his hair turned a lighter shade of grey, and finally, he ordered a very expensive tandem shipping box that came with an air tag for location. 

Days before we were to leave, Larry carefully disassembled our bike, we attached the frame to the cleverly designed box, secured the wheels, seats, and handlebars before taping the entire thing shut.

We felt accomplished in this one small task, but as you know, challenges are just opportunities to expand ourselves, because there is no accomplishment without sacrifice.

And if the devil is in the details, let me just say he was our stowaway, and rather obsessed with our bike box. 

The box weighs eighty-three pounds and measures over six feet tall by four feet wide. It’s cumbersome, to say the least. Larry’s biggest fear is that the airline will reject it on some technicality, and we’ll be attending a cycling event without a bike. I’ll admit, that doesn’t seem so daunting to me.

They did not reject our box. Instead, they charged us as if we were shipping a Fazioli 24K Gold Leaf Luxury Piano to a foreign country. We gladly paid the fee and handed off our burden to the airline. Or so we thought. 

The second problem is our flight changed. Instead of a direct flight into Osaka, Japan, where our pre-tour will begin, we’re landing in Yokohama and will be forced to go through customs before proceeding to our final destination. This means we have to wait in a two-hour line, prove our identity, reclaim all our baggage, including the box (this is when I want to start cussing, so I hope you appreciate my incredible restraint), and then recheck our luggage for the next flight. 

Which we missed. 

And without the benefit of a common language, we somehow manage to book another flight to Osaka, but with only forty-five minutes before takeoff, so we’ll have to hustle or miss this flight too.

They instruct us with hand signals (which is always up to interpretation) and broken English that we will have to haul our two oversized suitcases, two backpacks, and our gigantic bike box out of the terminal, load them onto a packed shuttle bus, and then figure out how to get them into the terminal located five miles away. Scramble to find the right airline in an airport devoid of English signage and beg them to take all our shit the rest of the way to Osaka. 

Can I just say, I’m so done? We just completed a ten-hour flight and made it through a daunting customs process. We’ve been awake for about twenty-four hours at this point, with little to eat, and believe me when I say, you would not be pleased with my comportment. 

I’m beyond cranky.

Somehow, with a lot of cursing, muscle, and sweat, with only minutes to spare, we made the flight. It was so turbulent they didn’t even serve coffee. 

What could be worse? You had to ask.

When we arrive in Osaka, Santana Cruises gathers up all the weary travelers, loading our boxes and luggage onto a bus, before transporting us to the hotel. Oh, and all our luggage, including the gigantic box, has to be stored with us in our very “compact” room. 

This will be fun. 

We’re warned repeatedly not to wear shoes in our room. There’s a tiny space by the door to leave your street shoes. If it’s discovered you’ve worn shoes in the room, the penalty is apparently severe, and suddenly I’m homesick. So after stashing our gear in our socks, we find out it’s too late to eat at the hotel restaurant (you have to make reservations by 4:00 pm), so we grab a glass of wine and some sort of chicken dish at this small cafe before REMOVING OUR SHOES, climbing over our box and slipping wearily into bed.

I tend to snore when I’m overtired. Did I mention Larry looked a little ragged this morning?

Our first tour starts at 9:15 am sharp. We’re spending the day at Nara National Park, enjoying the free-range deer that outnumber the tourist, touring Buddhist temples, Shinto shrines, history museums, and souvenir shops. It’s a 20,000-step day, ending with dinner at the Shinsekai district, known for its vibrancy and unique character. It exceeds all expectations. We found a sushi bar, two empty stools, and we may have overstayed our welcome.

The next few days are filled with bus excursions to temples and shrines in Kyoto, treks through bamboo forests, and tours of ancient palaces. The history of Japan is fascinating indeed, filled with commanding emperors, courageous samurais, and cultured geisha girls. I’m particularly taken with the formal tea ceremony. I do much the same with coffee, except I don’t kneel at Larry’s feet, constantly refilling his cup, and gazing lovingly at his back while he sips his warm beverage and contemplates the meaning of life. We do it the other way around. Bahaha.

Japan didn’t surprise me, it was the people, and what they made tangible was kindness. 

It doesn’t matter if you speak the same language because I learned that eye contact, smiles, and laughter are part of a universal language. Easily communicated between ethnicities. Throw in a reverent bow, and you’ve made a friend.

Japan is a world in harmony with nature. In fact, nature is where they worship and experience God most profoundly. Their temples and shrines are designed to be in communion with the landscape, as if our most intimate encounter with a creator is only palpable when we embrace the sacredness of nature. 

I think this is why Jesus always gave his sermons outside, on a mountaintop, or along the beach. It’s where the veil is most thin.

Shrines and temples are seriously everywhere in Japan, like cathedrals in Rome, or churches in Indiana. They’re tucked away in these mysterious, lush pockets of foliage, usually at the base of a mountain or hill, noted by an iconic toriis, a symbolic gateway marking the entrance to the sanctity of the land. God dwells not in shrines and temples but in the mountains themselves.  

At the conclusion of the pre-tour, we load our gear on a bus, which drops us at the dock, where we are merged with a hundred and fifty couples awaiting to board the Star Breeze. Our first task was to reassemble our bikes under the protection of a gigantic warehouse. Thank God because it was pouring rain. 

This is the most brutal form of marriage therapy imaginable, where our patience will be severely tested, but also our faculty to work together as a team. Oh, and by the way, we’re being observed by three hundred people as we engage in deep breaths, enormous restraint, and forced civility. 

At this point, Larry and I have deep reservations about our ability to put this monster back together. We remove the frame from the bedeviled box, then the tires, bike seats, handlebars, and lots of random tiny parts, all connected by a maze of wires and greasy chains. The trick is to fit them together perfectly within a narrow window of time, or we’ll miss the boat. 

What’s the word? Pandefuckinmonium? 

You could actually observe the functional state of every marriage in the room. It was glaringly obvious who had their shit together and who did not. We were in the latter category. 

To say the restoration was successful is a stretch, but the bike appears to be ridable, and we didn’t kill each other. So there’s that. 

Every night on the ship, there is a route talk. Bill hosts these talks, and the incentive to attend is a glass of wine. He goes over the bike route for the following day and emphasizes points of interest, while repeatedly reminding us when the ship will leave port. We were strictly informed the boat does not wait for anybody. At the time, this seemed insignificant, but like I said, the devil is in the details…

Larry and I are both wide awake at 5:00 am. Coffee service starts at 6:00 am, and I manage to remain civil for the entire hour without the benefit of caffeine. Sleeping on the ship is like being in a gigantic cradle where the motion of the waves gently rocks you to sleep every night. It divine. Why can’t they design a bed to do this?

The boat docks in Onomichi, Japan, after unloading the bikes onto the deck, we’re threaded through customs and released onto the streets with a map downloaded on both our phone and a Garmin, which are attached to our handlebars for easy access. 

The weather is perfect. 

I exude enormous amounts of gratitude at the beginning of each day. The cool air on my face and the warm muscles make me feel invincible for the first thirty miles. Following the intricate map for several hours, we marvel at the lush scenery, condensed housing, and narrow but charming streets. Japan reminds us of Hawaii. We weave our way through several small towns before stopping at a temple which we spend an hour touring before hopping back on the bike to catch a ferry that will transport us across the bay. 

I don’t mean to be indelicate, but it has only been one day, and my butt is in serious discomfort.

While I’m despairing about my derriere Larry notices our front tire is flat. We roll our disabled bike off the ferry, and literally, everyone takes off, even the rescue vans. Thank God we have everything we need, including an extra tube and tools (thank you, Stu). Some locals try to help us extract a thin wire that we picked up along the ride, which resulted in a flat tire. Time is ticking as I’m frantically trying to remember when the ship leaves port.

You’ll be relieved to know we may have been the last couple, but we made it back to the boat before it left port. 

Day two lands us in Shimonoseki, Japan. The first part of the ride is mostly flat, with beautiful views of the ocean and a planned lunch stop at the Spice Market. I noticed my allergies are acting up from all the gorgeous cherry blossoms, or maybe it’s the fragrant trees and lush foliage. The second part of the ride is torture, straight uphill, no break because Larry is a maniac, but we triumphed. Oh, and two miles from the ship, another flat.

By the time we return to our cabin, I’m feeling poorly. I slip into bed right after dinner with a raging migraine (my first ever), which turns into nausea, so I sleep with a wet rag on my head all night. Okay, I didn’t really sleep, just rolled around moaning all night. I’m sure Larry didn’t notice.

By morning we are docked in Busan, South Korea. It’s pouring rain, and no one is planning on riding today, but there are tours available to explore the markets and shopping areas. 

I stay in the darkened room, praying to a silent God for mercy, a wet rag languishing on my painful brow. Tomorrow we have to go through customs upon our return to Japan, which means heat detectors and customs officials specifically looking for signs of illness. If you have even the slightest temperature they will leave you and all your shit on the dock. No refund. End of trip. 

If I’m totally freaking out, Larry’s in an all-out panic.

While Larry tours South Korea by himself, he stops by a pharmacy, points to his nose, and buys the box of pills they present to him. Great. Now I’m a human Guinea pig. 

I took two, along with two Advils, to relieve the headache, and broke out in the worst case of hives you’ve ever seen. 

Somehow Larry convinces me to get out of bed and make an appearance for dinner. I feel like shit. No appetite, slightly unstable, and mildly nauseous. We sit at a table for two. My lips are so puffy I look like Kim Kardashian. I order French onion soup and tried to sip it through my swollen lips. Later that night, when I asked Larry to rub some ointment on my rash he gasped in horror. I’m not kidding. The ointment worked, and I was able to sleep. 

And guess what? 

I felt completely normal the next morning. The headache was gone, my nasal passages were clear, even the rash subsided, although my lips are still swollen. I’m calling it a bonafide miracle. I can not believe the difference in my salubrity. After dressing in our biking gear, we get off the ship and stand in line with everyone else before going through customs. It’s freezing, but I leave my jacket in my backpack, hoping the cool air will camouflage any fluctuation in my interior temperature. 

I pass through the gauntlet of heat sensors and custom guards without setting off a single alarm. It felt a little like winning the lottery. Larry looks like he just robbed a bank, sweating profusely, biting his nails, and cussing under his breath. I thought they might haul him away instead. 

Larry and I are so relieved we explore Karatsu’s lush landscape with big smiles plastered across our faces. I wave at everyone I pass. How could I be feeling so good after a day like yesterday? I praise God, Buddha, and the sacred mountains. Our energy might be unstoppable, but my rear is toast!  

And it gets better. 

Apparently, Randy and Patti, a couple we briefly chatted with a few times aboard ship, noticed we ate alone last night and invited Larry and me to join their group for dinner after the route talk tonight. We were thrilled. 

We were introduced to a gauntlet of interesting people, all tandem bikers, all retired, and this was not their first rodeo. They’ve known each other years and years, done countless rides together, and their friendship was palpable. We thoroughly enjoy their delightful stories, helpful advice (especially about the most comfortable bike seats for women), along with their warm and generous company.

I have to say this group made the trip so much more enjoyable and fun. I hope to join up with them on future rides. 

On day four, we are back in Karatsu but traveling a different path. We’ve noticed that the Japanese excel in cultivating nature. Almost every house, no matter the simplicity or elegance, has a perfectly sculpted tree in the yard. Most of the temples and shrines have what I call a dry-landscape garden. They use stones and pebbles to create a minimalist space for contemplation. Sometimes you find a pool of carp, mossy trails, and small bridges that link them together. All these spaces are created to draw you into a deeply spiritual encounter with God. 

We spend day five exploring Beppu, riding our bikes up to an ancient castle where Larry dresses as a samurai and poses for the camera. I came across one of those vending machines that you only find in Japan. I love the unexpected items sold in these contraptions. There’s junk food, lemonade, beer cans, whisky bottles, and packages of underwear. I know. What the hell? I was tempted to buy one as a souvenir.

On day six, we land in Kochi, where we are mesmerized by tiered rice fields tucked along the rolling hills and coastline. Rice paddies climb the hillsides in wet, lush staircases, and over time the dense woodlands have become farmland. Shinto shrines dot the landscape as if dandelions, which carry our wishes onto fertile ground, and the abundance of possibility.

And I should mention there has never been a sorer butt in all the world. 

While visiting one of the shrines to give ourselves a break from the rock-hard seats, a little old man watches me get off the bike and sort of limp towards the thousand steps leading to the temple. I hesitate. He is coming down the steps and says to me, “You must climb all the way to the top for the blessings,” and he points upward. 

I smile and bow indulgently, which is a common greeting. Then I struggle one step at a time until I reach the top. Let’s hope my prayers are answered, but I already know they were, or I would not be standing here today. After the thousand steps, we enjoyed gliding by several small villages wedged into gently sloping valleys, perched on the pinnacle of rolling hills, or strung along the coastline. The air is fresh and appealing, salty and sweet, with a hint of moist decay. It’s as if Japan engages all your senses at once, and the effect is enchanting. 

On day seven, we experience the most beautiful ride of the trip, cycling for miles along a meandering turquoise river in Shingu, under a canopy of trees, coming upon an extraordinary waterfall, charming villages, and more tiered rice paddies. It’s absolutely exquisite, aside from an extremely sore butt (I don’t mean to be repetitive, but damn), I was completely taken by the landscape. 

We took Anthony Bourdain’s advice, and ate lunch at a Family Mart, with chopsticks, and plastic boxes filled with mysterious food which we inhaled. 

Exploring the temples has been illuminating. The process is always the same. After purifying our hands in the fountain, you walk through a small red gate to the shrine, drop a few coins into the wooden collection box as an offering, bow, clap to get the attention of the Gods, pray, and bow some more. I observe the incredible patience of people waiting in long lines to approach their favorite shrine. 

They’re not annoyed by the length of your prayers, or impressed by your piety, they wait, quietly, respectfully, and reverently. 

Like so much of Japan, behind the bright red shrines lay another view. There are several paths you can take deep into the woods, maybe cross a quaint bridge, before you stumble into a pristine patch of purple flowers. The trees are perfectly groomed, surrounded by plush gardens, along gently curving stone paths. When it begins to rain, the colors are magnified, and the leaves cup the water as if small hands. It’s almost indescribable.

On our way back to the ship, we come upon two fellow passengers, one has just taken a bad fall, and he’s not only disoriented but bleeding profusely from his head and arm. Larry and I hop off our bike, lay it aside, and try to assist. Several other bikers stop, and all of us quickly alert the SOS van, dropping our location and describing the scene to the drivers. It’s decided that Steve should be checked out at the hospital, and they drive him to the nearest facility. Larry and I ride back to the ship with a little more restraint and care. 

And by the hair of our chinny, chin, chin, we are the last couple to board.

Our final day is spent in the city of Fuji, with incredible views of the mountain, which you have to appreciate when it appears because the clouds periodically surround the mountain as if a warm cap on a bald head and it’s suddenly gone. Japan is dressed to delight today, sunny and breezy, fluffy clouds meandering across the sky. 

It must be laundry day, as garments are blowing in the gentle breeze from almost every porch. Our ride today is along an elevated storm wall that follows the coastline for miles and miles. We vear off the wall to travel to the emperor’s house tucked away in a pocket of pine trees and sand dunes. Very Carmelish.  

On the journey home, Larry and I stop for a moment to give my butt a rest. I seriously don’t think I could ride another day. When I struggle to get back on the bike, a modestly dressed man approaches us with outreached hand. He wants me to take his juice box, he thinks I might be thirsty, it’s his only box, but he wants me to have it because only a person who has known thirst can see it in another. This is how kindness is made tangible by the people of Japan. 

When we return to the ship, we have to also return our tandem bike to the shipping box, and all that implies. But I have to say, doing it in reverse was much easier on the marriage. When the bike is safely tucked away in the now ragged box, we give each other a little high five before heading back to the ship for a congratulatory cocktail. 

Back in our room, we do the same with our clothes, suitcases have to be left in the hall before bed tonight. It is also our final dinner with our new friends, and I am ever so cognizant of their generosity. Larry offers a toast at the beginning of the meal, thanking them for including us at their table, and allowing us to sit beside their endearing friendships during our journey through Japan.  

What I learned? Health is everything, and I suppose our time is just as valuable, but it is how we spend it that will define this stage of life. As I endeavor to understand where we have been and where we are going I realize for the first time we are not borrowing our time from anyone, from our jobs, our obligations, and all the pressing issues of the middle years. We’re in a new stage of life, most of our precious burdens have moved out of the house, and the possibilities seem endless.

I guess the goal of any adventure is to stay long enough to learn to see life from a different vantage point. After first observing the shiny facade of a place, you learn to look below the surface, to see the essence of not only a foreign country but its people. What I saw was a gentle spirituality, an unwavering devotion to simplicity, and a glimpse of the human potential made tangible through endless acts of kindness. Oh, and together, I discovered there ain’t no mountain Larry, and I can’t climb.

PS. We ordered a new bike seat for Cheryl’s birthday.

PSS Larry ordered a shock absorber for my seat for Mother’s Day

PSSS Does this feel a little like getting a blender?

I’m Living in the Gap, butt sore, but recovering, looking forward to engaging with you in the comment.

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