a tokyo state of mind

If there is something I’d like to be remembered for, it is my absolute inability to drink.
I don’t say this with pride; I simply believe that it is one of my more positive – albeit incapacitating – traits. Boyfriends have found my post-half-a-beer stumbling adorable, friends know they never have to include me in a second round, and my family will happily pour one less glass of good wine. I like to believe that the money I have saved ex-boyfriends on alcohol somehow cancels out my sociopathic propensity for screaming fights, and that between friends, I still retain some utility as the generally sober one with no driver’s license. These thoughts run through my throbbing temples – the beginning of a hangover – just as everyone [irritatingly, happily] starts in on their second round. A good night usually has me drinking large amounts of water and running to the bathroom for the rest of the night; a less successful one has me spontaneously passing out on some random, semi-horizontal surface.
Having come to terms with the fact that a glass of Chimay will make me cross-eyed, I generally stick to what I know best: premium American beers known better by three-letter acronyms and girly drinks so watered down they have the inebriating effect of juice. I ordered a tall glass of something similar on Tim and Chandler’s last night in Tokyo, at a yakiniku restaurant full of fake geishas with plunging necklines.

“What is that, like a wine cooler?” Chandler asked.
“Yeah,” Tim said after taking a sip, “but worse.”
But it was something I could finish, which had, to me, some semblance of significance. Like a triathlete’s proud “Finisher” t-shirt, it seemed like an achievement I could refer back to later in the evening, should my night not conclude with the check. “But I finished that drink,” I could say defensively, “remember? Back at that restaurant? Like an hour ago? Remember?”
I came back from the bathroom, however, [escorted there by those same geishas] not to my empty glass, but a full one. Courtesy of Arnie of Red Bull.
“High five, Kaiko,” he said.

A drunken blush had started to invade my entire face by the time Arnie, Ai [also of Red Bull], Chandler, Tim and I crammed into an elevator and back outside. To go to karaoke. This was going to be interesting…in part because Arnie ordered vodka shots as soon as we got there.
Vodka and I have a somewhat troubled history. The first time I drank an entire shot of vodka, the room spun, and I ended up with my face in my sister’s toilet for the majority of the night. Until 4 a.m., that toilet seat was the most reassuring headrest I’d ever known, its surface so cool and welcome it didn’t occur to me until much later that that morning, my left buttcheek had rested in the same spot where my face was. But at that point, I was beyond being “gross,” and was actively embracing “downright disgusting.” I even went so far as to attempt to talk to a then-boyfriend while slumped over that porcelain fixture, as if my inability to refrain from convulsively bringing up nacho remnants every time I opened my mouth would somehow wither in the face of [college] love. It didn’t.
I finally stopped retching, took the next day off, but told my boss at my internship the truth a few days later [“I think I drank a little too much the other night”]. Later that summer, I was asked to parade in front of the Grand Hyatt hotel next to Grand Central station wearing a sandwich board. I would like to think the two events are somehow not related.
Afterwards, I swore off vodka shots like I swear off boys post-break-up; just long enough to forget about all the bad shit that went down. One could argue that my vodka abstinence lasted a bit longer, due to the fact that the mere mention of gray geese was enough to give my esophagus spasms [something, admittedly, no man in my life has been able to do before]. Mental gag reflexes had abated, though, by my best friend’s bachelorette party. As the sole bridesmaid without an acceptable, bullshit excuse to not get properly shitfaced, I did my first vodka shot in forever, topped off with most of a Tom Collins. We ended up at South Brooklyn Pizza later that night, where I crammed bread, cheese, tomato sauce, and gobs of roasted garlic into my mouth while mostly ignoring the group of guys we had collected on the way. I rolled outside, cheese probably stuck between several teeth, and promptly dropped the ball on reciprocating flirting with an incredibly handsome British banker [his handsome-ness certainly didn’t help the situation]. Instead, I crawled into a cab to pass out on my sister’s couch, half-bedazzled and fully clothed, but without pants. Thank you, alcohol.

Back at the karaoke booth, still in denial that I was already on my way to getting tanked, I took an obligatory sip off my shot after we all raised our glasses. I thought I was in the clear, until Tim pointed to my mostly-full glass. The last train literally and figuratively pulled out of Shibuya as I picked up my glass and clinked it against Tim’s [which Arnie had somehow refilled]. Bottoms up.


From there the my night got a lot more awesome. Arnie serenaded us with ballads like Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On,” Ai was hitting all the high notes that no one else could, Chandler and Tim were adding the appropriate screams to Guns ‘n Roses songs, and we all yelled along to “Thriller.” …And then I started rapping.

Let me clarify: I do not usually do this. In fact, until that night, I have never subjected a person I had only met several hours prior, to my inner gangsta [Sorry, Ai!]. Much like masturbation, I will admit to doing it [come on, everyone lip syncs into their mirror, right?] but that doesn’t mean I’m doing it in public. As proof, I could list long-term boyfriends and close friends who have never so much as heard the words declaration “it was all a dream/I used to read Word Up magazine,” escape my lips. I may hum along to a rap chorus, but my real rapping sessions have largely been conducted in the safe confines of my room, and even then with the paranoid, self-consciousness of Michael Bolton in “Office Space.”
But feeling either generous or cruel [depending on one’s assessment of my performance] in addition to simply drunk, I was enthusiastically channeling Snoop Dogg in “California Gurls” and Jay-Z in “Empire State of Mind.” Jaws seemed to drop a little before general laughter followed. Tequila shots appeared. I actually drank half of mine.

We wrapped it up around 3 a.m. with a Lady Gaga medley and said our goodbyes. I staggered into a cab, didn’t hurl as soon as I got home and randomly drunk-emailed friends while lurching uncontrollably. All with my pants undone.

The next day, for the first time in my life, I was [horribly, disgustingly] hung over. Tim and Chandler emailed a last goodbye from the airport, and I told them to come back soon, for Round 2.
Because come to think of it, we never did get around to Biggie or ‘Pac...

bonsai bike shop bromance

I’m not one for stereotypes, but unless I am PMSing and therefore off my fucking nut, I am very predictably a push-over.
I have supplemented this unique trait by tending to have friends who will demand my time and attention by dragging me out to ultimately enjoyable events that I am always hesitant to go to. That’s not to say I don’t give them the obligatory, initial, most likely annoying, quaffing [as Biggie put it, “…and she starts off, ‘well, I don’t usually,’…”]. But a murderous glower, clenched teeth, or an exasperated tone are usually enough to get me out of bed and into some half-decent clothes. Depending on who’s doing the asking, of course.
Well, until last week, that is. Because when Chandler told me to just show up to their hotel on Monday after Tim wrapped up some interviews, I was PMSing, but miraculously refrained from whining or otherwise coming up with some lame excuses. I emailed back an okay and without another word, got my ass to Odaiba.
…Just in time to catch a photo shoot with Hiro Ito of Cannondale, Koichiro Nakamura, and Hideyuki Suzuki by the random Statue of Liberty replica near the hotel. I predictably paparazzi-ed.

After a late lunch of okonomiyaki, plans as to what was next were up in the air, but there were vague murmurs:

“Yeah, let’s go there then.”
“Okay, yeah that’s a good idea.”
“Bonsai? Okay, okay.”
I was all, “Tim’s into trees???”
Bonsai or Bonsai Cycle Shop, it turned out, is actually the name of one of the coolest bike shops I’ve been to [and not just in Tokyo]. Opened last September, it’s a beautiful bike shop that also houses a small café run by the incredibly talented Natsuki-san. Yoshida-san and Natsuki-san greeted us at the entrance, the door opening into a space surrounded by the smell of freshly baked double-chocolate muffins. Yoshida-san explained that he wanted to build a shop around the three things that cyclists consumed: coffee, dirt, and chocolate. He managed to do a lot more than that, though, offering a space filled with awesome frames, bike parts, and custom jerseys. The shop is impeccable; details [like the lighting fixtures and the small Oriental rug in the workspace] tying everything neatly together. Like all great shops, the care that went into every detail is obvious, resulting in the sense that everything is painstakingly curated, but only enough to be inspiring as opposed to inaccessible.

Soaking up the good vibes of the shop, I was half a centimeter into a perfectly done Americano when Tim called me over for some translating. Yoshida-san patiently waited out my version of translation, which consisted of listening to Tim’s question in English, nodding that I understood, then attempting to telepathically convey the question in Japanese through imaginary laser beams emitting out of my eyes. It didn’t work; my mangled Japanese produced far better results.

Like the book Yoshida-san produced when I told him Tim and Chandler were on the hunt for gifts for friends. Called simply, “Le Tour de France,” it’s a collection of amazing photographs from the 1986, 1987, and 1988 TdFs by Yasufumi Kitanaka. It’s also a publication that’s been out-of-print for some time; Yoshida-san told us that the publishing company happened to be nearby with more than a few boxes of these books in storage, thus making Bonsai Cycle Shop the only place in Japan where you can get these gorgeous books. A sucker for most things involving bound pages, I purchased one to savor – a few pages at a time – between the pedaling and ride route searching.

I could have easily spent a few more hours there, just looking at stuff. But dinner was calling and there was more discovering to be done. We said our goodbyes, and I promised to pay another visit soon [a promise I followed up on yesterday, to see Yoshida-san’s new Indy Fab and sip a post-ride Americano.]

Tempura and some shopping in Shinjuku followed, after which Tim and Chandler wrapped up the night with a public display of bromance.

24 hours later, I’ll briefly contemplate not being such a push over before saying a mental, “fuck it,” and having one of the best nights of my life. But more on that later.
[Some more pictures here.]

beer in bed pans and late night ramen

It’s 2 a.m. and I’m sitting next to Jamey, both of us waiting on our respective bowls of late night ramen. Tim is threatening to hose down the toilet seat in the only bathroom with urine before Chiharu and I use it [Jamey: “don’t worry, urine’s pretty sterile”], Chandler is taking quality shots of the guy next to me who is passed out in his bowl of ramen, and Ben is exclaiming something loudly in his Belgian accent. Oh yeah, and I’m in Shibuya – oh , sorry, Shi-BOOYAH – with a bunch of cyclocross pros.
…What the fuck…?

The day that started with Cyclocross Tokyo picked back up again in Shibuya with a visit to a mental hospital-themed bar: Alcatraz. A suggestion by Chiharu of Champion Systems, scantily clad “nurses,” showed us to our table before the lights went out, strobe lights came on, and ominous shrieks from surrounding tables followed. Impatient and close to cracking after a long day, I flipped through the menu in the dark with the aid of an iPhone light, only to glance up to see a masked man inches from my face. I screamed. Possibly louder than I did earlier in the day.

After the bar determined that both Chiharu and I had been sufficiently targeted and terrorized, we ordered bed pan pitchers of beer and drinks served in test tubes and Erlenmeyer flasks. Beer has never looked so unappetizing.

We left the bar and wandered around until Chiharu turned to me: “we should take purikura!” [Purikura is short for “Print Club,” a high tech version of a photo booth that will turn the photos taken into small stickers. The booths let you draw on the pictures, choose different background colors, and offer a range of filters from “glamorous” to “cute”.] It was probably the best idea of the night. We ducked into an arcade on the corner and crammed into the nearest open booth. Shenanigans ensued, including taking pictures that made our eyes look bigger.

More beers followed at an English pub with a few beers on tap, Chandler told us all about kegel cramps, and we finished off the night with the aforementioned ramen. I jumped into a cab, got home to an email that the guys had lost Don’s glasses and wallet, called around, found out that the items were recovered, and finally passed out.

Surreal night? Definitely. Crazy? Compared to a few nights later, not even close.
[Make sure to check out CycloWHAT? for more Tokyo trip madness.]

cross pros and boston bros

Some people recount memorable nights – the surreal ones, especially – with something along the lines of waking up on the floor of a littered hotel room with certain events conveniently blacked out. There is usually some sort of alcoholic debauchery involved, possibly ending in a raided mini-bar plus a pizza, and could include a half-dressed stranger passed out on the bed. I’ve had milder forms of those nights – which, despite making it to my bed, usually without strangers or, okay, sometimes pants – I’ve retold with more enthusiasm than I should and a completely unjustified sense of “holy shit can you believe this happened?!” Because while my life is very exciting, yes, yes you can believe I passed out on my bed, alone, without pants on.
Even so, friends getting engaged, holding down jobs that involve career prospects, or otherwise acting their age had me mostly convinced that I should maybe tone down the spinning and consider doing the same. But then Saturday happened. Saturday, which included a race, a hotel hallway cluttered with bikes, a room filled with bike gear, clothes, shoes, the signs of seasoned travellers, and a Swiss national champ offering me chocolate. In his underwear.

It started with a tweet and mutual friends; six-time U.S. National Cyclocross champion Tim Johnson was heading to Tokyo, and as a former-Massachusetts-transplant-current-Tokyo-resident, Michele S. directed him my way. A few tweets later, there were vague plans to meet on Tuesday or Wednesday.
But I woke up Saturday to a message about a race that day. “What race?” I thought to myself as I tried to regain consciousness [my next thought – “wait……’cross?” – a testament to the lack of caffeine in my system]. I googled, found Cyclocross Tokyo and jumped on a train headed to Odaiba: a man-made island complete with a beach, outlet malls, and [for the day] a ‘cross course.

The beach, a short walk from the Tokyo Teleport station, was packed. People shuffled across the course guided by race marshals, and bicycles [road, mountain, cross, and even track] were propped up everywhere. A line of tents stretched out from the park entrance to the start/finish line, just beyond a wooden boardwalk crowded with small clusters of racers and spectators. And nearest the park entrance, bordered by fans with pointing cameras, was the neon green Cannondale tent with three familiar faces [thanks to CycloWHAT?’s blog] inside.

Introductions were made [to Tim Johnson, Christian Heule, and Jamey Driscoll], hands shaken, a face placed on the man [Chandler] behind CycloWHAT? [my latest favorite bike blog], and some general small talk exchanged before I was booted out of the tent so photographers could shoot the visiting pros unobstructed. I walked around with the crowd, and caught the tail end of the women’s elite race. The field was tiny by American standards and uniquely Japanese, with the Japanese national cyclocross champ donning a helmet half-bedazzled with Swarovski crystals [and later promising to buy a Chanel bag with her prize money].

An excited buzz reminded me to find a spot to watch the start of the elite men’s race as half the crowd seemed to pull away from choice spots around the course to catch a glimpse of the pros. The area surrounding the start line was already four to five people deep by the time I hurried over, but I was able to wedge myself between two bikes about 100 yards down. We all seemed to hold our breaths, waiting, cameras pointed and ready.

Tim, Christian, Jamey, and [Belgian national cyclocross champ] Ben Berden sprinted to a good start, staying close together for the first half of the race. Their speed made the course look easy as they wound their way through trees, obstacles, sand, and stairs. Sure there was none of the shoe-sucking, peanut butter mud of New England, but the guys made the course look as smooth and as fast as a road race. One moment they were on pavement, the next navigating through the woods, then riding through sand. The ten laps seemed to fly by, with Japanese national champion Yu Takenouchi leading the way until the 5th or 6th lap, before popping and losing the lead to Ben Berden. Tim, Christian, and Jamey followed soon after as cowbells clanged loudly, mixing in with the shouting. I screamed encouragement before looking around to realize that most of the crowd had flocked to the next part of the course. Like a cloud of locusts with high-tech cameras, fans descended on the race leaders, strategically moving with the race favorites, shutters snapping.

The last lap was announced, and within minutes Ben flew to a first place finish, with Tim second, and Christian third. The guys were immediately swamped by photographers, media people, sponsors, and fans; Tim couldn’t walk to the podium and back without being roped into at least ten photos with fans. Embracing my Japanese roots, I paparazzi-ed with the rest of the excited crowd before meeting the guys back at the Cannondale tent. An offer to walk back a pit bike to their hotel turned into awkwardly pedaling Tim’s bike [!!!] in my boots [on mtb pedals] as the saddle kept poking me in the right buttcheek [Tim: “Kaiko, you look really comfortable.”]. I walked into the hotel hallway to see Christian in his underwear, ate too much of Tim’s Martha’s Vineyard Mix [missed that stuff so hard], topped it off with some Swiss chocolate and made plans to meet later that night.

For the more impatient, there are already some details of our night here. I crashed early, sober and stranger-less [with pants!], but happily reminded of why bikes – and the people that ride them – are so much fun, and how I should tell this concept of “growing up,” to go fuck itself.
And, oh yeah, to start saving up for that ‘cross bike, too.
[More pictures here.]