Wishing you all the best this holiday season!
Photo by J.M.
Remembering to Forget with Adam Hansen
“I don’t remember the negative parts of a relationship,” he said.
“Aren’t we supposed to remember stuff that hurts us?”
He looked at me.
“Like, for human survival?”
I searched his face for affirmation as I imagined some ancient version of him attempting to survive in the wilderness: repeatedly running through thorn bushes, trying to touch fire, getting nearly stomped to death by a mammoth. I sighed and looked at him, his face by then overtaken by a big, bright smile, apparently oblivious to the pain of past heartbreak.
Normally, I’d suggest therapy for the self-flagellation, but I suspect it’s what makes him a world-record-holding, WorldTour cyclist. I shook my head in exasperation and took another bite of one of Adam’s sweet potato wedges: crispy sheaths of gooey potato served with a generous sprinkle of lavender salt. It was June and we were at Elle Café, where there is an entire page of vegan nibbles, snacking on those fries before diving into tall glasses full of mango and melon and soy whipped cream. We’d just finished off bowls of vegan ramen at Afuri.
To be fair, Adam suffers from the kind of generosity and masochism that has lost wars. It’s most likely benefited him as a super domestique but has also meant that he has remained – certainly to his detriment – a close friend throughout my multiple meltdowns. His phone has been the recipient of all of my life dramas: family feuds, heartbreak, underemployment. Over the years, I’ve sent book-length emails weeping over people I’d largely forget by the time I saw Adam next, been the sole member of the entourage who tags along to professional engagements as if I belong there, and once got so mad I called him a shithead. He still messages me to tell me he’s in town, makes time to catch up in person, and passes on all the pro peloton gossip.
It’s conduct worthy of a Purple Heart – or whatever the Australian equivalent is (a lifetime supply of ANZAC cookies?) – and was most recently repeated a few weeks ago. He was in town for work related to Leomo; I was nursing the sting of a failed non-relationship. The timing, for me, was perfect.
Over almost-scone-like vegan pancakes at Ain Soph. Ginza, vegan burgers and tiramisu at Ain Soph Ripple, and cups of coffee consumed around the city, Adam told me about the usual: plans for next season and overextending himself by taking on way too much in his brief off-season. In return, I related my most recent misadventures as a super domestique of life: bending over backwards to try to make relationships work and the unfortunate realization of being the only person doing CPR on dying conversations on Tinder.
It’s not like life couldn’t be worse; I can think of several ways, off the top of my head, how it could be. But it’s not exactly made better by my tendency to bring a deliberately honed capacity to endure pain and bullshit for extended periods of time from a sport I used to love into every other area of my life. Unfortunately, I have discovered that there is no tangible reward or cardiovascular benefit to blowing myself up for someone else, lending a wheel when I don’t have to, and falling on swords. It’s actually just exhausting.
“Adam,” I’d said over those pancakes, “I’m tired.”
As the only cyclist to have completed 20 Grand Tours in a row, and one prone to play domestique on and off the bike, I’ve often asked Adam’s phone how he keeps going. He’s never really given a clear answer other than vague encouragement to be more positive. This doesn’t answer my question, I’d thought, but assumed that it was due to some misunderstanding, on his end, of course, from spending too much time in an eastern European country where the English language is apparently scarce.
It never dawned on me that he simply forgot about all the bad stuff. When he divulged this information to me back in June, I was appalled and concerned. Voluntary, selective memory loss seems like a terrible way to avoid future hurt and heartbreak. In fact, that is absolutely the kind of altruism that has led to my texting exes and watching my emotional well-being burn to the ground with the match in my hand.
In the intervening months, I’ve realized that what Adam was referring to wasn’t the stupidity to repeat past mistakes but rather the indefatigable conviction that someone else’s emotional turmoil – and the pain that may have caused him – weren’t going to affect his future choices. It’s a weird yet refreshing optimism that can be misconstrued as naïve or foolish, but in practice requires the healthy ability to remain open and vulnerable no matter how bad the prognosis for lasting love may be.
“So how do you not go back to some awful ex?” I’d asked, just as food was served and our conversation moved on to more important things like vegan omelets. I answered my own question later on, when Adam pressed me to message a super cute Australian guy who had started following me a few months prior.
“He looks like he’s in his mid-twenties,” I’d said.
“Just message him,” Adam had said, “I dated a girl who was ten years younger than me once.”
“Yeah,” I’d said, “and if you forgot what that was like, let me remind you because I remember.”
He laughed a little and I rolled my eyes again. But I suppose that’s the secret: to choose friends who will remember your heartbreak so you don’t have to, and to hope that when the time comes, they’ll keep you from running into thorn bushes, touching fire, or torching yourself with an ex.
Man Down in Miyazaki
“So, say you’re an omnipotent superhero,” he started, “and Country A and Country B launch nukes at each other. You throw those nukes into orbit so they don’t hit anything, but you can still use them. How would you punish Country A and Country B?”
“Well, why do they hate each other?” I said.
“Does it matter? They just do.”
“Well, yeah, it does. If it’s based on race or religion, I’d make it so people in Country A and Country B couldn’t tell someone’s race or religion,” I said.
“Look,” he said, the way people do when you tell them you’d save the bulk of a hypothetical $10 million lottery win, as if that’s not a completely reasonable answer, “I know you’re a good person, but you have to punish these people.”
“Mmm,” I said, around a mouthful of fries, “okay.”
He looked at me, waiting for a response.
“I’m thinking,” I said, to buy some more time to absorb my incredulity at being described as a good person. Like someone caught red-handed trying to pass off the suspicious conduct as casual and definitely not what it actually is, I feigned deep thought as I mentally tucked away the answer to the question of how fast I would have sold him out earlier in the day, had we gotten in trouble.
That particular conversation had taken place in a McDonald’s in Miyazaki after well-laid travel plans had unraveled into another misadventure. Our initial itinerary had us out of the hotel in Kumamoto by 8 a.m. and at Takachiho Gorge by 9 a.m., where the boat rentals started at 8:30. We’d then planned to covertly fly Jwizzle’s drone through the gorge before driving down to Hyuga to see the Sea-Cross, Ryugo Udo Shrine, and Umagase.
The path to Takachiho Gorge.
Takachiho Gorge.
View from the boat dock.
We’d arrived just past 8:30 a.m., which meant that we had to park in a second parking lot farther away from the gorge. From that parking lot, there’s a 10-minute scenic walk through the gorge which was largely empty when we wandered through. Despite arriving at the boat dock around 8:45 a.m., there was already a 60-meter long line for the boats. We were able to get a reservation with an hour-long wait. As we browsed the gift shop in the meantime, the lady behind the counter told us that the boat rentals had been closed all summer due to heavy rain. The timing of our visit was apparently fortuitous.
An hour later, we were on a rowboat with a thirty-minute time limit. We struggle-rowed through the relatively narrow gorge as I quickly discovered that actually rowing a boat is not nearly as easy as operating a rowing machine. With approximately twelve boats in the water at once, there was a lot of gentle bumping and jostling in the water, all of us awkwardly yet politely trying to navigate towards a good spot for a unique photograph. As we neared the waterfall, I contorted myself into different positions to take the kind of pictures that are the métier of unappreciated boyfriends of Instagram-famous women. I hit the shutter button as a ray of sunlight lit the base of the waterfall and felt a surge of validation and pride. It was met with a tepid response.
View from the bridge at Takachiho Gorge.
Approximately 500 pictures later, we hustled back to shore, returned our life vests and climbed back towards the road overlooking the gorge. There, we found a brief stretch of asphalt where Jwizzle could discreetly launch his drone; as he manipulated the console, I stood by casually, shielding eyes from what we were actually doing and stealing glances at his phone screen.
And then we dropped the drone.
Jwizzle’s phone screen suddenly went blank and a brief second later, his drone had decided to descend onto a rock approximately 20 meters away from the waterfall. In a panic, he shoved his dead phone at me and took off running. I lost him at a fork in the road and accidentally headed towards the parking lot. 15 minutes later, finding an empty car, I weaved my way back through an increasingly dense crowd of Chinese tourists and found him agitated yet slightly relieved. The drone wasn’t in the water, but we’d have to get on a boat to get it back. I was sweating profusely.
By the time we signed up for another boat, it was already late morning and there was a 2.5 hour wait time. We killed time by losing each other again, necessitating yet another trip through the gorge to the parking lot and back. I offered to claim ownership of the drone and ask the boat operators to recover it, but that was quickly rejected. We waited near the boat dock, anxious, when a boat operator suddenly took off through the gorge on a motor boat. He came back a few minutes later with the damp drone, which we finally claimed before hauling ass out of the area.
With a key member of our team drying (and possibly, dying) in the back seat, we headed east towards Hyuga. Our first stop was the Ryugo Udo Shrine which required getting lost (again) through a winding, wooded path that climbed up before descending down towards the shore. As we neared the mouth of the cave where Ryugo Udo Shrine is located, a sign loudly cautioned us that the path would be steep. We confirmed the veracity of that statement upon arriving at the last ten steps to the cave, which consisted of a pile of wet rocks that vaguely resembled stairs.
Heading down to Ryugo Udo Shrine.
Ryugo Udo shrine from the outside.
Ryugo Udo Shrine from inside the cave.
Still, we managed to make it down to a gorgeous view. They say you can see a dragon rising if you look out towards the mouth of the cave from the shrine. I apparently lacked the imagination to see that particular beast, but it definitely paralleled my mental image of the empty sack that was my shrunken stomach.
Having foolishly decided that this was the day to break my addiction to Coke, I’d subsisted on water and mints for the past 6 hours. After the delay due a dropped drone, we were in a rush to get to Hyuga before the sun set. We scrambled out of the cave where Ryugo Udo Shrine is located and a short drive took us to the Sea Cross, a cross-shaped coastal inlet. It’s a naturally occurring seascape that’s impressive on its own, but someone clever in the tourism industry apparently also noticed that the inlet can look like the Japanese character for 叶う, which means when something, like a wish or desire, has been granted. To add to the hyped romanticism of the locale, there’s a large bell that’s been installed where one – or more probably, couples – can make their wishes. Jwizzle clanged it loudly and unceremoniously and my plea for chicken nuggets apparently went unheard.
The Sea Cross.
At this point, I had no idea where we were headed next. We were on the eastern edge of Miyazaki, traveling along wooded roads devoid of convenience stores or any other source of nourishment. A short drive from the Sea Cross took us to Umagase, where we could see the vertical rock formations of the cliffs reach out towards the sea. We followed the signs to two viewpoints, the last which took us down to a point overlooking the shore where we peered over the edge and watched the waves crash against the rocks. The view was incredible. I thought of meringue and Mallomars.
Umagase cliffs.
Umagase viewpoint.
Cape Hyuga.
Path up from the viewpoint.
A couple hours later, I learned there was a god as Jwizzle pulled into a McDonald’s and we ordered and inhaled 2,000 yen worth of food. I would regret it later as we watched South Africa beat Japan in the Rugby World Cup and the McDonald’s burps would plague me until, exhausted, we pulled into a service area to sleep for a few hours before finally making it back to the hotel. Once horizontal, I had a second to muse over the fact that Jwizzle somehow believed screwing with two entire country’s worth of people’s psychology wasn’t a punishment, and fell fast asleep.
TL;DR – I Just Want Travel Tips Section
- Get to Takachiho early. We arrived at 8:45 and still had to wait an hour; by late morning the boat rentals were done for the day and there was a 3+ hour wait. You can check the status of boat rentals here. If there’s been a stretch of heavy rain or bad weather, the boat rentals may not be available when you visit.
- Cape Hyuga (where the Sea Cross, Umagase, and Ryugo Udo Shrine are located) was relatively deserted when we went, but they’re worth a visit. You’ll want to rent a car to get to these spots.
Mt. Fuji is No Basic Bitch, or, How I Didn't Pee for 15 Hours
It is 3 a.m. and I am on a 45-degree slope that has lasted approximately five hours and won’t end. My thighs are wrung out and heavy. I have miraculously not yet lost my shit. Nor have I peed in the last five hours. I eventually will hold it in for a further ten.
That morning, the plan had been to climb Mt. Fuji via the Gotemba trial on the southeast side of the mountain. It’s the longest route to the top, with the trailhead located at 1400 meters above sea level, and it’s also the least popular. The ascent has been described as a “gentle” slope, which seemed more reassuring given that we would be climbing in the off-season, when the mountain and all the huts along the way are officially closed. With an unseasonably warm weekend coming up, it was our last chance to climb to the summit this year. Suddenly I was packing a bag with borrowed gear and pulling out my base layers. Because, how bad could it really be?
According to my parents, I was going to die. “Rocks will come flying at you,” my mother said. I wasn’t sure what that meant. “Bring your bike helmet,” she insisted.
This contradicted what I’d heard of Mt. Fuji: essentially, that it’s the basic bitch of mountains. Mt. Fuji is accessible enough from Tokyo to have become a tourist attraction; a heavily Instagram-ed, bucket list item that appears to be easily conquered by the “reasonably fit.” Online, the climb is described as a boring, non-technical ascent, almost like it could be done with a bottle of water and yoga pants.
That characterization is misleading. Temperatures at the summit can fall to below freezing, which is a terrifying concept if you’re the type of person who considers anything below 24C, “cold.” I layered almost every cold-weather item I had from commuting to law school on a bike through Boston winters, and borrowed an Arc’teryx coat from my mother. I looked like I was prepared to climb Everest. Come what may, I was at least dressed to survive.
Unfortunately, although I had realized that I could freeze to death, I failed to take into account several factors, such as the route being largely unmarked, the length of the trail, and the large elevation gain. We started our climb from the Gotemba fifth station at around 10:30 p.m., two hours later than planned, but figured we’d make good time on the trail.
“It better not be like this all the way up,” Jwizzle joked within the first half hour. I’d laughed in response. We would eat those words.
View from near the 8th station.
With one headlight between us and no trail markers, we would later learn that we’d veered off the trail onto a path for whatever tanks they use to climb the side of mountains. After an hour, we were climbing a 45-degree slope. After another three hours, the soft, volcanic sand had sucked the strength out of my legs. On a much-needed break, I sat back and stared at the stars, which speckled the sky in varying degrees of brightness, like how I imagine my skin looks if examined under those skin analysis machines that show you exactly how shitty your complexion is. I kinda needed to pee.
The thing is, we were essentially in Mordor. There is no cover on Mt Fuji. It’s a barren landscape of volcanic ash and the occasional rock that is no bigger than a medium-sized dog. Ascended in the dark, every marker pole becomes a promise of some sort of turning point, before reality sets in and it breaks your soul. And then there’s the dust. Frodo may have been traveling with an anorexic suffering from a personality disorder, but at least he didn’t have volcanic ash blowing into his face the entire way.
By the time I started questioning whether I was going to get black lung, turning back wasn’t an option. We were still battling towards the 8th station when the sun came up, stretching its rays across the lakes below. The light gave me a little boost of hope and optimism. It lasted about five minutes before my legs were back to screaming and I was deliriously chanting the chorus to Joe Dassin’s “Les Champs-Elysees” in my head.
Luckily, whatever path we were on intersected the real trail near the 8th station. The landscape changed from Mordor to Mars, the soft sand turning into large volcanic rocks and puddles of pebbles, the trail now a sadistic scribble of switchbacks. I heaved myself over unstable rocks, running on fumes and determination. That French chorus quickly became my only companion as I started to seriously lag behind. Every few switchbacks, I could see Jwizzle waiting for me to catch up.
“You don’t have to wait,” I gasped unconvincingly, “I’ll be fine.”
It only dawned on me later that he was most likely waiting because he didn’t want a dead body – or the responsibility of being associated with one found on the side of a mountain – impeding his descent. At this point, although there were large enough rocks to sneak behind to pee, we started to see other hikers, both above and below us. This was enough of a deterrent; the last thing I wanted to do was to subject several Japanese mountain climbers to the sight of my bare butt. It was also cold. Cold enough that I didn’t know if I’d be able to warm up again if I exposed more than my face to the elements. I checked in with my bladder and reassessed my priorities. Peeing could wait.
We reached the summit a long, hard five hours after arriving at the 8th station. Near the rim of that volcanic crater, we ate a snack and I curled up against my backpack. I closed my eyes ready to jump into unconsciousness, fully aware that this is most likely how people die of exposure and/or freeze to death. I wondered where the helicopter would land to pick up my dead body.
The Torii gate at the summit.
I felt a small pang in my gut and I opened my eyes. I was okay with the embarrassment of dying on the side of a mountain, but the idea of being found dead in a puddle of my own urine roused me from any chance of sleep/death. Because if I had to go, I’d strongly prefer it wasn’t with a full bladder. I drummed my fists against my dead thighs and prepared to get off the mountain.
Since we had wandered down the scenic route, it had taken us a total of twelve hours to climb to the top. It would take us a laughably easy three to descent. Once we scrambled down the web of switchbacks, the rest of the route is made of deep, soft volcanic sand that’s referred to as “the sand slide.” We were able to almost jog down, the sand cushioning the impact you’d usually feel on the walk down a mountainside. Back at the trailhead, I made a beeline for a bathroom that smelled like a damp corner of Paris in the summer. It was probably worse than the alternative, but at least I didn’t have to worry about volcanic sand getting into my underwear.
A couple hours later, I emptied about four tablespoons of ash and small rocks from my shoes into a hotel trashcan. After a shower I only got out of so I could lie down, I dozed off to Japan stunning the world by beating Ireland in the Rugby World Cup, and dreamed of toilets.
[Some of the photographs in this post were taken with an expired disposable film camera.]
Rugby World Cup 2019: Blaine Scully
TRY TRY TRYYY!!!
Subject: Captain of the U.S. national rugby team Blaine Scully
Materials used: chocolate chip cookie crumbs
*Inspired in part by the Yomitan Beach Boys, a rugby football union team in Okinawa made up of American civilians and active military service members. Check them out on Facebook and get in touch if you’re interested in being a sponsor!
Search and State Artist in Residence
Last month, Search and State - a New York City-based cycling apparel company that makes the kind of jerseys I used to dream of - were kind enough to ask whether I’d be interested in creating a postcard for them as part of a monthly Artist in Residence series. The postcards will be included in select packages later this month.
Check out their products and a write up about me here.
A big thank you to Search and State for including me in this project. This was so much fun to do!