diarrhea happens

9.30 a.m. – My sister and her girlfriend leave for the airport after two weeks of eating their way through Tokyo. [Pictured: my sister. She eats dessert multiple times a day. I cannot believe the bitch is like 95lbs soaking wet.]

11.00 a.m. – My Mom is holed up in her room with the door closed. Email my sister: “Thanks for visiting. Mom is now in some depressed stupor.”
2.00 p.m. – Map out how to get to a new [to me] bike shop to pick up some gloves. Realize that it’s right in the middle of Ameyoko [short for America yokocho, which literally translates into “America alley.” Post WWII, the area beneath the Okachimachi train tracks served as a black market for American products. By the time my mother was in elementary school, the area was no longer limited to illegal products and she has fond memories of getting chocolate and exotic, Western candy there. The area has expanded since then, turning into an open air market encompassing three streets, all selling cheap clothes, dried fruit, herbs, canned goods, fresh fish, and candy. ]. Wander around in denial that I’m kind of lost.

2.15 p.m. – Corner a middle-aged man locking up a pretty Look and ask for directions. He gives me what sound like decent directions.
2.20 p.m. – That guy was totally wrong because I find the store – Art Sports Annex – on the way to wherever he was telling me to go. Or maybe he was right. In any case, success!

2.23 p.m. – Scamper up three flights of stairs. Find and buy gloves. Look around the store. Holy shit, this is roadie heaven…and this is only one floor...!
2.30 p.m. – Mid-lusting after some new [white!] Sidis, start talking about ride routes with the super nice sales guy. I’m still bundled up in a jacket and scarf; upper lip starts sweating [gross, I know]. Wonder about protocol on this one while trying to speak in Japanese and think in English [this doesn't help the sweat situation].

2.45 p.m. – Am told that not many people go looking for mountain passes to climb, women even less so. This makes my day, despite the fact that I’ve been too busy eating to ride my bike for the past two—okay, okay, three weeks. Reluctantly leave because I have no money to spend.
3.45 p.m. – Home again, my Mom is still in her darkened room. Feel slightly bitter because hi, I’m her daughter too.
5.00 p.m. – Find out my Mom has Norovirus, not depression. Email my sister: “Never mind, she just has diarrhea!”
6.30 p.m. – My Dad comes home, goes to check on my Mom.

6.32 p.m. – My Dad steps in dog pee. Walk into the room to find my Dad flailing around with one foot planted in place. Imagine a 60-something Japanese man in a suit and black wool overcoat playing Twister and it’s a pretty accurate mental image.
6.35 p.m. – Clean up dog pee.
6.45 p.m. – Start heating up random stuff for dinner. Promptly drop a plateful of food and watch it shatter all over the kitchen floor.
6.46 p.m. – Clean up bits of glass and food while trying to keep my dog away from both. This is accomplished mostly by staying in Bird Dog Pose.
7.10 p.m. – Eat dinner.
8.30 p.m. – Eat too many prunes [I love prunes, okay? Love. Even if my intestines don’t].
11.00 p.m. – It’s been a long day. PTFO [“pass the fuck out”].

coffee excursions: little nap coffee stand

When Kyle told me he was coming for a visit last month [it’s been nearly a month, since!], he remained stubbornly vague about his past year in L.A. A good thing, maybe, because between bike shop visits, sushi, and burgers [yes, we did all three in the same day], we also had our fair share of coffee to sip. And stories – especially with friends – is always better over something slightly less than scorching and abundantly well-caffeinated.

And while I was supposed to [mostly] guide the way, Kyle came prepared with a recommendation via his girlfriend; a casual mention of a tiny café tucked away on the far side of Yoyogi park. We walked there on Kyle’s third day here, and found a simple exterior with a door handle wrapped in bar wrap. And much like the girl with an awesome sense of style and quiet charisma that you inexplicably find attractively inviting, I liked it already. I wanted to like it more as I slid open the door. But even I was surprised when, inside the small space complete with worn wooden floors and counters and touches of retro Americana, Little Nap Coffee Stand served up possibly the best Americano I’ve tasted in Tokyo.

The minute attention to detail at Little Nap Coffee Stand – though not unusual for smaller businesses in Tokyo – is distinctive due to its subtlety. A selection of baked goods neatly lined the counter beside the usual extras [simple syrup, sugar, etc.], primped and waiting patiently for hungrier customers. Straws were displayed in a vintage plastic container, a large world map and retro stickers playing up the comfortably worn vibe. Our beverages were served in cups that were attractive in their simplicity; the slightly mismatched furniture adding further to the café’s charm.

We swapped life news [as all friends should over coffee] at the front counter facing the street in the otherwise empty space. A young couple drove up, a small child tucked into the backseat, and upon seeing us at the window, waved hello. The reception was unusual and I glanced for a second in quick panic at Kyle before recalling that this was normal behavior in all great coffee shops. They came through the door with happy smiles as if we all hadn’t seen each other in too long and we sipped our coffee, smiled, waved, and said hello to their small daughter.
It was an awesome start to the day.

tracked escape

One of my favorite books of all time is Bill Barich’s “Laughing in the Hills.” A memoir of time spent at the race track following the death of his mother, Barich recounts the experience of watching and playing the horses, layered against memories of more carefree times spent in Italy. Lorenzo de Medici mixes in amongst the colorful characters at the track as Barich plunges into a world ruled by the Form, bets and sleek, beautiful horses.
And as he struggles to define and obtain the experience he was searching for, Barich wrote:

“…I sat on the steps and thought about the Unknown and realized I was pushing at the track, still trying too hard. My disappointment came from expectations, from proposing a shape for the experience I was seeking and then feeling let down when the experience arrived in a shape other than the one I’d proposed.”


I thought of Barich as I stood yesterday looking for that elusive experience – one which I could fail, successfully, to expect – in the more unlikely of places: the Tachikawa Keirin track.

Though my nationality, adoration of a track bike, and the accessibility of keirin racing in Japan may indicate otherwise, I always felt hesitant about spectating at the keirin track. Legalized betting has turned the sport into a game of gambling populated by middle-aged men dressed in old windbreakers with weathered skin and cigarettes, a keirin sheet riddled with odds tucked under an arm. And though I was extrapolating the stereotype, I had seen enough of the pari-mutuel betting crowd [albeit of the horse-racing kind] in Japan to understand that dropping by the keirin track would be somewhat uncomfortable as a non-smoking, non-gambling woman under 50.
But with the recent popularity of track bikes in Tokyo, I told myself I was being silly. It couldn’t be that bad. And this fear based on mere assumptions was both stupid and a product of being unjustifiably judgmental. All traits I was trying to avoid in 2012.

So I caught a train early yesterday morning and headed towards the track. A glaring anomaly, I waited in line for a “special seat,” amongst middle-aged men gripping their red pens and keirin forms. Smoke got exhaled through stained teeth – sometimes gold-capped, other times missing entirely – between barking laughs, hawking spit, and loud conversations. I edged forward with the masculine crowd, gaining a few stunned looks, and glancing up at the screens displaying available seats, purchased a front row seat in the main stand. 500yen bought me a sun-soaked view of the start and finish complete with a desk, TV monitor, and a plastic stand for all my betting forms. Another 50yen gained me entrance into the track, and I was suddenly deep inside a world that is unlike any I’ve ever seen before.

Inside, the courtyard was already busy with voices and eager eyes turned towards the multitude of TV screens displaying the odds for each rider in each race. The TV screens looked like colorful versions of arrival and departure displays seen at airports, but here they seemed to impart some foreign secrets to the floods of men gathering beneath them. Spectators stood at small counters, filling out betting forms that resembled lottery tickets. Finding a women’s room, I hurried into it, determined that I had to pee when in reality I only wanted to be in a place where vaginas were welcome [I did find, later, a “Women’s Only Room” with some cardboard riders and a pretty Look inside]. My relief proved premature as I saw the sign posted just inside the bathroom stall: “If you are a victim of your partner’s domestic violence…” As if playing up the stereotype, the sign urged me to slip the informational card into my bag before exiting the stall to return to my [surely] abusive significant other who will no doubt beat me after a bad day at the track. I decided to find my seat.

Though the sun was glaring enough to induce between-boob-sweat [I had a few layers on, okay?], my vantage point [main stand, second floor, non-smoking] couldn’t be beat. The track lay before me, a beautiful 400 meters around; banked just so and seemingly as smooth as butter. Nine riders emerged from the far side of the track, rode to the start and bowed before mounting gorgeous steel track bikes. They sprung free at the sound of a pistol and spun five laps around, each attack and sprint making everyone inhale in anticipation or exhale in disgust. Critical murmurs rippled through the room as men checked off odds, calculated trifectas, and prepared to place another bet.

The heat and my sweat propelled me out of the main stand and into the general outdoor seating area. Hundreds of people weaved back and forth between TV screens and betting booths. Men sat on benches or nudged each other, pointing at odds, the ground littered with torn up betting slips. I wandered around the courtyard, between two long aisles of betting booths and the track, before parking myself by the start line. Two more minutes to place bets for the next race.
“Sakamoto, you got this one. Definite win!”
“Hey, win this one for us!”

The shouting [which I had oddly expected in the enclosed main stand] was in full force near the track as riders lined up to take their places. The riders mutely stretched, taking deep breaths before gripping the drops. The pistol went off and they lurched forwards, paced by a man dressed in purple and yellow. The colorful jerseys fell into line for two laps before Sakamoto, an Olympic hopeful, dressed in black, attacked on the third lap.
Cries went up; shouts of disgust. The man in black couldn’t hold onto his lead and another rider powered up, squeezing out the power that he’d reserved for the last sprint. And as Sakamoto crossed the finish line in 5th or 6th place, the men around me began to jeer:
“You idiot!”
“Just quit! Quit!”
“The Olympics?! The only thing you have is that you’re young! BUT YOU’RE DUMB TOO.”
The riders mutely returned to the changing area as the new group of riders spun around the track, and the men called out in more honeyed tones:
“Hey hey, I need you to win this one.”
I couldn’t help but smile, thinking that between the smoothly silent bikes, the colorful jerseys, and my dropped expectations, perhaps I had found my perfect escape.
[More pictures here.]

guiding the way to cycle salon uehara

“Are you a good guide?”
The question came after I casually mentioned a friend should visit me in Tokyo. I automatically replied that I was, going so far as to say, “yeah, of course.” Upon five seconds of reflection, I realized that I am, in fact, quite the opposite. I backtracked a little, gave about a thousand qualifying statements, and finished off with something lame along the lines of, “well, I’ll be a good guide by the time you visit.” Small wonder that particular friend has yet to make any plans to come to Tokyo.
But ignorant of my ignorance, Kyle dropped me an email a few months ago informing me of a visit. A definite one. And with no time to actually become a “good guide,” I compiled a list of places that I’d been meaning to check out but never got around to, put my faith in Google Maps, and told Kyle that yes, yes, I could take him on a tour of Tokyo.
He quickly found out that other than my usual coffee haunts, I am terrible at taking people around my own hometown. And secretly aware of my lack of direction and knowledge, I attempted to make up for it by directing Kyle first to a bike shop whose website I had stumbled on months ago. A uniquely Japanese one with piles and piles of vintage parts. I decided I would alter/completely overhaul the planned itinerary depending on Kyle’s reaction to Cycle Salon Uehara.

Given that I was involved in the process, we got as turned as the map we passed back and forth between us before finally finding our way to this hidden collector’s gem of a bike shop. Nestled in among lunch spots colorfully advertising deals of the day was a smart, old-fashioned store front, a red heart-shaped sign contrasting sharply against the worn wooden doors. Two cyclists – one road, one track – heads down and suffering, adorned the simple door. We had arrived.

It’s the kind of place where the owner lives upstairs and the sliding door makes that satisfying dry rolling sound [with a slightly squeak] that you thought was near obsolete in modern day Tokyo. And typically, it’s also the kind of place where you roll back the door and call out a hello, which rouses feet to descend a close staircase. A small, elderly man peered at us around the corner, as we stepped inside, and gaped.

Primarily selling custom bikes [made domestically], the shop is cramped and tight. But the display of derailleurs, brakes, quill stems, pedals, hubs, seatposts, and other components is simply amazing. 90% of the display is part of a personal collection [and thus not for sale], but the history in that small space is overwhelming. Pictures hang near the ceiling, pressed against the wall where frames and wheels aren’t likely to scratch them, and their dated appearance reinforced my naiveté. There’s a lot packed into that shop, and I realized I couldn’t even pretend to comprehend half of what I saw there.

We gasped and pointed as the owner looked on. I managed to ask some simple questions as he kindly nodded his thanks at our combined astonishment. After going shutter happy on every bike-related item in the shop, we thanked the owner for his time and walked out of that sliding wooden door, back into the busy street quickly filling with office workers hunting down their respective lunches. Back to 2011 and reality.
“Wow,” Kyle said. I could only wholeheartedly agree.
[Better pictures here.]