One More Day Everywhere

by Heggstad, Glen

  Even my departure is awkward — an around-the-world motorcycle ride that begins by flying on a jet to Japan? For a mission so well planned, I am already a month behind schedule, needing to beat seasonal turbulence of monsoon rains, frozen mountain passes and fiery desert heat. July is the warmest time of year to navigate Siberia, but there will be winter snows in November crossing into Iran from Turkey’s rugged Anatolian Plateau. That’s if the Iranian government grants me a transit visa. Because of an unpopular foreign policy and the seemingly endless war in Iraq, Americans are suspect in the Middle East for now, but who knows, maybe peace will break out by then.

  To cross some international borders with a private vehicle, a special legal document is required to guarantee the vehicle will not be sold there to circumvent local import tariffs. For a fee backed by a credit card, the Canadian Automobile Association (CAA) issues a carnet de passage that guarantees, if the vehicle is not exported on time, they are responsible for taxes owed. When forwarding this motorcycle-passport, the CAA included a warning list of countries to avoid because of civil unrest, human rights violations, or imminent evacuation of U.S. citizens. Most of those on the list are ones I want to visit or at least will need to cross. But my optimistic belief is that people will differentiate between citizens and governments. I am betting my life on that.

  The odds favor disaster on a journey this long, but the most relentless threat is traffic. Poorly maintained roads, if they even exist, are plagued with unskilled hordes of kamikaze drivers convinced that size does matter, and two-wheeled vehicles don’t. ABS brakes, a bright yellow helmet and a shiny red riding suit help balance the scales. The word “reliability” takes on new meaning, knowing that mechanical failure during a mountain snowstorm or running out of fuel in a remote desert carry dire consequences.

  Selecting the ultimate motorized companion involved a series of careful tradeoffs. American built, powerful Harley-Davidsons are too bulky and heavy, so the critical decision came down to proven Japanese performance and dependability versus German engineering for better handling. For its endurance record, both in on- and off-road riding, BMW’s dual-sport 650 Dakar reigned supreme. My judo students, Jimmy, Paul and Donal, were also the dedicated team of mechanics who spent a hundred shop hours prepping the two-wheeled Blue Beast. Half the bike had to be disassembled to install Touratech long-range gas tanks and off-road suspension, but now there is a 700-mile fuel range and proper maneuverability for an overloaded motorcycle. Every upgrade counts, from wider foot pegs for stand-up riding in rough terrain to powerful auxiliary driving lights for when I’m caught out after dark. Modified electronics will accommodate an electrically heated vest, GPS and Jimmy’s secret security gear.

  Nothing works the first time. Just changing the handlebars and installing risers for better reach meant hours of machine work to make aftermarket aluminum hand-guards fit. You can’t take a ride this long without going down — the bike and the rider must be able to contend with varying degrees of impact. In most regions ahead, there are no motorcycle repair shops or medical trauma centers serviced by emergency helicopters. One of the downsides to traveling alone is that I am on my own during a crisis. There is no margin for error.

  My equipment is new, but road-testing was limited to scenarios I could only imagine from studying National Geographic photographs — there are bound to be failures. My padded riding suit is made with space-age plastic fabrics that glow in the dark and melt slower during high-speed slides across asphalt. Knee, elbow and spinal areas have built-in shock-absorbing rubber pads for crash-related collisions. The problem is that it’s uncomfortable to wear in warm temperatures, but I’ve made a promise to myself not to ride without it, even when crossing deserts.

  THE FAR EAST

  Home to Japan

  July 5, 2004

  Over the Pacific

  At 30,000 feet, it is hard to doze inside a humming aluminum missile hurtling across the sky at an even 550 miles per hour. As cheap plastic headphones blare along with a synchronized overhead video, flight attendants pass out Japanese newspapers. Although the Asian dancers lack rhythm, they attempt American musical ghetto talk in comical accents while awkwardly mimicking street-gangster hand gestures. I wonder what their conservative family elders think about these popular Western antics that conflict with their ancient belief in restrained and disciplined behavior.

  On the horizon, Mount Fuji slowly protrudes like a massive cone-shaped sentinel guarding an elongated, overcrowded island. Japan is my spiritual home. For 25 years, I’ve studied martial arts refined by devout Japanese masters who wrote the rules centuries ago. Their images tumble within my consciousness as distant gongs reverberate with recollections of harsh discipline and spiritual awakening. I am one with the Japanese. Their methods and creeds ring true. Bushido, the code of the samurai — the Ways of the Warrior — are laws of integrity and discipline as well as respect for nature. In love or war, it’s total focus on the task at hand. There is no gray area; either you have honor or you don’t. Emotionless years of training through blood and sweat are tributes to the sensei. Nothing less is expected.

  Flashbacks of polished wooden floors as tight as the surface of a drum appear. The only sounds then were pivoting feet squeaking while bodies gracefully spun through the air upside down, slamming onto mats of straw. Judo, karate and jujitsu are studies of redirected force — techniques that become a way of living. Intricate ballets of battle honed through hand-to-hand combat, broken bones and torn cartilage all form our disciplined dance of life. The martial arts command my spirit; there is no other way.

  In a few hours, I’ll roll across the surface of this gentle land for a pilgrimage into my past. I feel welcome here. Whether they like you or not, the Japanese are always polite. If lost, travelers don’t need to ask for directions. While you’re bumbling around deciphering maps, someone wanting to practice English invariably comes to the rescue, pointing the way. Fellow bikers are even more accommodating. Interesting news travels fast. Internet-savvy Japanese world riders heard reports of an invading American wanderer, and, even before my arriving in Tokyo, they had emailed me an invitation to a weekend outing. They are waiting to tempt me with countryside cruising and bottles of sinus-clearing sake.

  Japanese friends who had also ridden motorcycles around the world

  The Vikings Arrive

  July 10, 2004

  Tokyo, Japan

  After a long, annoying wait at airport immigration, clearing myself and the motorcycle was simple. Having paid a customs broker 50 bucks to handle the complex importation procedure, my only job was to uncrate the Blue Beast and reinstall the windshield and front wheel. Within two hours, I was navigating a sophisticated maze of modern concrete roadways toward a particular hotel in downtown Tokyo. Despite driving after dark on the opposite side of the road and with few signs in English, I rendezvoused with my cousin Kjell from Norway who arrived on business the same day. We both feel better having said goodbye face-to-face.

  My first call home to Jodie temporarily relieves an aching loneliness that is certain to grow worse. Her sweet voice pours like honey through the phone as we reassure each other that our planned reunion in India is only eight months away. Soothed but not convinced, I know that every mile deeper into this journey will push me emotionally farther away from this woman I love. Keeping busy by looking forward makes me forget about the burning bridge.

  This afternoon, I’ll meet with Japanese bikers for a weekend of camping and sightseeing. After many phone calls, I manage to obtain a transit reservation on a boat leaving for Russia this Friday from the other side of the island. Vladivostok, Siberia, is a mere two-day sail but a civilization away, and I twitch under the anticipation of actually beginning this adventure. Lounging in a modern hotel with TV and running water has, so far, made this journey seem awkward. I can’t stop thinking of what lies ahead.

  Temperatures have been a hundred degrees with high hum
idity all week, a test of my pledge to wear the heavy-duty riding suit. All my equipment checked out, but the rear mono-shock required adjustments to balance the excessive load I was carrying. Still, that was not enough, so I dumped 10 pounds of extra supplies that weren’t worth hauling at the cost of stability. To keep weight low, the spare drive chain fits perfectly between the engine bottom and skid plate. Since traffic is the biggest safety threat in foreign lands, better bike handling is critical, but practice begins in the most organized city on earth.

  The streets and walkways of Tokyo morph into scenes out of science fiction. Surrealistic streams of short, black-haired men dressed in identical business suits clutching brown leather briefcases file from tall, faceless concrete buildings and underground tunnels with slender, ivory-skinned women clad in tight-fitting dark slacks sprinkled in as reminders of how they reproduce. Every act is prearranged with Japanese logic. Japan is a spotless, pragmatic island where everything makes sense. There’re no used cars, old clothes or people dressed out of fashion. Supermarket fruit is the ideal color, never under- or overripe. With no apparent time for relaxation, there is purpose in every step of the people’s overstressed lives. Business dominates, and the Japanese communicate so fanatically that there are now signs in subway cars ordering people not to use cell phones. Never mind — those sitting are busy on their laptops.

  Japanese live for planning and discipline — theirs is an orderly, near crimeless society in which, at least superficially, they respect everyone. Enter foreigners — gaijin, the barbarians. Many wealthy Japanese businessmen will not socialize with inferior gaijin and there are signs posted at upscale nightclub entrances — Japanese Only. Being born here will not make you Japanese either, not even if you’re Asian. Recently, a 60-year-old former Japanese man had his citizenship revoked by the courts after his father, a Korean, admitted to fathering him with a Japanese woman.

  Gaijin

  July 11, 2004

  Atsugi, Japan

  After riding in circles exiting the labyrinth of high-tech Tokyo, I was an hour late for my meeting at a designated entrance to the Toumei Expressway. I’d guessed that reaching the toll plaza 40 miles outside Tokyo by 3:00 p.m. was a long shot. Fellow world riders would surely be waiting for their blundering American counterpart. As in Mexico, expressways here are expensive but convenient and hard to get lost on. Destinations are noted in English below Japanese characters, so if you’re paying attention it’s easy to determine where you are.

  After I apologized for being late, my host assured me it was “No ploblem,” and we rode into miles of steaming gridlock to pick up Kiki’s wife and her bike and head for the campground. Once past rows of soaring futuristic skyscrapers, the countryside blooms into mountains of rich pine forests and meandering mountain streams. A narrow, swirling asphalt road flows through still villages of blue-tile-roofed houses shaped with traditional upturned corners. Finely crafted wooden structures architecturally designed with nature in mind blend into hillsides and stunning green meadows. The marvel of Asia never falters.

  A dozen globe-riding veterans gathered at this crystal clear river for a weekend of camaraderie and inspirational tale-swapping. The first question: “So Glen-San, do you miss your ranch?” A respectful signal that they had done their homework and read my website journals. Most of them speak some English, but I recall only a few phrases in Japanese. Since we’d all toured Latin America, our common tongue was Spanish. Around a smoky campfire, we sampled dried fruits, salted fish and sizzling, sweet chicken teriyaki sticks. As the sake flowed, late-night conversations drifted between languages, punctuated by “Ah so!” There is little to say that we don’t already feel — a kinship of adventurers born to follow our spirits.

  Close to midnight the sake bites hard and, combined with jet lag, I fade early before my mild spins turn to wild spins. Yet my energetic hosts ramble until dawn, mixing beer and “Japanese whiskey” with wild tales of their common passion — motorcycling.

  At sunrise the anxious crew is awake and planning the day. “Ah Glen-San, you like-a see Mount Fuji and take mineral bath? We musta go wery soon.” While trying to appear ready for anything, I stumble toward the cement-block bathroom with an aching head and strained neck muscles after passing out and using my boots as a pillow. Once outside Tokyo there are few foreigners and only Japanese is understood. Bleary-eyed in a bulky nylon riding suit and towering above curious black-headed natives, they peek out from vans and trailers gawking as though a Martian has landed in their orderly midst. A startled audience hears me bellow, “Koh neechy wah!” (Good day!) with a failed attempt to conceal a belch. The unruly barbarian has arrived.

  Snags

  July 13, 2004

  Outside Tokyo, Japan

  After only a week on the road, my first casualty is a broken kickstand. For increased ground clearance, this motorcycle was designed without a center stand, a handy tool for raising the bike to change tires and lube the chain. Normally it’s easy to tilt the bike over onto the kickstand high enough to sweep a rock underneath and then pull it upright to balance the rear wheel off the ground. It’s a simple move on lighter bikes, but with 200 pounds of extra equipment and fuel, today the hollow support tube buckled.

  A loud crack before the kickstand bent in half afforded the split-second needed to catch the bike before it tipped over. Now what? Even simple problems in Japan are community affairs that require lengthy discussion considering all options. After leaning the motorcycle against a tree, a conference begins, prompting the first of several long winded telephone calls. After the third, I ask, “So what did they say?” The answer: “Wrong number.”

  Hours of conversation with BMW representatives reveals the best solution is to order a new kickstand from a local dealer. This means a two-day wait for something that takes five minutes to install. Yet such delays can be part of the adventure, and once we find a decent hotel my companions depart for home, leaving me to sort out communications. Whomever I ask insists that there are no Internet cafes outside major cities, but the motorcycle shop owner lets me use his computer to check email and upload a website journal. After nine days in Japan, I am finally alone.

  After showering and donning a button-down shirt, I peer into a 10-seater sushi bar. At 8:00 p.m., it’s packed with a raucous crowd, but the beer-guzzling diners call to come in anyway, they will make room for an alien. Gaijin is welcome for entertainment. In an attempt to be casual, I nod with a smile, mumbling “Kon bon wah.” (Good evening.) Curious looks erupt into broad grins and friendly laughter as the interrogation begins. They know as much English as I do Japanese, but while I pantomime the story of my adventure, their jabbering amazement subsides into solemn appreciation. Japanese respect ambition.

  Next comes the ritual of exchange of business cards — a serious moment in Japan. They don’t take them to quickly stuff in their pocket, that would be rude. Instead, cards are accepted with both hands as a sign of respect and then studied. After discovering I teach Japanese martial arts, they offer enthusiastic applause as though I am expected to demonstrate. Without ordering, the chef produces a sushi plate reserved for guests of honor. He “maka special for Gren Sensei.” Later the owner, with both hands, presents a gift wrapped in rice paper — a porcelain cup with painted pictures of different sushi. It should last a day bouncing inside the aluminum saddlebags, but I accept it with both hands and a bow.

  Getting Naked

  July 14, 2004

  Kanazawa, Japan

  On weekends, on the backcountry roads of Japan, motorcycles outnumber cars, spinning through the curves of narrow lanes that slice across gentle farmland. Sporadic squalls have little effect as motorists continue puttering across narrow wooden bridges that only allow one yielding vehicle at a time. This is two-wheeled heaven. Outside cities, the mountains are too steep to build houses or roads, so much of this island remains pristine wilderness. But determined drivers are able to reach distant destinations quickly if
they’re willing to spend the money. Tokyo toll roads can deliver a fast-moving rider anywhere on the island in one long day. Hotels, although more expensive than in Latin America, offer great services. Internet costs five dollars an hour, most hotels provide free DSL you can access if you have your own laptop, television and air-conditioning. In the mornings, they offer opulent buffet breakfasts simply called “Viking.” Space is scarce in Japan so rooms are low-ceilinged cubicles with barely enough room to step by my bags, and most doorways require stooping to pass.

  Japanese are the ultimate gadget freaks, with the edge on everyone. Their latest technology will not reach the outside world for another year while it’s test-marketed here. Rejuvenating electronic foot massagers deliver divine bliss, while automated toilets shoot warm streams of water wherever desired. Bathroom mirrors contain heating elements at face level so after showering there is always a clear spot. For those wanting to see naked girls, there are pay-per-view dirty movies with subservient Japanese babes being violated by well-endowed, burly black men.

  Red-light districts awaken at sundown with flashing pictures of what goes on behind thick-curtained, black velvet entrances. Doormen in shiny black business suits with slicked-back hair utter warnings behind mirrored sunglasses — no gaijin allowed. Working in front of nightclubs, tall, blue-eyed Eastern European blondes in long sparkling gowns turn their backs as I approach. These slender young beauties can’t risk conversation with gaijin because disapproving Japanese clients will think they also service white men.