Kohsuke Kawaguchi

Michinoku ride

Thu, 04 Jun 2026 00:00:00 -0700

Recently, I left my job. It was early summer. It didn’t take me long to decide that I wanted to grab my bike and just go. I was pretty sure that no matter where I headed, the journey would be unforgettable. So, I decided to ride north, toward Michinoku — the ancient, poetic name for Japan’s northeastern backwoods.

This is the overview map for my journey. The red line is the route, the pins point to the daily posts, and the photo markers open snapshots from along the way.

Michinoku ride (Day 5): Gorges, golden hall, & golden hour

Wed, 03 Jun 2026 00:00:00 -0700

(If you missed the introduction, you should start here.)

Leaving a budget beef-bowl diner packed with exhausted young people who looked like they had pulled an all-nighter, I began pedaling north alongside the great river. My journey through Michinoku, the North, has always been tethered to water. I’ve heard that back in the feudal era, massive engineering projects permanently fixed this river’s path to this particular mountain-bound route. These monumental public works are what transformed the vast plains into a fertile, powerhouse rice-producing region. How on earth did they pull off such massive earth-moving projects in an era without mechanical engines? If I researched the mechanics behind it, I’m certain it would be a fascinating rabbit hole.

Regardless of the past, right now, this place is completely devoid of human presence. The only sounds are the gentle chirping of birds and the occasional splash of a fish breaking the water’s surface. It is a quiet, sacred early morning hour. The blue sky feels endlessly massive today. It’s an absolute perfect day for a bicycle ride.

I drifted past tiny rural settlements, one after another. An empty local bus overtook me on its first run of the day.

At this point, the road finally severed ties with the river and veered inland. The GPS screen delivered a brutal instruction: Go straight along this road for the next 40 kilometers. What is it about that specific notification on a cycle computer that induces such a profound sense of despair? To make matters worse, a dull ache had flared up in my left thigh, my saddle placement felt painful, and even a gentle, rolling hill—the kind I would normally attack and crush with a burst of speed—became a grueling, slow-motion struggle. This stretch was the mental and physical low point of the day.

Desperate for a break, I collapsed onto a bench inside a tiny roadside bus shelter to eat an onigiri. Having spent days entirely exposed to the vastness, this small, basic structure enclosed by three walls provided a bizarrely comforting, deeply peaceful sanctuary.

Reaching a sleepy town, I intentionally deviated from the main bypass to trace a historic old highway cutting through the town center. The narrow road cranked sharply at two consecutive right angles—a classic defensive urban layout characteristic of ancient samurai-era post towns. Just a stone’s throw from the local station, I spotted a tiny traditional sweet shop. Looking to recharge, I stepped inside and called out, prompting a kind older woman to emerge from the back kitchen.

When I selected a pastry and mentioned I’d like to eat it on the spot, she went out of her way to brew a fresh cup of green tea for me. When she discovered I had ridden all the way from Yokohama on a bicycle, she let out a volley of gasps and genuine surprise. And when I casually added that I actually live in the United States, her bewilderment completely broke the scale.

It reminded me that connecting with someone entirely outside your daily sphere of reality is a universally joyful experience. In retrospect, her genuine, enthusiastic curiosity made me open up and chatter away. Being a master listener who makes the speaker feel incredibly interesting is a truly beautiful talent. She even stepped outside to admire my road bike. The way her speech would occasionally slip into the rich, warm local dialect was absolutely charming.

The next stretch brought the steepest climb of the day. Objectively, it was a rather modest hill—a mere 80 meters of elevation gain. But with the looming anxiety over my compromised left thigh, I approached it with the sheer mental grit and trepidation usually reserved for an 800-meter alpine peak.

Yet, perhaps thanks to the restorative magic of that sweet shop pitstop, I scaled it with surprising ease. It made me realize that this is exactly how human beings build self-confidence: by steadily overcoming small adversities, one by one. I chose not to fight the wind or the incline. I completely forgot about my speedometer, locked into a steady, unyielding cadence, and kept the load on my legs perfectly constant. Even when the conditions turn hostile, if you stubbornly protect your own pace, you can weather any storm. Resilience is a profound form of strength. There is so much that sports can teach us about life.

Glancing up, I noticed the logo on the bus stop signs had seamlessly changed again, indicating I had officially crossed the administrative border into the next prefecture. Just days ago, I was navigating the transit lines of a completely different region!

Since I was ahead of schedule—and with my spirits thoroughly recharged—I decided to take an impromptu detour. I turned west and climbed about 7 kilometers up into the hills to visit a famous scenic gorge. It was a surreal, jarring landscape: right in the middle of a completely ordinary, quiet town, a raw torrent of ethereal, mountain-fresh water surged through a jagged chasm. The water was a milky, swirling cerulean blue, kicking up dramatic white spray as it hammered against the steep rock formations. Microscopic rock dust ground down by the glacial currents likely creates this surreal hue, but the sheer vividness of the color was astounding. The stark contrast against the dark, weathered rock face was breathtaking.

Doubling back from the gorge, I finally rolled into the official climax of this entire journey: the historic valley of Hiraizumi. My first stop was a magnificent World Heritage temple complex, which the ancient northern lords had painstakingly engineered to be a physical, earthly manifestation of the Buddhist Pure Land—a literal paradise on earth. Today, only the stone foundations and the sweeping lines of a massive sacred pond remain, the grand wooden halls long since lost to history.

Standing there, living nearly a millennium into their future, the landscape felt less like a paradise and more like a profound monument to the fleeting, fragile nature of human ambition.

It made me wonder: will the glittering metropolises of our modern era—places like Dubai, which boast of unprecedented wealth and luxury—end up as nothing more than barren archaeological ruins a millennium from now, evoking a similar sense of melancholic transience in future travelers? Perhaps abandoned due to the ravages of climate change, or hollowed out by conflict. My imagination ran wild.

The northern lords had a grand, visionary ideal: to heal a nation devastated by civil war and offer universal salvation to all living souls through the power of Buddhist philosophy. There is a deep, striking irony in the fact that their utter destruction by the central government is precisely what rendered their grand ideal immortal. I wonder if Dubai collapses into dust, will it leave behind any immortal spiritual ideal that transcends its physical structures? To be completely honest, I felt absolutely no such spirituality when I visited that city.

And then, I stepped inside the fabled Golden Hall. The structure itself is remarkably compact, but that miniature scale is precisely what concentrates its overwhelming power. Clad entirely in shimmering gold leaf, inlaid with iridescent mother-of-pearl that glows with the colors of the rainbow, and packed with intricate statues and delicate carvings, it stands as an undeniable, jaw-dropping testament to the absolute apex of northern civilization’s golden age. Its compact, meticulous craftsmanship allows you to absorb the raw gravity of that wealth with a single gaze.

Today, we view the Golden Hall through the clean, detached lens of art history or tourism. But in an era when spiritual and esoteric forces were believed to be as real as gravity, this temple was undeniably a critical piece of national infrastructure. It was a massive defensive investment designed to shield the kingdom from pestilence, famine, and drought. I quietly wandered through the sacred grounds, deeply moved by the weight of their prayers.

Perhaps the long walk through the temple grounds served as a makeshift physical therapy, because when I climbed back into the saddle, the persistent ache in my left thigh had completely vanished. From there, I locked into a final 15-kilometer sprint toward the bullet train station. As the afternoon waned, the shadows began to stretch long across the tarmac, bringing that classic, bittersweet melancholy that always accompanies the final hours of a magnificent journey. It felt like the quiet, familiar wind-down of a Sunday evening.

The final exclamation mark of this trip was delivered by a tiny craft brewery in a nearby town. Stepping inside, I found an incredibly avant-garde, deeply personal space helmed by an owner who looked and carried himself exactly like a legendary Japanese punk rock icon. You simply cannot manifest a space this unique unless you are ruthlessly pursuing your own unfiltered aesthetic. He was precisely my favorite kind of creator, running my absolute favorite kind of shop. Unfortunately, they didn’t offer on-site pours. I happily bought a few cans, packed them securely into my gear, and made tracks for the station.

The bullet train station was a lonely, quiet concrete island built out in the middle of nowhere, completely disconnected from the local commuter train lines, typical of rural bullet train stations. There, I poured myself a modest celebratory drink, dismantled my bicycle, packed it carefully into its travel bag, and waited for the train. It was that sublime, meditative state of absolute bliss that only arrives after a massive physical ordeal—a moment where the mind completely empties itself of noise. The setting sun flooded the quiet station with a warm, golden light, casting a beautifully melancholic shroud that served as the absolute perfect curtain-call for this trip.

Boarding the bullet train back toward Tokyo, the high-speed rail began rewinding a full day’s worth of grueling cycling progress every 30 minutes. My only regret was that the pitch-black darkness outside completely swallowed the view. Right now, every single town flashing past the window possessed its own story and a piece of my affection. The roads I had suffered through, the hills I had climbed—I desperately wanted to look out at them, honoring them one last time on my way home.

And just like that, my five-day, 670-kilometer journey through the historic heart of Michinoku came to a close.

Day 1 / Day 2 / Day 3 / Day 4 / Day 5

Michinoku ride (Day 4): High tech, high fashion, & heartbreak

Tue, 02 Jun 2026 00:00:00 -0700

(If you missed the introduction, you should start here.)

This morning, my journey resumed along the same river. While the western bank of the river is bustling with a major national highway, the eastern side is narrow, isolated, and rather serene. Endless rows of rice paddies clung to the tight strips of land. In the early morning mist, there wasn’t a soul in sight; there was only the rich scent of the soil and the steady chorus of frogs. It gave me a profound, firsthand taste of what it truly feels like to live in a rural farming village.

Just before reaching the coastal plains, I crossed the river one last time. When I first encountered this river at the mountain pass on Day 2, it was just a tiny, humble stream. Down here, near its mouth, it had transformed into a sweeping, majestic body of water flowing with immense authority. From the ancient pass all the way to this coast, every single inch of habitable flat land in this region was carved out and created by this very river. As I rode away from it, I felt a strange pang of sadness, as if I were parting ways with a close friend who had journeyed alongside me for miles.

Ahead of me lay the vast coastal plains. Coming straight out of the tight mountain valleys, the sheer scale and openness of the flat horizon felt incredibly refreshing. Rice paddies stretched out as far as the eye could see. The road cut through the fields in a perfectly straight line, and I just locked into my rhythm and flew.

I took a brief detour to hunt down some breakfast and crossed a railway crossing on the main northern train line. Glancing at the mile marker, I noticed it read 340km. It dawned on me that I had been traveling alongside this railway backbone for days now. I had truly come a staggering distance on my own two legs. These two tracks connect that vast distance and more. Wow.

Next, I crossed the second river responsible for creating these vast plains. Rising up directly across the water was the skyline of a major metropolis—the first massive city I had seen in days. Looking down, the vibrant, glowing green of the fields met the infinite blue sky. The sudden, overwhelming beauty of the landscape caught me completely off guard; it was so breathtaking I literally gasped. Right at that exact moment, a Shinkansen bullet train screamed across the iron bridge right next to me. Its brilliant emerald-green body with a sharp accent ribbon of pink flashed in the morning sun. It was a stunning color palette that perfectly matched the natural aesthetic of the North.

Passing the headquarters of a prominent regional bank, my mind drifted back to the wealthy landowners and merchants I had learned about yesterday. Back in the feudal era, the legendary warlord built massive flood control systems here to elevate the living standards of the entire region. It wasn’t about self-interest; it was a public works project designed to improve collective society. In the 19th century, that exact same public-spirited role must have been held by regional banks. To fuel industrial evolution, communities desperately needed local financial infrastructure—a mechanism to gather capital and invest in factories, machinery, and facilities for the common good.

It struck me then that the world of open-source software—including Jenkins, which I spent so much of my life building—is essentially the modern equivalent of these historic public works. It is the invisible, foundational infrastructure that quietly supports the entire digital world. Thinking about it in that light gave me a quiet swell of pride.

Perhaps it was this sense of “ascending” toward the great northern capital that was making me feel so exhilarated. Or maybe I was just relieved to be back on roads I recognized. As the morning progressed, the city woke up, and the streets began to hum with life. Towering arches of lush green trees lined the massive avenues, perfectly living up to the city’s nickname: The Capital of Leaves.

My first destination in the city was the breathtaking mausoleum of the city’s founding warlord. The complex is a masterclass in feudal high fashion—gorgeous, vivid structures clad in jet black and brilliant gold. It contrasted spectacularly against the deep green foliage that had just been washed clean by a morning shower.

Ironically, what hit me the hardest wasn’t the architecture itself, but the brilliant camera work of a promotional video playing inside a tiny museum adjacent to the shrine. The filmmaker had captured the essence of the mausoleum’s beauty with such profound mastery that it made me look down at my own photos with utter embarrassment. My shots felt incredibly generic and uninspired—nothing more than glorified “I was here” alibi photos taken on a smartphone. It was a humbling reminder of what true professional craftsmanship looks like: the ability to extract the raw beauty of a subject and completely captivate the viewer’s gaze.

Next, I climbed up toward the old castle ruins, winding my way up the mountain through a local university campus. Countless tiny, delicate white petals were raining down from the canopy, creating an incredibly ethereal atmosphere. True to the name of this mountain, the fresh summer foliage was stunning. Right as I was riding through, the clouds suddenly parted, and brilliant sunlight flooded the sky. I coasted through a glowing tunnel of radiant green leaves. Early summer is, hands down, the absolute best time to experience this city.

Reaching the summit, I rolled onto the castle grounds. Having visited this spot a few times before, I felt right at home. The iconic bronze statue of the founding warlord on horseback gleamed fiercely in the bright sunlight. Built as a strategic military fortress, the hilltop offers an unparalleled panoramic view of the entire landscape. In an era before skyscrapers, you could undoubtedly see all the way to the Pacific Ocean. Standing there, I let my mind wander, visualizing the exact view the old samurai lords must have looked out upon.

As I was navigating the outer suburbs, a road sign in an ancient town caught my eye, pointing toward a regional history museum. Having studied northern history to prepare for this trip, I couldn’t resist a spontaneous detour.

Inside, they had displayed a massive, authentic flag from the 19th-century Northern Alliance. It sent a chill down my spine to realize that if history had shifted just a few feet in a different direction, the North could have broken away to become an entirely independent nation. This region’s history is absolutely riddled with these “almost a separate country” crossroads.

The exact same thing happened back in the 8th century, too. Back then, the North was entirely outside the control of the Emperor and the imperial court—a wild land ruled by independent native clans. This very town served as the outermost military fortress for the Kyoto government.

It was right here that a legendary clash of titans went down between the iconic native tribal leader, Aterui, and the imperial government’s supreme military commander. It was reminiscent of Julius Caesar and the Gallic Wars.

The ancient tribal leaders, the medieval independent lords, the stylish samurai warlords, the 19th-century Northern Alliance—they were all so beautifully, tragically stubborn. They were always the remote frontier destined to be crushed by the central government. And while they eventually came to enjoy the economic prosperity of a unified Japan, you can still feel the lingering, quiet sorrow of losing their self-determination. Throughout history, the people of the North have always chosen honor over pragmatism. On this journey, I am firmly on their side.

While the museum lobby was packed with families visiting a pop-culture manga exhibition, I stood there entirely out of place, completely lost in thought over ancient battles and the bittersweet history of northern subjugation before quietly slipping back outside.

The road leading toward the coast was locked in a brutal gridlock of tourists traveling for the spring holidays. On a bicycle, I could easily filter past the endless line of slow-moving cars, which made me feel incredibly smug. On the flip side, riding inches away from heavy traffic requires intense concentration, leaving little mental bandwidth to enjoy the scenery.

To escape the stress, I veered off the national highway and took a labyrinth of narrow backroads that traced the deeply jagged, intricate coastline that the region is famous for. Since regular tourists never take these routes, the chaotic roar of traffic vanished instantly, replaced by a profound, breathtaking silence. Fresh spring leaves swayed gently in the breeze. Suddenly, the magnificent, iconic view of the bay burst open below me—shimmering blue waters dotted with pine-covered islets, and a brilliant white ferry gliding silently across the sea. You don’t have to be a legendary haiku master to find your breath completely stolen by this sight. This joy of the detour is a reward exclusive to cyclists.

The tourist hub where the ferries dock was a complete madhouse of packed crowds. Since I had already done the proper sightseeing on previous trips, I decided to focus entirely on a solo food tour. I hopped from one local shop to another, inhaling traditional grilled fish cakes at one stop and downing fresh raw oysters at the next, eating my way through the town, determined not to miss anything.

Deep in the outer bay area, right in the middle of a steep descent, my eyes caught a banner for a natural hot spring at a coastal hotel. I slammed on the brakes! Soaking in the completely empty bath, I gazed up through the window at the bright blue sky and watched the maple leaves rustle in the wind. Such a peaceful, ordinary moment.

But then, my mind drifted to the catastrophic 2011 earthquake and tsunami. Right here, so many ordinary lives were abruptly, brutally snuffed out in a matter of minutes. The terrifying fragility of human existence hit me like a physical blow. A heavy tightness gripped my chest, and I felt an overwhelming urge to just break down and cry.

What saved me from that dark spiral was a tiny bird’s nest tucked into a tree branch right outside the glass. It was a simple, quiet testament to the resilience of life—a delicate, flexible strength enduring in the face of a mercilessly indifferent nature. My heart slowly found its peace again. Spotting a selection of local craft beers in the hotel lobby, I fought off a massive urge to crack one open and pushed onward toward the port city of Ishinomaki.

In Ishinomaki, the tsunami had completely erased an entire urban neighborhood from the map. Rather than attempting to rebuild the residential grid, the community had chosen to transform the entire barren footprint into a massive memorial park. I suspect too many people who were impacted decided to leave, and there was no point in “rebuilding”. In the center sat a pristine, modern memorial museum, preserving the raw memories of that fateful day. It was drawing an incredibly large crowd of visitors. Directly across from the park, an elementary school that had been completely gutted by the waves was preserved exactly as it was—a raw, powerful, haunting monument to the disaster.

Inside the museum, a guide explained that the ceiling height of the building was engineered to match the exact height of the tsunami wave that hit this spot. It was roughly 7 meters tall. Looking up at it, the sheer scale left me completely speechless. It is the kind of terrifying height that words utterly fail to convey.

Along the harbor, the top of a massive new water-pumping facility had been converted into an elevated tsunami evacuation shelter, stamped with a large green icon of a person running up stairs away from a wave. Every structure was built with heavy, monolithic reinforcement. Even the elevated highway I had taken into town sat on a massive, unnaturally high wall of earth—clearly engineered to act as a colossal seawall. Feeling the staggering depth of grief that drove this city to build such titanic defenses left my spirit heavy.

Seeking a bit of comfort, I rolled into a local diner for Dinner #1. After checking into my hotel, I went out and grabbed a hot bowl of ramen for Dinner #2. And right now, I am sitting at a conveyor-belt sushi joint, eagerly waiting for Dinner #3 to arrive. My cycling appetite is completely out of control, but when the local food is this spectacular, you just can’t stop.

Outside, a ferocious gale is howling against the windows. I really hope the wind calms down by tomorrow morning.

Day 1 / Day 2 / Day 3 / Day 4 / Day 5

Michinoku ride (Day 3): Stubborn samurai, shrouded madness, & silent streamers

Mon, 01 Jun 2026 00:00:00 -0700

(If you missed the introduction, you should start here.)

With a gentle early-summer breeze pushing me from the south, I headed straight north along the river. Scattered throughout the landscape were traditional old houses featuring distinct, steeply pitched roofs. Looking at them, you could easily tell that this region gets buried in deep snow during the winter.

Eventually, I rolled into a city famous for being a major battlefield during Japan’s 19th-century civil war—a historical fact I had researched before the trip. I climbed all the way up the mountain, pushing my bicycle up a rugged gravel path to visit the ruins of the old castle tower.

Reflecting on the history I studied beforehand, one profound thought kept echoing in my mind: the people of the North were beautifully, tragically stubborn. Clinging to their old-school samurai honor and a deep sense of gratitude to the falling dynasty, they chose to fight to the death against the Imperial coalition—a highly modernized, Westernized government force equipped with rapid-fire rifles. Had they been pragmatic enough to read the room and see which way the geopolitical wind was blowing, this tragedy could have been entirely avoided. Yet, this land has seen this exact kind of heartbreaking history repeat itself over and over. Still, there is something incredibly endearing about that fierce, unyielding northern spirit. I can’t help but love them for it.

As a descendant living in a modern, independent Japan born from that Imperial coalition’s victory, I am infinitely grateful for the massive modernization they achieved. And yet, when it comes to what actually moves the human heart, it is never the final outcome—it is always the journey itself. It’s exactly like traveling on a bicycle.

Right below the castle, I stumbled upon a traditional Japanese confectionery shop that has been running for an astonishing 16 generations. I treated myself to an Ichigo Daifuku (a fresh strawberry wrapped in sweet red bean paste and mochi). It absolutely lived up to its 16-generation legacy; the mochi possessed an otherworldly, cloud-like softness.

I’ve previously complained about the bizarre fact that coffee shops refuse to open early in Japan, but what is equally mysterious is that traditional wagashi shops open at the crack of dawn. I have no idea why, but for a cyclist desperately hunting for calories, it is an absolute godsend.

Noticing several road signs nearby, I decided to take a spontaneous detour to the birthplace of a pioneering artist and poet, a woman who stood at the forefront of Japan’s early feminist movement. I had previously listened to a podcast about her contemporaries, so I had some basic context. It made me realize just how agonizingly difficult it must have been for a woman to forge her own path in that era. Honestly, that immense societal pressure was likely one of the triggers that eventually drove her into schizophrenia.

What struck a deep, emotional chord with me was the gallery of her paper-cutting artwork, which she created continuously from the onset of her illness until her death. When you think of an artist consumed by schizophrenia, Van Gogh immediately comes to mind. Even as they watch their own existence crumble away, which is the literal definition of schizophrenia, they are still gripped by a relentless drive to create—even if it means tearing their own souls apart. That absolute perseverance with making things resonated deeply with my own identity as a creator who simply cannot stop building things. Furthermore, comparing their expressions of madness, Van Gogh’s felt intensely masculine, whereas hers felt profoundly feminine. Some things are so deeply rooted that even advancing schizophrenia can’t take it away. It was a deeply meaningful detour that I hadn’t planned at all.

For lunch, I stopped at a ramen shop founded in 1954. I later found out it’s a popular local chain with multiple locations, but what I loved most was the nostalgia plastered across the walls—vivid, sensory descriptions of the vibrant, hopeful era of Japan’s post-war reconstruction. It was storytelling that truly triggered all five senses, making me wish I could write prose that evokes that kind of raw emotion.

As I passed through the next town, I made a stop at an ancient earthen defense wall built in the 12th century. This was the site of a colossal, historic battle for the independence of the North, where a northern clan clashed with a massive invading army from the south. Here too, the northern people painstakingly spent months preparing their defenses, only to be completely crushed by the central Japan. Ah, the tragedy of the stubborn northerners didn’t start with the 19th-century civil war; it dates back a millennium.

A sign near the wall indicated that a small historical museum was located just a short distance away, so I decided to check it out. The museum turned out to be nothing more than a single room inside a shuttered elementary school. With Japan’s shrinking population, especially bad in rural areas, the local community had clearly built this beautiful, grand school building out of a desperate, loving hope for their children’s future. Yet, despite those earnest wishes, the children vanished anyway.

Standing in the completely empty schoolyard, beautifully decorated with the ritual carp streamers meant to wish for healthy growth of children, fluttering lonely in the wind, a profound tightness gripped my chest. It was heartbreaking.

Despite it being such a tiny exhibition room, for some reason, four staff members were there that day. When they found out I had ridden all the way from Yokohama on a bicycle, they were absolutely thrilled and even brewed me a fresh cup of coffee. The kindness of people in rural Japan is boundless.

Further down the road, I stopped at another roadside sweet shop for sweets. The second-generation owner nearly jumped out of his skin with surprise when I told him about my bicycle journey from the south, and he happily chatted with me for quite a while. Anko gives your muscles energy, but these warm, spontaneous conversations are what truly recharge your soul.

From this point on, the river becomes tightly squeezed by steep mountains on both sides as it rushes down toward the vast coastal plains. I had expected the road running alongside it to offer spectacular views. However, a series of modern tunnels had recently been bored straight through the mountains. Great for cars, no doubt, but an absolute nightmare for bicycles. Even with my lights fully blaring, the deafening roar of traffic echoing off the concrete walls amplified the fear of being struck from behind. I was on edge the entire time. And no views to enjoy.

Once I finally escaped the mountains, I visited a museum that was once the grand estate of a wealthy 19th-century local merchant. He had amassed a fortune through textiles and silk cultivation, which made me realize just how massive the economic impact of the river’s boat trade used to be. The museum was delightfully filled with charming anecdotes about the successive heads of the family—like how one patriarch was absolutely terrified of thunder, or how another was so obsessed with new gadgets that he bought up early automobiles just to joyride around the village. It left me with a warm smile.

In the neighboring town across the river, I toured another magnificent mansion, this one belonging to a wealthy 20th-century landowner. The stunning architecture from the early Showa era was beautifully preserved, offering a fascinating window into the past. It made me wonder: were there simply numerous wealthy merchants scattered across this region back then, meaning the area was incredibly affluent as a whole, and these two estates just happened to survive? Or was there an economic systemic flaw that naturally allowed a single individual to monopolize the entire wealth of the village?

Today’s ride was a relatively short 120km, and thanks to a favorable tailwind, I arrived at my inn with plenty of time to spare. After doing my laundry, I eagerly waited for a local craft beer brewery and beef tongue restaurant to open for dinner. I devoured three massive bowls of rice and enjoyed three pints of beer.

It completely blows my mind that even a tiny country town like this has its own dedicated craft brewery. The elderly gentleman serving the beer had a wonderfully warm smile that made the end of the day feel incredibly welcoming.

Day 1 / Day 2 / Day 3 / Day 4 / Day 5

Michinoku ride (Day 2): Borders, beans, & bitter histories

Sun, 31 May 2026 00:00:00 -0700

(If you missed the introduction, you should start here.)

It was a brutally windy day. From the saddle, I could watch the fierce gusts rippling across the surface of the flooded rice paddies like ocean waves. My legs were sensing the incline, telling me that the vast flat plains around metropolitan Tokyo were finally coming to an end. Historically, this area was a strategic fortress town, guarding the “civilized” south from the “barbaric” north. Today, my mission was to cross the ancient border checkpoint and finally enter Michinoku, the North.

This part of rural Japan is incredibly peaceful, but it’s a quietness with two faces. I picked up a local community newsletter at a convenience store. It was filled with the mundane, earnest prose of grassroots democracy: a greeting from the second-term mayor, a report on a newly completed bypass road, and schedules for community weed-trimming. It’s comforting.

Yet, as I rode along the prefectural roads connecting these small settlements, the harsh reality of this rural peace became glaringly obvious. Many villages had mutated into ghost towns. I passed rows of abandoned shops. Inside their dusty glass display cases, old merchandise still sat on the shelves—completely bleached stark white by decades of relentless sun.

Riding a bike in Japan is uniquely frictionless, thanks to the miracle of convenience stores where you can hunt down everything from a quick calorie reload to an emergency phone charge. But if there is one thing I find utterly unforgivable about this country, it is that coffee shops refuse to open early in the morning. I rode past a beautiful roastery boasting “30 varieties of beans from around the world,” but the sign on the door read: Open from 11 AM. Come on now, a coffee shop that isn’t open in the morning is like a Santa Claus who refuses to wear red.

Shaking off my caffeine withdrawal, I stopped by a famous weeping willow alongside the old highway. This spot was immortalized in the 12th century by a legendary wandering poet-monk who abandoned his samurai status to live a life of aesthetic exile. Centuries later, even the great haiku master Basho would travel here just to stand in his footsteps.

From here, the old road began to climb alongside a river. It wasn’t a steep ascent, but the massive, stately gates of the traditional farmhouses along the route hinted at the wealth of the old feudal post town that once thrived here.

Eventually, the road veered away from the river, tackling a brief, sharp ravine before hitting a mountain pass. This was the exact line of the watershed, the prefectural border, and the true entrance to the North. I couldn’t help but marvel at how ancient humans painstakingly scouted these mountains to find the absolute lowest point to cross. It made me think of how ants build a trail. Ants do not systematically survey the terrain; rather, through a form of collective intelligence, their random movements naturally converge into the most efficient route. I bet human highways were born the exact same way.

Near the pass stood a tiny, ancient shrine. Legend has it that this remote sanctuary was visited by Japan’s most iconic tragic hero—a brilliant samurai general who had fallen out with his brother, the supreme Shogun. The young general fled north, crossing right through here to seek political asylum with the lord of the North. To put it in modern geopolitical terms, it would be like a US vice president defecting to China to seek political asylum. No wonder his brother eventually launched a total war to crush this northern domain.

Just a short coast down from the pass brought me into a wooded glade. Hidden beneath a dense canopy of towering cedar trees, where the light was dim and the air was heavy with the scent of damp earth, lay the ancient ruins of the Border Checkpoint, a site that had made numerous appearances in poems and literature for a literal millenium, aside from being a critical military and cultural gateway.

The ground was littered with moss-covered stone monuments of all ages. Some signs explained how 18th-century scholars had excavated the site as an “ancient ruin.” It blew my mind: to us, the 18th century is ancient history, yet to them, this checkpoint was already a relic of a forgotten past. It’s like realizing that the pyramids were ancient history to the Romans, even though we think of the Romans as ancient. Standing there in the quiet gloom among those ancient stones, the sheer, staggering weight of time washed over me, leaving my mind completely serene.

Rolling further down the mountain, I arrived at the valley city. The train station was painted a crisp, brilliant white, giving it the vibe of a high-altitude summer resort. Nearby was a beautifully manicured lakeside park where I treated myself to a cup of green tea and a traditional wagashi pastry shaped like a wisteria flower. Bright green maple leaves framed the water—a preview of the fiery red show they would put on in autumn.

The park was built by a famous 18th-century reformist lord who is still clearly revered by the locals today. During a catastrophic nationwide famine, his brilliant administrative skills ensured that not a single soul in his domain starved to death. Impressed by his local success, the Shogunate promoted him to the central government to fix the entire country’s economy. He failed miserably, though. Running a small, tight-knit domain must have been fundamentally different from steering a massive, bloated empire. As a guy who just enjoyed the agile intimacy of a small company over massive corporate structures, I felt a deep, personal sympathy for his plight. He probably had a lot more fun when he was just running his own little fiefdom.

North of the city, the terrain turned into a rhythmic rollercoaster of ridges and valleys. The lowlands were meticulously carved into rice fields, but the moment the road scaled a ridge, I was in dense forest. The road eventually descended, then, as I picked up speed, the trees would abruptly vanish, the horizon would burst open, and another vast expanse of farmland would greet me. The sudden shifts in speed, the satisfying burn of the short climbs, the dramatic reveals of the landscape, and the sweet, gentle fragrance of mustard flowers washing over me in the breeze—it was pure cycling euphoria.

Just before reaching my destination for the night, I spotted a roadside natural hot spring (onsen) and slammed on the brakes. Sweating and exhausted after hours of motion, inserting a sudden pocket of absolute stillness into the day is pure bliss for the soul. Soaking in the steaming water, I felt a profound reconnection with my own cultural roots. Even though my schedule was tight and the sun was setting, I felt proud of my ability to just slow down, let go of the clock, and exist completely in the moment.

In the city, I reunited with a former teammate from my previous company. He treated me to a hidden gem of a craft beer bar housed inside a beautifully renovated, dimly lit stone warehouse—the perfect venue for the end of a long day.

For dinner, he took me to a cozy local tavern. I wanted to pair the meal with a local sake made from the very rice fields I had been riding past all day. When I asked, I discovered the menu only served local sake. But what amazed me was the resolution of the menu; the sake wasn’t categorized broadly by the prefecture (after all, everything was from Fukushima), but explicitly by the specific sub-regions. After inhaling an obscene amount of white rice and chatting with a friendly family at the next table, I walked back to my hotel under the cool night air, pushing my bike alongside me.

Exercise until your muscles burn, voraciously take in the world around you, eat like a horse, and sleep like a log. The true joys of human life are remarkably simple.

Day 1 / Day 2 / Day 3 / Day 4 / Day 5

Michinoku ride (Day 1): Spokes, shinto, & small batches

Sat, 30 May 2026 00:00:00 -0700

(If you missed the introduction, you should start here.)

There’s something special about starting a bike journey right from your own doorstep. The familiar everyday scenery gradually and seamlessly morphs into the unfamiliar. It’s like one more circle outside the concentric circles of your world, with the home at the center. You get to feel “near” and “far” are actually continuous & connected.

I navigated through Tokyo by threading through narrow back alleys. This metropolis is fascinating like that — there are countless long, continuous backstreets completely bypassed by the major roads. It felt like discovering a brand-new face of this city that I have known for decades.

From a shopping district to a quiet residential area, and then into the next shopping district. Since it was really early morning (I left home 5am), the city was rather quiet. Yet, it’s funny how you can always tell exactly which direction the nearest train station is just by watching the flow of people.

In western Tokyo, a dozen private commuter rail lines radiate outward from the city center like the spokes of a bicycle wheel. Each line carries its own distinct socio-economic vibe, functioning as invisible borders that partition the daily lives and identities of millions. Riding from south to north meant cutting across these distinct cultural layers, one by one, experiencing the shifting pulse of the city. And just like how you can tell where is the nearest train station by watching people’s flow, you can tell which line’s sphere of influence you are in by looking at buses, for every line has its own fleet of buses that serve the neighborhoods along its route.

Eventually, I crossed the major river boundary that marks the edge of Tokyo, the administrative district. Tokyo the metropolis would continue far, far out, but from here on, I was entering uncharted territory — a region I had never explored on a bicycle. I could immediately feel the shift into a car-centric culture. The density of buildings went down noticeably, parking spaces are more noticable, and the number of people on bicycles increased. Feeling these micro-shifts in the atmosphere is exactly what makes long-distance riding so addictive.

I eventually arrived at the capital of this region to discover the shrine. True to its title that this is the most prestigious shrine in this region, a mile-long verdant approach leads to the shrine, and it’s hard to believe that this oasis of greenery exists right in the heart of this dense city with skyscrapers. Shrines are dedicated to gods, but now that I thought about it, perhaps shinto gods might be convenient labels for the collective respect and reverence that many people hold for a particular place. This collective respect serves as a safeguard against human arrogance, preventing us from exploiting everything solely for our own benefit. In that sense, it is true and correct to thank god for protecting this greenery.

And then, the concrete dissolved completely.

The landscape turned aggressively rural, and I finally had my first encounter in this trip with the rice paddies. This was the week for rice planting — local farmers were busy at work. Looking at the sheer number of tractors buzzing across the fields, they might very well be the most popular vehicles in the country. Every farmer has to have one, in order to use it in the few days that they need them. The rich smell of soil, the chorus of frogs. It is a cycle of the year that has repeated for millennia. That feels like eternity, yet when you think about it, human history here is short. Japanese agriculture goes back maybe 2,000 years—heck, this blog post is already longer than that in character count.

By 10 AM, I was already hungry, so I started seeking food. Given the early hour, my only option was a 24-hour ramen joint sitting right off the major car road. Inside the kitchen, thick clouds of steam were billowing. A full crew of workers was intensely prepping for the impending lunchtime rush. I was mesmerized by the sheer speed and dexterity. I mean, look at the guy who peeled onions out of a cardboard box full of them. A few long-haul truck drivers, looking like regulars, ordered their usuals and quietly slurped their noodles.

Crossing the next major river, a profound sense of “I’ve really come far” washed over me. Just ahead lay an old samurai-era castle town. An area of historic storehouses (kura) had been preserved, so I decided to stop there for a coffee break. Looking out at the white-walled historic architecture through a glass window — spending a peaceful moment just gazing outside while nursing a coffee after being in constant motion—felt extraordinarily indulgent. I walked inside one of the old storehouses and stretched my bare feet out onto the smooth wooden floorboards. An absolute stillness met the soft early-summer light. The perfect contrast between motion and stillness.

As I was leaving, I had that classic exchange with a local older lady. “Where did you ride from?” “Yokohama.” “What?! Yokohama?!” It gave me a little swell of pride and put wings on my back. These tiny, spontaneous interactions on the road are the true joy of traveling.

However, hands down the absolute best encounter of the day happened after the ride, at a craft beer bar. I stepped inside to find a tiny space with just a bar counter and five stools. The three customers inside were all hardcore regulars, chatting casually with the owner. I love blending into these intimate circles, and they seemed genuinely intrigued by my cycling gear, so we hit it off immediately. It was an incredibly fun time. The owner told me he only had three taps, but because he brews in extremely small batches, the beer changes almost every time you visit. True to his word, right while I was there, one keg blew, and he swapped it out for a completely different brew.

Furthermore, here, the customers brought their own beers to share with everyone. A regular opened a fresh can of craft beer he had picked up earlier that day, and the owner opened three pre-release prototypes from a new tropical island brewery from southern Japan he’s mentoring. I got to join the tasting. Everyone was doing it because they desperately wanted to hear the feedback of the owner, a man who has been brewing beer for 30 years and running his independent shop for 18.

He spoke quietly but with immense authority. He explained that in craft brewing, the first step is eliminating obvious flaws in the production process. If it’s a pale ale, it needs to taste like a pale ale; if it’s a weizen, it needs to hit the markers of a weizen. Getting that alignment between the name and the product gets you to a 50-point baseline. “And this,” he said earnestly, “has nothing to do with whether the beer tastes ‘good’ or ‘bad’ yet. It’s just the table stakes for it to exist as a product.”

It was a masterclass in brewing philosophy, and everything he said was riveting. Time just flew by. I had promised to meet a couple from my university days for dinner, so I eventually had to tear myself away, though a part of me really wanted to stay.

I thought I was the one who had stumbled into an extraordinary place, but when I casually mentioned that I was the creator of Jenkins, one of the regulars gasped, knowing exactly what it was. Hearing him say, “Wow, an extraordinary man just walked into our bar!” was hilarious and deeply humbling. Well, that’s my line.

In an unfamiliar city, I felt completely embraced by a tight-knit, warm community of friends.

Lately, I’ve come to realize that a journey isn’t about the destination; it’s entirely about the miles in between. I travel precisely for these unexpected encounters along the way. Ever since adopting this mindset, the way I travel has completely evolved.

Day 1 / Day 2 / Day 3 / Day 4 / Day 5

2025 in review: Cycling

Sat, 03 Jan 2026 00:00:00 -0800

This year, I rode ~10,500km and climbed 80,000m over 475 hours. Over the last few years, these numbers are steadily declining, but it’s still a lot, reflecting the special place cycling has in my heart.

What hasn’t changed is that (1) I still ride ~1hr every day, and (2) I still do a weekly hill climb. But other than those, a lot has changed.

First, I got myself a new road bike this year. It was pretty expensive. The kind of money you’d think I’m crazy if you don’t ride road bikes. But with the kind of time I spend on it, I figured I deserve it. It’s noticeably lighter, so it reacts to my push better. The hydraulic disc brake is amazing, so is electric shifting.

That led to my second big change this year – I took my old road bike to Tokyo, and I’ve been riding my road bike there. I’m discovering a whole new world, in a place I thought I knew well.

There are so many little places within a bike distance. The density of the place is amazing, and there are so many restaurants that I have no hope of ever visiting them all. The area doesn’t really have any long climbs, but instead it’s filled with short, much steeper climbs.

Another thing I did not realize until then was just how limited my mobility has been, when I was confined to train lines. They are, after all, lines. No matter how well those lines spread out, and they do, at the end of the day they are still one dimensional, and that just cannot cover any significant “area”, which is, by definition, a two-dimensional construct. When I’m riding a bike, there’s just so much between the two train lines. Farm lands. Shrines. Temples. Small parks. Hills. Residential areas of all kinds. Hospitals. So much depth. I got mesmerized.

The third big change this year to the way I ride is that I considerably reduced my home group ride. A part of it was forced due to my spending time away from home more often, partly business, and partly in Tokyo. But it’s also partly my desire to explore. When a large group of people are involved, a ride has to be planned upfront, the route has to be set, and so it just limits your ability to react to the unexpected. I also wanted to ride more in new places, whereas the group rides prefer stability and predictability of the same familiar routes. I do miss the people, though. It’s too bad I can’t have the best of both worlds.

Fourth, I started riding more and more on my business travels, in faraway places. I stay a few extra days, I rent a road bike, and off I go! I rode in Chicago, Brussels, and Amsterdam. I’ve been to Brussels countless times, but with a bike I was able to discover a whole new part of Brussels and beyond. On a bike, I get to leave the city. A bike is really a perfect vehicle to explore the unexpected.

Every year, I aim to do a multi day bike trip. There’s a sense of real adventure in those trips. Life gets really simple on the road. And you get to discover all the in-between places. I truly love those trips. This year, I was fortunate to do two of them. Once I rode from San Jose all the way to Mendocino. Then late in the year, I rode from Tokyo to Kyoto. Both of those trips were me and a friend. I like this setup. There’s only so many people who are willing to ride a bike over multiple days like this, to begin with. Planning is a lot easier when I only need to accommodate the needs and the preferences of two people.

In 2026, I hope to lean in on more of all those changes. Beyond those, I think I’d love to ride more with friends. Not a big group ride, but in the intimate 1:1 setup. I also need to get more comfortable taking my bike on the go, especially in Tokyo. If I get more efficient in packing my bike into a bag that I bought for my Kyoto trip, it opens up a whole new set of destinations.

If you are up for riding with me, wherever on earth you are, let me know!

2025 in review: Coffee

Sun, 28 Dec 2025 00:00:00 -0800

In Jan, a colleague of mine came to the US from Japan and stayed over for a whole week. I think it was on the way to a weekend Tahoe trip in which he talked me into how coffee is a perfect hobby for engineers. It’s practical, it’s cheap, and it doesn’t involve a lot of equipment!

I keep a bag of ground coffee beans at my home and I drink coffee every morning. If he is to be believed, I just need a coffee grinder to get going. So on the way back from Tahoe, we stopped by a random coffee roaster in Sacramento, he helped me pick a bag of coffee beans, and by the time I was home, Amazon had already delivered a hand grinder from Timemore – also his recommendation, I think.

Not that I really cared about coffee, but I just loved how passionately he talked about this hobby of his. I wanted to respond positively to it, and I thought following his suggestions was the way to do it.

The next day, I brought my equipment and the coffee beans to the office, and he walked me through how to practice the 4:6 method. I drank that black, which I never did before. I imitated how he made a cup, and brewed my own. He approved of the cup I made.

Thus began my journey into the world of pour over coffee.

Since then, I’ve acquired a few more gears. Electronic kettle with temperature control, and a dripper called “Suiren”. It looks like a flower, and petals are replaceable. I bought more petals in different colors, and I occasionally reconfigure them.

Then I started trying out coffee roasters around my home one by one. I discovered that coffee beans come in all sorts of prices. The ones people are flocking to generally seem to provide very lightly roasted, hard beans, which have more fruity flavors. Those are easily 2x-3x more expensive than ones I can get from local supermarkets. These beans are called “single origin specialty coffee”, meaning they come from a specific place, sometimes down to a single farmer.

Coffee roaster hunting added a new flavor to my bike riding, which I do everyday. Sometimes I come across a coffee roaster accidentally, and I give that place a try.

Initially I was intentionally casting a wide net, trying all sorts of different places, dark or light. I talk to Gemini about the species of the coffee beans, the region the beans were from, and so on. I sometimes look up those places on Google Maps, and try to imagine life over there. It created some emotional connection, however small it might be, to parts of the world I previously haven’t really thought about. Ethiopia. Colombia. Indonesia. Honduras. Kenya.

This made my morning ritual a little longer, but I love the smell of freshly ground coffee in the morning. I don’t actively engage in experiments every morning, but every so often I’d react to my wife’s comments and tweak the settings a bit. Maybe a little coarser, maybe a little hotter. Again, Gemini is incredibly knowledgeable, and it helps me build a progressively better mental model of what chemical process is happening when I pour hot water over coffee, and what changes in the input creates what outcomes.

Later in the year, I’ve acquired another hand grinder, to be used in my Tokyo home. Combined with my road bike in Tokyo, I started coffee roaster hunting in Tokyo, too.

Now that turned out to be a whole new experience. The density of that place is easily 10x of San Jose, which means there are more coffee roasters than I could possibly visit, given my limited time over there. Luckily, they sell coffee beans 100g at a time, which is like one third of a portion here, so I could go through them a little faster.

Shops there are much smaller, and often run by one person. That creates an opportunity to build a relationship, and I enjoy that process a lot. I’m very tall as far as Japanese people go, and I’m in cycling clothing. I’m pretty sure that makes me quite memorable, too. But building the relationship requires multiple visits, and that gets in the way of me trying more places. Decisions, decisions, …

I’m not sure where this hobby is going next year. I’ll keep this habit for sure, but it’s hard for me to imagine taking this to a whole new level. I’ll keep looking up the place on Google Maps, though. I like using coffee beans to learn more about this world we live in. I’ll seek out darker roasts here in San Jose to see if I can brew them well, and I can’t wait to go back to Tokyo to keep exploring more places and getting to know more about some of the people I met.

2025 in review: Cooking

Fri, 26 Dec 2025 00:00:00 -0800

I started cooking this year. Nothing too fancy. Primarily so that I have three meals to eat every day. The work is busy, so the time I can spend is limited, too.

For most of my life, I never really cooked. I just didn’t need to. My wife stayed at home. The kitchen was her territory. But TBH that has always felt like an excuse. I suppose I always felt a little ashamed about my inability to cook.

For the last few years, our daughter has been going to a college in Tokyo. Lately, my wife is spending more time over there, which means I’m spending considerable time alone at home. So I decided that this was the time to learn to cook.

I started with a cooking recipe book for children. My wife also gave me a few easy recipes. But pretty soon I found out that Gemini is great at giving me recipes.

It turns out cooking is just like any other making activity that I enjoy doing. So in hindsight it wasn’t a surprise that I got hooked. I follow the process blindly first, and I get to a certain outcome. I then look at the outcome and look back at the process. Sometimes I have some things that didn’t quite go well that I want to do differently, or sometimes I develop questions. I use those as a guide to take the next step. If the first attempt doesn’t produce a great result, that’s actually great, because there’s only one direction from there and that’s up!

And so I kept on.

For example, say I want to figure out how to cook a certain vegetable, say taro. I tell that to Gemini, I ask for a recipe, and it gives me a few options. That then becomes my project that evening. I ride my bike to a grocery store, I pick up what I need. Usually I make a double batch so that one cooking lasts for a few meals.

On weekends, I often take on a bigger project. The other day it was oysters I wanted to learn to cook. I learned to cook fish. Mapo tofu became my passion project. I even went out to a Chinese super market to get “proper” ingredients.

Going to supermarkets became fun. I have so many more angles to explore now. Are there any ingredients that I haven’t worked on before? What are people buying? What can I use those for? Getting answers to any questions is practically free and instant, thanks to AI.

Sometimes it is my turn to go to Tokyo and take care of our daughter. I very much enjoy cooking food for her. When it’s not easy nor obvious to figure out what I can do for her, cooking gives me a way to express my love & affection. Besides, the stuff I can get in supermarkets in Tokyo are so much better for Japanese cuisines. This probably sounds boringly obvious, but cooking and food is fundamentally intertwined with the land. And that in turn makes me wonder what dishes are uniquely Californian – just like that, I have another project to work on.

In 2026, I plan to continue cooking, and I’d like to up the game in a few ways.

I’d like to invite my friends and serve them my food. That’d be a major milestone for me. That’d give me more opportunities to see friends, too. I think the trick is to set the bar really low. We’ll see.
In order to improve, I need to measure. I need to record how different input leads to different outcomes. I need to write down what I noticed. I’d like to get a more precise weight measure, and a temperature sensor.

600km bike ride from Tokyo to Kyoto

Mon, 22 Dec 2025 00:00:00 -0800

Ever since I rode from San Francisco to Los Angeles a few years ago, I got hooked by long distance, multi day bike rides. The sense of adventure, encounters with the unexpected, and above all the feeling of life shrinking down to the bare minimum kernel.

This year, I sent my road bike to Tokyo, which meant I could plan one in Japan.

Tokaido has been a road well travelled since the beginning of the recorded history in Japan, until cars and rail roads upended everything. I decided to take on this route with my high school buddy.

Day 1

I rolled out from the same bike parking on the ground floor of my Tokyo apartment 5:30am before the dawn. The excitement was palpable. I’ve rolled out of this place many times now, but today my destination was a little different!

Instead heading straight to Kyoto, however, first I rode some 20km to the heart of Tokyo, where Tokaido ends. Nihonbashi, which literally means “Japan bridg”. If I go the route, I might as well ride the whole route.

Around 7am, I met up with my buddy and we took off. This was an ordinary weekday, and the city was starting to wake up. As we rode south, we witnessed the whole morning commute from the beginning to the end.

~30km radius from the city center of Tokyo is the territory of trains. Every train station is like a town. At the heart is a train station, surrounded by some commercial area, and further out is a residential area. No place is more than 15 minutes away from a train station.

During the morning commute, you see people appear from every tiny alley way, as if rain drops are forming a creek. These creeks steadily meet and form bigger flows, until they form a flood and disappear into a train station. The sheer number of humans here is just mindbogling.

In one temple we stopped by, I bought a local sweet. The woman in the shop told me her family has been rooted in this area for centuries, and previously was in the business of running a travelers’ inn. I pictured her ancestor striking up a conversation with a traveler on foot some 400 years ago in the Edo era, just like she and I were talking. I felt connected to that scene, and I loved that feeling.

At ~80km, we arrived at the Sagami bay, facing Enoshima island. Up until this point, I had ridden before. From here on, I was squarely in an uncharted territory. Pushing the invisible boundary like that is always exciting, and on this trip we were just getting started!

The Sagami bay was gently curving toward the left, and the cycling road by the sea was filled with dragonflies. Sunny, clear blue sky. Bright silver reflection from the Pacific ocean. A classic Japanese autumn day. Joy in life can be simple just like that.

When I’m on a bike, I’m always unconsciously on a hunt for an interesting food/drink place. And when I see one, I just know. On this day, it was a local brewery. They were located in a white building perfect for this beach side city, and they had a truck parked in front selling beer.

We kept on, making a few more unplanned stops. What is a bike trip without those unplanned stops!?

Eventually we arrived at the entrance of Hakone, where the climb begins. Last 1km or so saw a crazy 21% slope. When I saw the road sign that said so, it struck fear in my heart. I don’t see I’ve ever rode a hill that steep in the past. But I didn’t come all the way to walk a bike. I did prevail, and I felt very proud.

Day 2

This day started with the only real climb of the entire trip. We left in the wee hours. We needed to cover a lot of distance today.

As we were eating rice balls at a local 7-Eleven, we befriended a local rider. He’s probably 20 years older than us, and when we told him we were heading to Kyoto, he got really excited. He gave us various advices unsolicited. It was clear he was rooting & cheering for us. I love it when what I’m doing inspires others like that.

This was a beautiful climb. Probably the first time in this trip we were riding in trees. The day was early enough, the traffic was light. At the top is a caldera lake.

The downhill on the other side was pretty scary. The road was narrow, the car traffic was busy by that time, and the pavement was bad. That meant I had to occupy the whole lane for safety, but cars were piling up behind me. I tried to let some cars go in places where I felt safe enough, but then I had to get back into the lane before the next turn. The view was spectacular, but I had no opportunity to enjoy it.

Along Tokaido were 53 designated towns/villages by the government back then to serve as inns for travelers. Those places are no longer functioning as inns, but most of them still remain, and they are often left as landmarks. We kept going through them one by one. That became how I measured our progress.

Past Hakone, we were reunited with the ocean again. Mt.Fuji is really close now, and it’s almost intimidating. Its top was hiding in cloud, so I kept peeking for a camera opportunity. This is the shot I got. The power lines I got in front emphasized the height of the mountain, it came out great.

One of the food stops we made was at a restaurant 400 years old. They proudly hang a ukiyo-e from Hiroshige Andoh from that era, featuring this exact restaurant. I give it to them that not many restaurants get to brag about being depicted in a classic art like that. When I was young, I used to place a lot of value on innovating new things, but lately I started to appreciate the importance of carrying a torch forward. 400 years, though, put that to a whole new level.

This restaurant is in one of the 53 rest stop villeages, but it appeared as if this was the only thing that survived the time. There was a small wooden marker on the side of the road commemorating the site of the head inn at this village, where the noble class would stay, but behind that marker, a construction was going and a new residential home was being built. If the map didn’t say so, this would have been just another random residential street. Time can be relentless like that, but I also felt the resilience of people. When times changed, they changed.

We arrived at a family-owned traditional Japanese inn for the night under drizzle. This place used to be just restaurant, they said, but during the pandemic they switched to restaurant/inn. Taking the bath, it almost felt like I was borrowing somebody’s home.

This trip is going very well so far.

Day 3

Since we were the only guests at the restaurant (AFAICT), they prepared our breakfast early, and we rolled out 7:30am.

We were right before the biggest river along this entire Tokaido route, Ooigawa (大井川). Mere two centuries ago, there was no bridge over this river, and people had to cross on the shoulders of the laborers whose job was to wade through the river!

The museum featured a wax figure of those laborers. Half naked, very musculine, crossing his arms, and gazing at me. It made me wonder the musculine culture of the place & the time, and the pride this place has today for that heritage.

Our first stop today was a wooden pedestrian bridge over the Ooigawa river. We got there, and we saw this narrow straight bridge whose length must be close to a kilometer. It said put 100 yen into thix box to cross, which meant this bridge was in active use! Delighted, we rode up. There was no hand rails, the bridge was pretty narrow and reasonably elevated from the river bed. It was a pretty scary experience.

In the old pictures they had, the bridge looked even scarier. It speaks to the civil engineering challenges of building a bridge over this ricer. No wonder there weren’t any bridges. Just another thing we take for granted.

Past the Ooigawa river, the road went through mountains and the scenery decidedly turned rural. The historical sites look so much more authentic in this setup.

Civilization came back. We entered the city of Kakegawa. We rode through a quiet main street, and stopped by at a small local castle.

Later in the day, we hit Hamanako lake (浜名湖). It’s always exciting to hit a big body of water. We made a bit of detour to enjoy the lake side ride. Just as I was going under the raised bed of the bullet trains, one went over my head at its top speed. That much mass, going at 250km/h or 150mph, this close to you… it’s awe-inspiring. Yet anothe engineering accomplishment of the modern era.

We had one ramen lunch, but I couldn’t find us a good second lunch. Perhaps because of that, somewhere further out but before a climb, I bonked. I took a bit of break, ate the food I was carrying, and I got going again.

The Futakawa village, another one of those 53 rest stop villages, was beautifully preserved. We were looking for a sweet place to recharge our energy, and in that process we found some local elders exhibiting their proud rock collections. Each one of those carefully potted, named, an displayed. I love hearing from people who are passionate about whatever, and they had all the time in the world. We had a wonderful moment. But we had to keep going. We still got another 30km or so to cover.

We stopped for beer quickly, and ended the day at a big resort hotel by the Mikawa bay (三河湾). We had a commanding view of the bay from our room, and the sunset time was incredible. There were hardly any guests staying here, either.

Day 4

I woke up early in the morning, as I do, and I clicked some pictures. I waited for the public bath to open, and a guard took a pity on me and he let me in earlier. Thanks to him, I had the whole place to myself. He said he does triathlon, so we had a bit of conversation about my bike. He then immediately profusely apologized for stepping over the boundary and “bothering me”. That’s a very Asian move, but I felt both his professionalism and his warmth, and that moved me.

We both filled ourselves to the brim with breakfast buffet, and we rolled out. Rain over night really cleared the air, and moisture rising from the mountains created purple cloud. Such a beautiful day to ride.

We rode a busy car road for a while, then we turned right to Tokaido, which in this are is more of a residential street. Bike riding is so up close to people’s daily lives. I love these sections where you get a real glimpse into the local life.

As we headed to Nagoya (名古屋), the road got really busy. The urban sprawl went on endlessly. This was perhaps the least enjoyable section of the whole route. Most drivers passed me with a safe distance, and I have a relatively high tolerance for cars passing me close, but even for me, at times things were scary. I probably should have chosen a different route.

In Nagoya, we made a stop at the Atsuta jingu shrine. A historical, very prestigious shrine. We sat and ate noodles here. I noticed that two young women behind me was deeply engaged in a conversation where one lady was bitterly complaining about how a common friend of theirs just keep imitating her fashion, jewelry, whatever. She went on for the whole time I was there, and I was kind of impressed with her ability to remember and replay the emotion in such gorgeous details. The other woman was acknowledging her feelings, but she was also making the point I wish she would make; for example, if it bothers her that much, she needs to say so! According to the first woman complaining, their common friend does seek a permission to buy something similar! Such emotional maturity, and incredible patience. What can I say, the world was peaceful on that day.

Once we left Nagoya, things to a little better. From time to time, Tokaido left the busy car road and became a small residential road connecting one village to next. Because we started a little late on this day, the day was ending soon. No beer stop for us today. What a bummer.

We got to our hotel at the Suzuka circuit just about the time when the Sun went down There was a truly breathtaking red sunset, but by the time I came back with my camera in my hand, that was already over. Darn.

I can’t believe this trip is almost over.

Day 5

The road was much better today, as we mostly avoided the busy car roads. I’ve never been to this part of Japan, and I’m seeing a lot more of the rice fields. More houses look classic here. Big wooden pillars and beams, and highly decorated roofs. The road occasionally goes through the historic stops.

We went through the second biggest climb of this whole journey at the Suzuka mountain, and from there the road has nice smooth descent all the way to the biggest lake in Japan, the Biwa lake.

Once again, emotionally I got a little overwhelmed when the long straight road finally terminated at the lake shore. It’s the literal end of the road. This isn’t actually the end of the ride, but the end was definitely approaching.

We rode along the shore for a bit, got into a town, I was able to find a great lunch spot serving local beef. I started seeing trains whose signage said they are heading to Kyoto. Minute by minute we were getting closer to Kyoto!

The actual end of the ride was rather anti-climatic. It was at the Sanjo bridge, a major intersection, but there was very much life as usual going on there. Tourists busily walking around, cars going every which way, and nobody paid any attention to us. There wasn’t even a signage that commemorates the end of this historic road. Perhaps for Kyoto, this was just one of many roads that led to rural areas of Japan!

We celebrated our accomplishments and safe arrivals by having beer, then we hopped on a bullet train heading back to Tokyo. It was perhaps on this train I felt the true closure of this epic journey.

For about 2 hours, I’ve seen our entire journey played back, in reverse, right outside the train window. I could see the towns we passed, rivers we crossed, the mountains we rode by. From time to time I could literally spot the exact roads we rode. Those were mere few days ago, but it felt like such a long time ago, too. And the train was going so fast!

What an epic adventure it was. I’m so grateful I’m alive.

Now I’m wondering where next.

(See the entire picture collection at ↓)