07: A Tagalong’s Take

A missive from the rest day.

Editor’s note: Today we feature our first, very special, guest post from Tom Blaksley, the other two wheels on this adventure across Japan. Tom had barely cycled before this trip. 1,000km in and he’s a convert, lycra and all.

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Our mornings have developed a degree of routine. Come 6am, a firm but friendly jab to my ribs sets the day in motion. As I grunt and groan my way out of my soporific stupor, I reflect on Marcus Aurelius’ observation that there is no experience, only our reaction to the experience. For as similar as our respective morning regimens might seem, their subjective reality could hardly be more different.

Each dawn, Oscar wakes to feel the mountain air against his skin, he smells the cedar wood of the neighbouring onsen, and he sees a day bristling with untapped adventure. Meanwhile, I wake to feel the unforgiving tatami against my fatigued thighs, I smell the musk of our cycling shorts, and I see nothing but The Sheet.

‘We live by The Sheet. We die by The Sheet’ — Oscar

Bleary eyed I cast my gaze down to today’s date (row 19) before nervously scanning across to column E (Distance, kilometres): 116. Eek. In futile search of comfort, I check the cells under column F (Elevation, metres): 957. It’s going to be long day.

Meanwhile, the contents of columns C and D are but shadows and dust. I hear rumours that they detail the names of our days’ start and end points. But lost amongst their minestrone of hard consonants — the correct sequencing of which I never quite grasp — I see only distance and elevation. Distance and elevation.

Paul Smith x Family Mart (SS24)

Not being a man of the cloth (but increasingly of the Lycra), I can’t help but find a degree of intrigue in so comprehensively surrendering the cadence of my existence to a higher, almighty power — up in the cloud, no less. These columns have become my commandments. The rows my rites. The Sheet my scripture. Google my god.

As with any faith, such acquiescence of autonomy can be as enlivening as it is limiting. (I think of the monks on Koyasan, what would they make of The Sheet? ) Each day’s mandate brings experiences I would have otherwise never known: Coastal sunset rides, Buddhist mountain ceremonies, oysters the size of my head. With one hand The Sheet giveth.

But we are also bound by the will of The Sheet, which knows not nor cares for our own desires. Slip into that listening bar? Stay for a sake? Sleep just a moment longer? No time. With the other hand The Sheet taketh away.

— And on the fourteenth day, the Lord rested.

But with might comes mercy, and as His will would have it, I write this the after a blessed day of rest.

Contrary to that of less demanding doctrines, our Lord grants such respite but one day in thirty. What lies on the second half of our pedal-powered pilgrimage, I wonder? Might our mobile monastery bring forth some form of rolling redemption?

No time to ponder. The jab to the ribs has returned, more firm than friendly this time.