BACK IN THE SADDLE
by Mick Gronert
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I broke the first rule of riding last December in a hideous thump of scraping metal and torn fairings and the helpless feeling of being flung like a rag-doll down the road head-first. Touching down with a hard-as face plant is something that often replays in my head during the quiet darkness of the early hours.
I woke up with one leg wrapped in plaster in a Japanese hospital, delirious, in pain with no memory of what had happened? until I saw my smashed helmet next to the bed and things started to fall into place.
"Where's my bike?" I asked the doctor. "Where is it, what happened?"
"I only fixed you; I know nothing of your wretched machine."
"Where's my bike?" was a question I'd apparently been asking every ten seconds for about four hours with no recollection of ever being answered. But now I was slowly coming to face the horrific reality of it all.
"I didn't kill anyone did I?" A shuddering thought, under the cloudy circumstances it was a very real possibility. This question was running through my mind and no amount of reassurance from the doctors could ease my nerves until I eventually received confirmation from the police.
How I survived isn't something I like to dwell upon; combined with the months of patronising gayness surrounding the healing of broken bones and should-have-known-better lectures from all manner of non-riding types. But I'm not the first person to crash, pretty sure I won't be the last and I take comfort in the knowledge that these sufferings have been worth the glorious chance to ride again.
Which brings me to last weekend - I'd picked up the ZX6R a week before, looking splendid in her shiny new skin, then cruised for two and a half hours to make the sixty clicks home. At one stage, I could see a string of nine green lights ahead and traffic wasn't moving, definitely not the best conditions for riding, but such things must be expected over here in Nagoya, Japan ? proud home of the nation's worst traffic record for crashes and crash-related deaths. Knowing that I'd only just recently added to these statistics, the aim was to enjoy the ride, get home in one piece and shake the feeling that not every four-wheeled cage monkey was trying to knock me off.
Back to the office and spent most of the week planning a belated assault out to Korankei, a beautiful riverside location about 40km north-east of Nagoya, surrounded by some of the most magnificent roads I have ever had the joy of riding. That said, quality mountain-roads come thick and fast in this land of post-volcanic destruction, so I decided that any destination would be best left undecided and that for the time being, general travel would suffice.
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| The 636 by the river at Korankei |
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| Musashi and his SR500 |
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| Hiro and his Vulcan |
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| ...and his monkey |
Some of the stuff you see drivers doing over here is enough to make you burst out laughing before the level of danger and stupidity sinks in and you shit your pants. Young women fixing make-up, texting, reading books or watching TV are on the seriously mundane end of the scale. I've passed a number of mothers letting their babies steer the car, a father holding his baby out the window, and one guy with his miniature Dachshund (Japanese pet de rigueur) resting between his shoulders and the head-rest like some sort of hairy neck pillow. So needless to say, it was nice to see the police out signing autographs for the wild and reckless until I noticed one whip out from the next on-ramp and turn his lights on behind me. He then sped up, passed and promptly pulled over the truck a couple of hundred metres ahead where I quickly noticed another pair of the blue-clothed had stopped some more cage monsters.
"God speed, brother, and clean these filthy streets." Not easy words to say, but under the circumstances valid.
I'm led to believe Japanese police bikes do not patrol anything the expensive side of a toll booth, which in my experience has thus far proven true. But these are strange times, in a land where weird and obscure happenings are common. I pulled up and whilst searching for the required coins, quietly reasoned to myself that the recent massive and unexplained presence of lawmen could mean nothing else but a lack thereof on the immediate road ahead.
Shooting through the gates, the ZX6R let out a howling ram-air induced orgasm. Something I hadn't heard in a long while, and was sending those nice tingles up my spine just as TGR breaks into a set of nice left-to-right hand sweepers which taken at a fairly liberal speed, are nothing short of a divine experience. You then head uphill into some wonderful twisty sections before it drops into an endless downhill right-hander that rolls back onto a more sedate highway before eventually coming to an abrupt stop at a T-intersection.
I then cruised through some small country towns, stopping at randomly placed traffic lights and at a road construction site where I came across a matching pair of Ducati Monsters approaching like a couple of speeding yellow grapefruits, both bikes and riders decked out head to toe in the Italian marque's latest accessories. From my stationary position I gave the mandatory nod... no response. "No bother, perhaps they didn't see me," I mumbled, cynicism dribbling down to my helmet chinstrap.
Snick into first and continue on my way. A few Ks later, I pass some scowling leather vested chaps on sparkling V Rods... nod, clearly this time... again no response. In total, I passed at least 40 bikes along the way, and my acknowledgement was reciprocated once - by some guy on a ZX9R - it seems that much of the time over here its not THAT you ride, but WHAT you ride that warrants friendly acknowledgement.
I am a believer that for the most part, bike people are good people and regardless of any language or cultural differences, it's our appreciation for two wheels that is an undeniable and internationally identifiable basis for communication and understanding. But as with anything, there will always be anomalies. There will always be those who ride because in some ways, it is a cheaper option, because they want to look tough, or because it's trendy. However, it is those precious souls who ride for freedom, for enjoyment and the love of their machines that stoke the coals of pride in my heart.
This brings us to Korankei, a stunning mountain town nestling between two densely forested mountains and split up the middle by a crystal clear river. A great place to stop and rest at any time of year except November, when the autumn leaves change and millions of old people flock from around the country and block the in-roads with their luxury coaches.
I had no trouble finding a park, bought a bottle of cold water and walked down to the river. The thermometer sticking out of the town hall read a respectable 38 degrees and I was feeling it. A nice log bench under a tree provided a fine place to kick back and enjoy the number of young bikini'd women escaping the heat and splashing in the cool mountain water. A perfect treat on a gorgeous day I was thinking, just as I spotted two hefty chunks of chrome glistening on the other side of the river. A brisk walk across the bridge found a Kawasaki Vulcan and 1950s café racer styled Yamaha SR400, which is a common custom choice here in Japan due to its design similarity with old British singles and the huge popularity of rockabilly culture.
"Do you know Japanese fish Ayu?" a voice came from behind me.
I turned to see a long-haired Japanese bloke in what appeared to be a Harley-Davidson-style print muscle shirt pointing at a fish tank filled with this local delicacy.
Musashi, as he turned out to be called is the owner of the SR and also, it turns out, a Bar called ELVIS in Nagoya's red-light district. But that's another story. We talked bikes, work, life and all manner of bullshit, as people do, then his mate appeared from the eatery behind us. Turns out he lives just down the road from my place. We took some photos of the bikes as some lady started going through the Vulcan's saddle bags.
"Look, monkey", she says. The woman, his wife was holding this furry possum-like critter which had come along for the ride it would seem, in the saddle bag. I've no idea if the poor things eyes were born poking out or it was because it had spent the morning rattling in a leather bag next to the hot, blaring exhausts of a 2000cc V-twin.
"Yeah, nice monkey," I said, hurrying to get photographic evidence. All the while thinking, "No one will believe this." She wanted me to hold the little bastard, but I'm not too fond of rabies and politely declined.
Great people, but we were heading in different directions so the time came to say goodbye and part ways.
I got back on the bike and I sought another quick dose of the twisties before heading home. It may not have been a long ride by any stretch of the imagination, but it was most definitely satisfying. The old slogan about meeting the nicest people on a Honda may be true, I honestly don't care. I've met some pretty strange and unique characters on my bike, and it's those people I've found to be the best kind, especially in this holiday-less land of robotic company-slaves. A day of perfect weather, perfect roads and an awesome ride reacquainting myself on what for me is my perfect bike: I couldn't ask for anything more.
