High and Far Episode 5

Morning in Iida, Shinshu.
A national highway with a high rate of light trucks. The buildings along the road are low. Pedestrians are sparse. Every time I see an intersection, a yakiniku restaurant catches my eye. There seem to be many of them, but I didn't feel the sense of seediness or shadiness that one might expect from a street crowded with yakiniku joints. It was a slightly sleepy town where the clock hands seemed to move slowly.
We cruised through the town for a bit and parked our two motorcycles side-by-side in the somewhat spacious parking lot of a mass retailer along the highway.
"What do you want to do?" Yosuke asked.
I knew he was asking about food, but I replied, "It's hot." I couldn't take it anymore. While we were riding, the wind made it bearable, but once we descended the mountain and stopped at a red light, sweat erupted like a spring, and I could feel a flood occurring inside my leather jacket.
I struggled to take off the leather jacket that was sticking to my sweat, and a T-shirt wetter than the bus stop in the morning revealed itself.
"That's why I told you. It's hot, I said. Just ride in your shirt," Yosuke said.
I envied Yosuke's thin jacket, which looked just right for the current temperature. I had gone all the way home to get mine, after all.
Once I took it off, I was at a loss. What was I supposed to do with the leather jacket? It was a heavy, bulky leather jacket. It was impossible to cross the sleeves and tie it to the tandem belt on the seat. Ignoring Yosuke's exasperated look, I tried to struggle to strap it to the bike frame, but it was no use. In the end, I decided to tie the sleeves around my waist until we reached the breakfast spot.
For breakfast, which also served as lunch (I didn't know this term, but apparently it's called brunch abroad), we chose a place along the highway that looked like an American diner. It was a coffee shop built in a style that often appears as one of those strangely elaborate, stylish shops you occasionally see along highways in rural areas.
When we entered the shop, there was a blue counter in front. Eight stools. Five white-table booth seats by the window, making it quite large. There were three groups of neighborhood regulars in the primary-colored interior. A bearded master guided us, saying, "Please sit wherever you like."
When we sat in a booth in the back, a waitress who looked like the female vocalist of a psychedelic band that was popular a long time ago came to take our order, and we both ordered the morning service, which was supposed to end at 11:00.
When I knowingly remarked that the waitress must be the bearded master's mistress, Yosuke arbitrarily gave her the nickname "Iria" and called her that. It seemed we were imagining the same person based on the shop's atmosphere and her appearance.
Thus, Iria lined the table with more morning service than we could eat—which she said was the Nagoya style—and asked us,
"Are you guys on bikes?"
Yosuke answered yes, and explained that we had ridden all night from Kyoto to get here, and that we had taken shelter from the rain in the mountains. Perhaps out of pride, he didn't reveal that it was a trip to get over a broken heart.
After hearing Iria's response, which was somewhere between admiration for a bike trip—something motorcyclists often hear—and mere pleasantry, we asked her about the shop. It was the kind of conversation with a clerk I wouldn't normally have. It felt like an adult pastime while traveling.
According to Iria, the shop had drifted here from a town near Nagoya—I asked which one, but forgot as soon as I heard—where there were many rivals. So, while the land was Ina Valley Iida, the service became Nagoya-style. Since she didn't mention the American diner interior or the oldies playing, they probably didn't mean much to her.
Neither of us were foodies who would lecture while eating, and our tongues were such that we'd say anything with ketchup on it was delicious, so the taste was perfect. With the healthy appetite of teenagers, we ate more than enough for three meals, and after that, it was coffee.
A full stomach makes you need the toilet. When I returned from the restroom, Yosuke had pulled over the red-and-white checkered ashtray and was puffing on a cigarette. Eating, drinking, and smoking. A busy man, I thought.
When Iria came to pour a refill of coffee and scolded him, "Don't smoke when you're a high school student," he didn't even bother to put it out immediately. Everything about it was just like Yosuke.
"So, where are you guys going?" Iria asked.
She asked again, as if she had a particular interest in our motorcycle trip. I felt it wasn't just pleasantry.
We had been fed three meals for 500 yen. This was a situation where not answering would invite the accusation of being inhuman. Perhaps Yosuke thought so too, as he revealed the destination he had been vague about.
"To Takato?" Iria asked, looking puzzled.
"Yes," we both replied.
"There's nothing there."
"That's fine," Yosuke said. Is that so?
"Takato, huh... You're young but have refined taste."
"We'll get there by evening, right?" Yosuke asked Iria.
"You're on bikes, right? It won't even take an hour and a half."
"Huh?" we both exclaimed in unison.
We politely declined Iria's offer to pour more coffee and held a strategy meeting.
"What do we do?" Yosuke asked.
He must have meant the destination. So I told him, "What do you mean 'what do we do'? We're going to Takato, aren't we?"
"No, but according to what she just said, we'll be there by early afternoon."
"That's fine. Is there a problem with getting there early?"
"I had an image of Takato at sunset. In the middle of the day..."
As if I care, I thought. However, it seemed unexpectedly important to him, and after saying that it was the same in that detective drama, he became very solemn and stopped talking, so I offered an idea.
"Then, should we go sightseeing somewhere to kill time?"
"Then there's no point in riding all night."
"Then, we can just go to Takato now and wander around town until evening."
"That's exactly the 'what do we do?' part. The local said there's nothing there. What are we supposed to do?"
"Is there really nothing?" I asked.
"There's a castle."
"Then..."
Before I could continue, Yosuke denied it. "But there's no castle tower. Just stone walls. It'll take an hour at most. Half a day is impossible."
"Anything else?"
"I don't know."
The conversation ended. It was clear that Takato was not a tourist city. If it were a town with scattered killer spots like Kyoto or Uji, killing half a day would be easy, but killing half a day in Muko or Nagaokakyo is impossible. Takato belongs to the latter.
Gourmet food is a theory of travel, but...
Since we're in Shinshu, maybe some soba. No, my stomach was full.
In the end, we didn't find an answer to "What do we do?"
After waiting for Yosuke to use the restroom, we went outside.
Suddenly, the summer sun. Two people with nothing. Is the only thing missing a destination?
In my hand was a two-meter piece of vinyl string I got from Iria. When I consulted her about my trouble with the leather jacket, she skillfully cut it from the shop's supplies and handed it to me.
The two motorcycles parked in the back parking lot looked great against the summer sky. In the back, the green of the rice fields spread out. If you squinted, it was a landscape like a Coca-Cola commercial.
I folded the leather jacket into a 50-centimeter square with brute force, had Yosuke hold it down on the back of the Kawasaki seat, and tied it to the bike with the string.
Heat countermeasures were also taken. Now we can go anywhere.
We put on our helmets and, for now, fired up the engines. There was nothing left to do but start riding.
Iida is, as Yosuke said, a town surrounded by high mountains to the east, west, and south. I wouldn't call it a dead-end town like he did, but the only opening is to the north, and since Takato, where we were headed, was also to the north, there was only one path.
Without even signaling to each other, we naturally turned north onto the national highway in front of us.
Route 153. The main artery of the Ina Valley. The deep valley blocking the sunlight I had imagined before coming. The tight winding roads along the steep gorge. The damp road surface that never dries. None of that was there.
It was a leisurely road going through flat land surrounded by mountains. Ups and downs enough to stave off boredom. Towns of 30,000, 40,000, or 50,000 people appeared and disappeared, connected by fields. The only strange thing was that the license plates were Matsumoto instead of Kyoto, but for someone raised in a basin, it was a familiar suburban highway landscape.
If that was the inner shell, the outer shell was different.
Blue sky. Green mountains. The 50 km/h wind blowing through my T-shirt. Everything was just right and comfortable.
The sky seemed close yet high. The mountains seemed reachable yet far. They were different things in a different place. Maybe this is what you call special.
Comfort also invited other things.
Was it lack of sleep, the feeling of fullness, or did the boring road make it happen? Drowsiness attacked me.
The rear of a light truck approached. Good night, then.
Then I was startled. Or rather, it was like electricity ran through me, like the brain's switch was forcibly activated from the outside.
Before I could even say good morning, I slammed on the brakes. The rear wheel went wild. I read the load capacity of the light truck in front of me. I stopped just that close.
When I looked at Yosuke, he had a puzzled look on his face, though I couldn't tell if he had noticed my blunder or not.
Having too little tension is also a problem.
That was the kind of journey it was.

It must have been past noon. We headed north, ever north. When the car in front was gone, we opened the throttle, and when it appeared, we followed the flow. Using the national highway the same way as the valley residents, not like visitors.
The Tenryu River on the right. The former JNR single track on the left. Occasionally they peeked out. It seems we were rendezvousing through the valley the whole time. If so, that's fine.
The word "Takato" began to dance frequently on the blue signs. It seemed we would soon be parting ways with Route 153. After passing through the small bustle in front of Ina Station and crossing a small bridge over a tributary, we turned on our blinkers for the first time in a while and turned right. Once more, we crossed a bridge over the main stream of the Tenryu River. Takato must be just around the corner now.
After crossing the river, the road headed toward the mountains. Route 361. The destination of this road is Takato. The road number increased, but the number of cars decreased significantly compared to Route 153. It was a road where we could ride at our own speed. Both Yosuke and I cruised casually, leaning our bikes as we pleased. It was a road that allowed for that.
Riding with him when it came to this was always fun. I think the necessary element for a partner in mass touring is that you live in the same speed range. If one has to match the other, the one matching will feel constant stress. That's true whether it's fast or slow. Conversely, I don't want to force a burden on the other person.
In that case, it's easier and feels better to ride alone.
With Yosuke, there was none of that. Speeding up, slowing down, engaging in public road races, the timing of when we got tired was also similar. It was as close to perfect harmony as you could get.
A motorcycle that came from behind us overtook us. Both of us at the same time on a small straight at the exit of a corner. I couldn't even confirm the manufacturer or the model. Since it was a racer replica with a Tama license plate, it might have been a Tokyo street racer. All I saw was the rear, and after handling the next curve, it was gone.
We didn't chase.
I thought Yosuke might compete and twist the throttle, but he didn't bother with them either. After riding for a while, we caught up to the Tama plate that was caught at a red light, but even then, when it turned green, we watched the rear end accelerate busily from a pulled low gear to second and third, echoing with a muffler sound like a late-summer cicada screaming madly.
We live in different worlds. That was the sentiment.
It's not about Kyoto versus Tokyo.
It's not what the place represents, but what the view on life represents.
We are both motorcyclists. We were compatriots, but I often felt that difference. The Tama plate and us are surely the same. If anything, they might have been provoking us and wanted us to take the bait.
There are some annoying guys who come to socialize, saying we're compatriots, even though they're showing that they live in a different world.
That wait at the traffic light might have been that kind of action.
But we didn't go there. Actually, maybe going there is the right thing to do.
Gaining various experiences and choosing not to go is what's called the main path. It's what you call adult behavior, and maybe ours is just a green impulse that hasn't reached that point yet.
Maybe, maybe, it is.