Hill Climb Heaven: UFO Line

Does everyone have a dream place they want to ride their road bike to? When you first started road biking, didn't you search online for cycling spots to decide where to head on your next day off?

Since I live in Kagawa Prefecture, I was always looking for cycling spots around Shikoku. Well, there's the Shimanami Kaido, which is famous—or rather, a holy land for cyclists—and in my home prefecture of Kagawa, there's the Shonai Peninsula with Chichibugahama, which is apparently called the Uyuni Salt Lake of Japan. Then there's the 100km loop around Shodoshima, just an hour away by ferry from Kagawa. Everyone loves the 'Mameichi' loop, and so on.

When I look at various people's blogs, they are riding their bikes through incredible, breathtaking scenery. How cool is that? And how exhilarating must it be? My expectations would swell, but when I actually went, it often ended up being 10% breathtaking scenery and 90% ascetic training. A certain alchemist once said that to gain something, you must lose something—equivalent exchange. You experience a hellish journey in exchange for a breathtaking view. It makes perfect sense. This is a flag. It's a hint, or rather the answer, to how things will unfold later.

By the way, the '10 seconds of breathtaking scenery' might just be because my sensitivity is dead, so please don't take it the wrong way.

Among such cycling spots in Shikoku, one stands out for its breathtaking scenery: the UFO Line. It's a famous place where you can ride along the ridge of the Ishizuchi mountain range, the highest peak in western Japan. It's easiest if you just search for 'UFO Line.' The grand nickname 'Road to the Sky' is no exaggeration; you can truly ride in an unbelievable place.

Because it's such an unbelievable place, it's naturally a remote, unexplored region—meaning it's deep in the mountains and at a high altitude. This is the route that came up when I searched for 'UFO Line cycling course' online.

About 70km with 2000m of elevation gain. Nowadays, that's just a 'bit of a climb,' but when I had just started being able to ride 100km, it seemed like an incredibly hard course. In fact, it is stupidly hard. Moreover, it's deep in the mountains of the mountains, with no convenience stores or supply points, and even the existence of vending machines is questionable. I was terrified that if I had a hunger knock or a mechanical issue in such an environment, I might not be able to make it back.

This guy is too smart. If I had done something stupid like 'I'll just go for it!' during my beginner phase, I feel like I would have ended up in a hopeless situation and quit, thinking cycling is total crap. Well, my leg strength is still like a beginner's, though.

However, even a beginner-like person such as myself has overcome numerous death rides, so I am different from two years ago. Even recently, I've battled super-category mountains like Mt. Tsurugi and Mt. Kotsu, and had a 'crap ride' where I got so lost that a planned 160km turned into nearly 200km. My range of recklessness has expanded compared to the past. It should have, anyway.

One of the reasons I do things like road biking that feel like painful training is simply that as the distance I can ride enjoyably increases, the number of places I can go increases. The 'enjoyably' part is the key; I don't think it's enjoyable if you have dozens of kilometers left to go while your legs are completely shot. It's fine if it's training, but it's not a fun cycling trip. Effort is necessary for that. The enjoyment you get from something mediocre is only mediocre.

I sound like I'm preaching and saying something wonderful, but the thing that made me the happiest in my life related to my hobbies—to the point of tears—wasn't road biking, but clearing a crazy game called SEKIRO. Those who know, know FromSoftware games. Among them, SEKIRO was truly amazing.
Days spent fighting the final boss relentlessly, morning and night, for about a week. The trial and error of figuring out what to do, the stress that builds up, throwing the controller, and the catharsis that comes after. I cried.

And so, the joy of having a week's worth of hardship rewarded. I think the more hardship there is in reaching a breathtaking view while cycling, the more moving the scenery will be. No, I want to think so.

That's why, having leveled up, I headed to the UFO Line. A certain fluffy creature from the Abyss also said, 'You can't stop the longing.' Nnaa.

When I was driving to start from the recommended route at Michi-no-Eki Kinone, the road along the Kamo River looked good. Too good, right? Once I thought that, I couldn't sit still, so I made a U-turn to Saijo Station, parked the car, and set off.

I don't know why, but I like roads along mountain streams and rivers. The Japanese summer is right here.

Well, as most would expect, it goes without saying that this was a big mistake, and I climb quite a bit after this. It's basically one full hill climb. And then, the Kanpuzan Tunnel appears.

If there's one thing I hate about cycling, it's headwinds, wall-like climbs, and various other things, but for me, it's tunnels by a landslide. People who don't ride bikes probably won't understand at all, but tunnels are incredibly scary. Because of the road width, cars are close, there are many trucks, and above all, the echoing sound fuels my fear.

And then, the Kanpuzan Tunnel. I saw the length was 5km? No, should I turn back? I thought, but it was too much of a hassle, so I plunged in. My cycle computer stopped, so I don't know, but it was probably a 3% climb the whole way. Scary.

However, once you pass through the tunnel, you are in Kochi Prefecture. Crossing the prefectural border gets me excited.

After that, I took a break at Michi-no-Eki Konoka. The water is ridiculously clear. It is just too pristine.

From there, I headed back toward the Kanpuzan Tunnel and onto the UFO Line.

By the way, it is a brutal climb. Where did my enthusiasm for a fun day of cycling go? When I checked my cycle computer just before the Kanpuzan Tunnel, I saw I had already climbed about 700 or 800 meters. My legs were already finished by the time I reached this sign.

It is truly tough. The gradient is steep and it just goes on forever. There is a slight descent from where this sign is, but I know that what goes down must come back up. Please, stop.

After that, I somehow managed to keep turning the pedals in a sorry state until a rugged, hand-dug tunnel appeared, marking the end of the serious climbing. Of course, my legs were finished too. After this, I started to feel like I had enough as I repeated small ups and downs.

But if you turn the pedals, you move forward. A bike never betrays you. The scenery I had seen in photos spread out before my eyes. The blue sky was so blue it looked like a collage. It is strong, the UFO Line is just too strong.

I was so overwhelmed that I muttered to myself, "This is amazing." I soaked in the emotion for about 10 seconds, and then immediately felt a bit down thinking about the future, realizing I hadn't even ridden 50 kilometers yet.

I thought I would show off the evolved version of myself, but reality is harsh, and once you hit over 1000 meters of elevation gain, your weakness becomes glaringly obvious.

This brings me back to what I mentioned earlier about riding for fun. It is only natural that Kanpuzan, where this UFO Line is located, is tough. But I think if I had the legs to pedal all the way to the end, the view from the top would look different.

However, it is a view that truly deserves to be called spectacular, and they say it has its own charm in every season, so I want to build up the leg strength to enjoy it with some composure and challenge it again.

Don't be tactless and ask if it's because I started from Saijo Station.

The feeling of "I actually made it here by bike!" is incredible. I won't tell anyone that I felt smug when the construction worker directing traffic on my way down was surprised to hear I had climbed up from Saijo.

It was fun, though.