Fujieda trip #1 (Shizuoka Prefecture)
My first solo two-overnight ride from the house. Travelling on the coldest days of the season was a good shakedown for winter equipment and clothing. I packed the wherewithal to have the option of bagging the bike and returning by train, and I used it, for reasons explained herein.
This New Year’s Day I had a vague intention to ride again to the free campground at Sasado, but this year I was unable to stir myself when the day arrived. By mid-February, despite the cold weather I getting restless, and almost absent mindedly made a couple of changes to adapt to winter riding. Bar mitts on the straight handlebars of the touring beast would (so I thought) allow me to ride bare-handed and so able to work the touch screen on the phone I use for navigation. Also, I turned to the forestry boots I’d used only on rare snow days since university as a warmer option than either the riding shoes or the lightweight Merrells that I use for summer hiking. After catching up on some pruning work in the garden, I decided it was time to hit the road again.
My very first camping ride had been to Hamamatsu, so I made that my first target. (I have a lurking ambition to one day attempt a ride through to Kanto, so I settled on a second-day campground at about the same distance again from the first-day goal. More on that later.)
- GPX data: Nisshin ↣ Hamamatsu
I planned to depart around 6:30 or 7:00, to arrive late afternoon with enough light to pitch the tent. It was cold outside and dark by the time I got around to final prep, so I gave the steed a treat and brought it indoors for tweaks and tuning.
One thing I’ve noticed from riding around in Nagoya and its surroundings is that bikeways tend to figure in transit planning for one of two purposes: students biking to school; and industrial staff commuting to work. Of the two, the latter tend to be the more well designed and well maintained, with fully separated pathways and no jarring curb ridges to bounce over. It does make me wonder about the impact of the simple cost of commuting in the US, where most households have to dedicate at least one vehicle to getting to and from work.
The photo below was taken outside a plant near the border between Chiryū and Okazaki.
It’s not common, but there are some intersections in Japan that have no zebra crossings and cannot be safely traversed by bicycle when traffic is in full swing. This one in Okazaki is among the worst in class that I’ve encountered. Look at that rust!
When a friend visited in November of last year, we went to the Marukyū hatchō miso museum and factory in Okazaki. A long walk from there along the riverside brought us to the JR station, which is fed from street level by a distinctive flyover walkway. When I passed the same intersection on this ride, I was like, “I know this place! Small world!” I didn’t detour to the miso museum though, and pressed on.
At around 11:00, when exiting Okazaki proper into a stretch of farmland, the wind was blowing pretty good, but between sunshine and exertion the down jacket was feeling pretty hot. I stopped to swap it for a down vest and windbreaker, then noticed a Lawson a short distance away on the main road. After a rest stop, I strolled out munching on a snack to stretch my legs and took a snap of this out-of-business (and abandoned?) Shōwa era milk stand.
Small businesses like the milk stand may be fading from view, but it seems the spirit of big-brand retail springs eternal. Another twenty minutes’ ride down the road took me past this construction site for an outlet mall. I’d visited one of these late last year.1 They’re huge things, veritable theme parks of consumerism, and draw a lot of foreign shoppers.
When this motorboat parking lot hove into view, I knew I’d reached Hamamatsu. From this point the campground is only a couple of bridge crossings away. On my first trip to Hamamatsu, I lost time to a flat tire, hit this final stretch in the dark, didn’t spot the separated cycleway on one of the bridge spans, and rode it in the traffic lane in a state of terror. On the cycleway, though, it’s an easy low-stress segment.
I reached the campground in good time. I’d reserved a spot online, but when I rolled in I found that the reception building and surrounding area were cordoned off for renovation work. After wandering around in confusion for a bit, I approached a woman working security and she told me where to go. While setting up camp, I began to feel the routinization of packing and unpacking. It was quick and smooth, but the crows at this site are bold, clever, and quick. Despite being not three meters from other tents, when I stepped away for a couple of minutes to grab some bottled water from a vending machine, the flying rats pounced on homemade bread that I’d sliced and packed in heavy-duty plastic pouche, ripping holes into them and making off with a few crumbs. Apparently there are also scavenger cats about. Next time I’ll pack a squirt gun.
I’ve no photos of my own from this first day’s camp, but counter staff asked to take a snap to post on the campground’s “insta” account. Four hundred likes, some of ’em by real people! The girl on staff recommended a grilled Unagi restaurant, and while it turned out to be closed in the evening, I found another a short distance beyond and treated myself to a good full repast.
I woke up early the next morning, and was on the road again by 8:00. The wind was at my back, which was great, but I began to think that the return would be a good deal less pleasant than the ride out.
- GPX data: Hamamatsu ↣ Okubo Campground
This is another hasty snap taken after a convenience store rest stop (at a Family Mart, on this occasion). I was curious about the story behind the Gaudi-themed spires on this building, but left the detective work as an exercise for the future and pressed on.
Following up, I first checked for churches in the area. These all turn out to be nondescript structures, mostly utilitarian flat-roofed buildings of modest proportions with not a spire among them. Further digging raised a laugh when this was revealed to be The Abbey Church, which despite the name is neither an abbey nor a church, but the venue of a wedding hall business.
Looking at the map, it appears that a few blocks previous I had obliviously cruised past Hamamatsu Castle. Clearly my tourist chops are in need of polishing. Next time!
On the east edge of the city of Kakegawa, the route set by navigation skirted National Route 1 for a stretch, in a segment that proved to run up a set of stairs that hadn’t seen much recent traffic, to put it mildly. The overgrowth here and on the path beyond was not too severe, however, and I was able to pretty much adhere to the planned route.
North of the Route 1 crossing there was the first and most daunting climb of the ride. The road—the “Kurata-Shimada Way”—was both steep and pretty well trafficked. Tiring by this point in the ride, I couldn’t trust myself to hold a line at low speed, and so dismounted and pushed for portions of the climb. With one eye on the elevation profile, I saw that I was nearing the peak, when the planned route turned sharp to the left off of the main road, onto what proved to be an extremely steep concrete-surfaced access road for a tea plantation perched atop a hill. The drop down the other side into the town beyond was longer and if anything even steeper.
The view from the top was refreshing, and reminded me of a day spent in the village of Troyanski in Bulgaria in 1982, where I spent a pleasant afternoon seated with my back to a haystack atop a similar hill, jotting entries in my travel diary. One look at that drop on the other side, though, and I knew that I absolutely wouldn’t be riding the return. Somehow I would need to hook up with the train network after the night’s camping.
After descending into the town below the tea plantation (Shimada City), the second climb of the ride was a better experience. I was hit with a minor flurry of snow midway, but the upper stretch of the route was wide enough only for a single vehicle, which is stressful for drivers but for that very reason a welcome relief for the cyclist. I was surprised to pass a brew pub (193 Valley Brewing. A couple were firing up a barbecue in the parking lot, so I stopped to inquire about camping arrangements, for future reference. The arrangement there is for camping cars and SUVs only (no tents), but after chatting with the owners I picked up a bottle of pale ale as a souvenier.
Further up the line, about four kilometers from goal, I met a car coming down the hill, and stopped to pull over an let him pass. The driver rolled down his window, offered to chat, pulled over, and we had a long talk there in the roadway. Only one vehicle happened by during our confab, a chopper on his way up the hill that we waved past. The driver was returning from a visit to “Takaosan” (高尾山) a Shizuoka peak that I initially confused with the Mt. Takao of Hachiōji in Tokyo (also 高尾山). He pressed me with mikan and some snacks, and was concerned about my prep for cold weather camping. I assured him all was well, it was a good encounter, I shared the address of the blog with him, and I hope he had a safe journey home!
I reached the Okubō Campground before dusk, and at check-in I asked the family about options for reaching a train station. I was told bus was an option—that drivers would allow a bagged bicycle onboard—but that we’d have to call the service to arrange for it to stop for a pickup, and buses only came by once every couple of hours or so. After some more back-and-forth it emerged that I could reach a more direct downhill route to Fujieda Station by continuing up the hill a few kilometers further. With that settled, I pitched the tent, took a nice hot shower, and bundled into the tent for a night’s rest.
I took my time in the morning. The campground was pretty empty, with just two other solo tourists like myself, and I carted all the stuff needing folding over to a set of large stainless steel tables between the barbecue cleanup sinks to make a neat job of packing up. The tent fly had this white dust on it … that turned out to be frost from my breath during the night. Honestly it hadn’t seemed quite that cold, I guess even the thin walls of a tent offer some degree of insulation.
I took the advice of the camp’s owners, and pushed further up the road to meet a downhill run to Fujieda Station. The map and data below reflect the route actually taken, but by default the navigation directed me to return the way I’d come. Trusting the owners, I pressed onward and trusted road signage to get me to the station. Just like in a car! It was nice to be free of fretting over navigation, and I may be taking a lesson from that on future rides, freeing my attention by memorizing routes where that’s feasible.
- GPX data: Okubo Campground ↣ Fujieda
I grew up on a ranch in northern California. In the summers we ran cattle in a mountain meadow near Lake Almanor. Dad was a dentist as well as a rancher (it’s a very long story), and most weekends involved driving from the town of Chico where we lived up to the ranch, over a twisting mountain road. Like the road winding out of the hills to Fujieda, that was designated “Highway 32,” the main difference being that this one has guard rails.
On the run down to Fujieda Station I really began to feel the effects of cold dry air on my fingers. The rest of the kit was keeping me comfortable, but for next winter I’ll have to work out a good pair of full-finger riding gloves. Possibly that will force me to move to a Garmin navigation gadget with proper buttons, so I’m not limited to “smartphone friendly” gloves that are not at all warm. One to think about.
I arrived at the station around lunch time, and treated myself to an Italian meal at Il Centro (イルチェント ロ) a few blocks from the station. The meal was very good, would dine there again! It’s a family operation, everything is served fresh, allow time for kitchen prep.
Then I rolled over to the station, confirmed with JR staff that my kit would be allowed through the wickets,2 and then set about breaking the kit down. It was a heavy burden (about 37 kilos in all), but I got it on the train, and the transfers (three of them) were blessedly all cross-platform moves, with no stairs involved. I stood through the whole trip, since the bagged bike had to be shifted about when people needed to pass. Not ideal, but far more comfortable than two more solid days in the saddle.
When I arrived at Nagoya station I had one small but burdensome learning experience. Because I’d previously arrived from intercity travel on the Shinkansen, I’d always had the choice of two exits from the base of the Shinkansen stairs: direct exit to the Silver Clock zone; or passing through Shinkansen wickets into the JR exit corridor leading to the JR wickets and the Golden Clock zone on the other side of the station. Fatigued and lugging the kit down from the JR train into the exit corridor, I turned to the nearest set of wickets, thinking that I could exit either way. Not so! Entry into the Shinkansen area of course requires a ticket, so I was turned away and left to shuffle my cluster of luggage to the far end of the corridor, where the JR exit wickets open to the Golden Clock zone. Huff-puff, huff-puff, I took my time and eventually got there, then navigated through the Sunday crowds to a quiet spot to begin reconfiguring things for the two-hour ride home from Nagoya Station.
As I toiled away at reconfiguring the bike, a well appointed elderly lady stopped to take in the scene when passing by, and our eyes met. She was with her husband, a much taller gentleman (in that respect a couple much like Mieko and I had been). We chatted briefly, they were on their way back from an onsen holiday on the Japan Sea side of the main island, where it was reportedly very cold. She explained that she regularly read the Japan Times (pulling out a few printouts she’d taken along on their trip to show), and I was reminded that Mieko had begun studying English, before we met, so as not to be blindsided by world events and unfamiliar import words. We wished one another a safe journey and I finished up the build.
I reached the home neighborhood at about 20:00, and went directly to the local okonomiyaki house to warm up and bask in familiar surroundings before mounting up to pedal the last little leg of the journey home.
At the front gate, I reached for my keys in the spot (the red handlebar bag) where I’d consistently lodged them through the trip—and they weren’t there, uh-oh. I unpacked each of the three panniers that had come possibility of holding them, and checked the pockets of each jacket and pair of pants in the luggage. No luck. I managed to get the front gate open, but the door lock is solid and secure: I was looking at a need to call a locksmith just to get inside, and scoped out the back yard for a place to pitch the tent. Then I remembered that for convenience I’d put the keys in a small pocket in the waist strap of the new Mont Bell day pack that I’m still getting used to.
All of which was very silly, but I was happy with myself for not losing my temper during that time of uncertainty.
And so I got into the house, poured a small glass of the 193 Pale Ale for hotoke-sama so we could share a toast, took a nice hot bath, and was blissfully asleep well before midnight.