Jim Cochran

Our First Cycling: From Rain to Sunshine.

52 miles/1700 feet of climbing/4:52

We departed Hitchinaka, Ibaraki around 9 AM under a steady, unrelenting rain. The whole crew, Annie Justin, Ethan, and Mike and Yoshie, were there to give us a lively and encouraging departure.

The morning was slow-going—navigation was clumsy and slick, the roads unfamiliar, and the left-side riding kept us cautious and alert. But even in the wet chill, there was a quiet thrill in finally setting out. We passed a couple of shrines early on, their torii gates standing like sentinels in the mist, reminding us that even the smallest moments can hold reverence.

We took a break from the rain at a large shrine in Kasama, and then pedaled on to the high point of our day which came with a steep 15% grade climb that tested our legs and our patience. Mosquitos cruised alongside us, matching our pace with unsettling precision, drawn to our warmth and sweat. The descent that followed was slick and technical—rain-polished sidewalks, narrow roads, and the constant mental gymnastics of staying left. It was a stretch that demanded focus, but it also offered a kind of clarity.

At mile 40, we found a roadside chicken curry stand—an unexpected oasis. The woman running it greeted us with a smile that felt like a gift. Her curry was rich and comforting, and she offered us a free donut-style dessert filled with sweet bean paste called “anko,” a gesture that felt deeply personal. With that photos together, and shared a lot of laughs over me, trying my Japanese and the lady trying her English. Lisa, still soaked and smiling, said later, “That curry stand and the kindness of that woman saved my life.” Her warmth, her generosity was nourishment beyond the food. It was the kind of kindness that sees you not as a customer, but as a fellow traveler.

At mile 51, we stopped at a 7-Eleven to pick up a celebratory beer and two hot snacks called nikuman (hot doughy buns filled meat.) this has become sort of a ritual for us to pick up a little treat at the end of the day to enjoy while we check into our resting place.

Just before reaching the guesthouse, we passed a small bicycle shop. Hundreds of old bikes were lined up outside, some rusted, some waiting patiently for repair, others as spare parts. Inside, an elderly man—perhaps in his late 70s—was working with quiet precision on a single bike. I slowed as I passed, peering into the shop. Our eyes met. I bowed gently, both hands on the handlebars. He returned the gesture with a kind bow and said, “Ah, sugoi ne.” A phrase that loosely translates to “Wow, impressive,” or “Amazing, isn’t it?” But it wasn’t about the bike or the ride—it was about the moment. A mutual recognition. A subtle kindness exchanged without pretense.

We arrived at the Kuranomachi Guest House around 3:30 PM—soggy, a bit chilled, and deeply relieved. The rain had finally stopped. Megumi, greeted us with radiant energy and a smile that felt like sunlight. Her joy at our arrival by bicycle was genuine and infectious. She excitedly showed us the amenities of the family-run guesthouse with pride and care, and her presence reminded us why we travel this way: to meet people like her, to be reminded that kindness is a universal language, and that compassion often shows up in the simplest gestures—a smile, a bow, a warm welcome.

Later, while searching for a laundromat to dry our soaked cycling shoes, we crossed paths with the bicycle repairman again—this time with his wife by his side. He recognized us instantly. And perhaps if we hadn’t shared that earlier moment—a bow, a glance, a smile —he might not have felt as comfortable engaging. But now, he stepped forward with warmth, guiding us toward the laundromat with gentle gestures and quiet enthusiasm. Another act of compassion. No fanfare, no expectation—just a willingness to help, to connect, to be kind.

We found the laundromat and, to our delight, a shoe dryer—a 20-minute contraption like an oven for shoes.. While our shoes baked, we performed a bit of bicycle maintenance, undoing the rain’s assault on our freshly waxed chains. It was a small moment of restoration, both mechanical and emotional.

As the sun began to set, we wandered along the Togichi city canal. The moon was rising over the Japanese style. History lingered in the stone and water, and nostalgia hung in the air like incense. As we look down into the water, the Koi were hoping we would toss them a treat for dinner. The scents of Japanese dinners being cooked, the gentle bows from walkers and bikers, the quiet rhythm of traffic—all of it felt like a soft poem. We watched high school students walking home in their uniforms at 6 PM, the sky already dark, their long day etched into their quiet steps. There’s so much that can’t be captured in writing—the nuance of smells, the softness of voices, the way compassion is woven into everyday life here. But we’ll keep trying. Because these moments matter. They remind us that travel isn’t just about seeing new places—it’s about being seen, and seeing others, with open hearts.

As darkness settled over the canal, our walk led us past a ramen shop we’d noticed earlier in the evening. Something about it had stuck with us, and now, with the rain behind us and our spirits lifted, it felt like the perfect place to end the evening. The owners welcomed us with the same quiet kindness we’d come to recognize throughout the day. The wife, doubling as host and server, greeted us with gentle enthusiasm, while her husband worked in the kitchen with focused grace.

They were curious about our journey—amazed, even—when we shared that we were planning on cycling 1600 in Japan. After our meal, the husband emerged from the kitchen with a smile and a small gift: a pack of Japan’s beloved Koala’s March cookies, each one filled with chocolate and shaped like tiny bears. It was a sweet gesture, both literally and figuratively. We took a few photos together, grateful for the connection, and stepped back out into the night.

By then, the canal lights had come on—soft outlines tracing the water’s edge, casting a gentle glow that made our walk back to the guesthouse feel almost cinematic. It was romantic in the quietest way, and a special way to end our evening walk.

Back at the guesthouse, we began winding down, reflecting on the day and piecing together our blog post. Lisa drifted off to sleep mid-sentence, her body finally surrendering to the exhaustion. Moments later, a loud thud shook the room, followed by a sudden, disturbing tremor. A 4.2 magnitude earthquake—just enough to rattle the walls and our nerves. It was as if the day, already full of movement and emotion, had one final punctuation mark to offer. Strangely, no one else seemed fazed. Life outside our walls continued undisturbed.

By 9:30 PM, we were both asleep—tired, full, and deeply grateful. The day had given us rain, curry, steep climbs, warm bows, shoe dryers, canal walks, ramen, cookies, and an earthquake. But more than anything, it had given us kindness. Quiet, unassuming, and everywhere.Leia mais