Riding Japan-easy and the Angel in the Pink Scarf

Most foreigners in Japan seem to have an “I was lost, but now am found” moment. More practical than spiritual, maybe, but no less inspirational, they go along the lines of, “So I’m standing there clueless in the train station and this little miracle combusted in front of me, smiled, and took me by the hand to where I needed to go and I never could have done it on my own!” Usually I know where I’m going, or at least look like I do, I guess, but this morning I was crammed into a train headed toward Yokohama to switch lines onto who knows what when this girl smiled at me and said, “Where are you going?” I pointed out the station on my map. She said her train was just one platform away (in a station the size of Yokohama that alone is a miracle). Shiho is 27 and just moved home to Tokyo in November after eight years of studying and working in and around New York City. She had thought she might stay there forever, but on a visit home she realized how much she missed Tokyo and her parents, and decided she’s about the right age to settle down. Three weeks ago she started a job in Tokyo, but “just 30 days ago I was lost in this station, too!” she said. She pointed out my platform and smiled. I thanked her wholeheartedly. I wanted to hug her or get her email address or something, but dark suits were running frantically by in every direction, I was carrying a bag and a motorcycle helmet, and she had somewhere to be too. I was on time to my motorcycle class this morning because of her. And she melted into the sea of black professional attire, save the bright pink scarf looped around her neck, one pink beacon in a rush of personal agendas.

I’d been warned against taking a motorcycle training class in the dead of winter, but this mild, sunny day was perfect for it with highs in the upper 40s. Very unusual, everyone says. A bit of book work qualified my four classmates and I to power walk the bikes, flip into second gear, weave in and out of cones and do a big wiggly circuit. One classmate explained to the instructor she knew what she was doing wrong but couldn’t stop doing it. He looked at her a minute and said, “You gotta just…don’t.” The big windmill in the city is affixed to the pier where we practiced and gasoline fumes cleared every time an ocean-y breeze wafted by. Boats passed us, headed for other piers, going faster than our little warm up circles. My feet don’t really touch the ground, which is kind of my big fear about riding motorcycles but it wasn’t really that big of a deal once we got moving a little faster. Until I let the clutch out too fast in the middle of an exercise. The bike lurched and braked, which jerked the front and I started to topple. I tried to catch the bike but we were still moving forward a tiny bit, so I ended up gouging my shin, tumping the bike and braking off part of the hand brake! Oops. As we moved on to the next exercise, the instructor hollered to me, “Eyes up! Where do you want to go?” That made me smile. Where do I want to go…?