RIP Fuji Bicycle

Sorry there are no pictures to go with this story, it wasn’t really an occasion for photos. My next post will be more visual, promise.

Names have been changed, if you think it’s you, it is.

When you live and work in a foreign country, everyday activities often become massive convoluted adventures that leave you unable to remember with what or where you started. Chance encounters with friendly people lead you to temples on remote islands, true story, and a trip to buy a liter of milk ends with a firework show, also true. Most of that is all well and good, and probably part of the reason you left familiar shores in the first place, it does however make it difficult to truly relax; when trips to the grocery store require a dictionary, you’re never completely “turned off”, as it were. So in this jungle of words that absolutely must end with a vowel, it is important from time to time to converse with fellow native English speakers. In that spirit, JETs like to get to together to celebrate holidays, speak normally, and exchange stories that begin with “No, no, no, you wouldn’t believe what happened to me….”  

On my way to one such event, Andrew’s birthday dinner, I was riding my bike to Fuju Station, to catch the Sanyo train to Obatake, where Andrew and his wife, Michaela, were to pick everyone up in their car. I do live along a train line, this is my schools justification for why they have me live 15km from school and won’t allow me to drive, but it’s the slowest and most infrequent train in the prefecture, and taking it often results in long layovers at the stations of either end of its line. I found that a 5 mile bike ride to Iwakuni Station, or Fuju Station, can save me from a lot waiting around. I was riding to Fuju as many people were still making their way home from work, the streets were pretty crowded and I had to stick to the shoulder, it was getting dark. Up ahead I saw a car creeping out from a cross street, doing that jerky can’t decide to go or not movement, where they could have gone if they had made the decision quickly, but ultimately will wait too long, and then pull out in front of everything at the last minute and cut everyone off. I slowed down. He stopped his jerking and settled, wasn’t going to go. I started to move to pass in front on him and he decided that now was a good time to get moving. I locked the tires, no use, slammed into the side of his car and felt my rear fly up and my face hit cold steel. Lying on the pavement I looked up and heard his car start to rev away, then he pulled over, decided he better not, I guess. I could taste blood, my knee hurt, an old man with thick glasses, the driver, walked over to me,

“nihingo o wakarimasuka” [do you understand Japanese?]

“sukoshi” [a little], I replied.

He walked away. Yeah, thanks for the help I thought as I picked myself and my bike up, it wouldn’t roll; fork was bent back so that the front tire was touching the frame. I picked it up and leaned it against the guardrail. The old man was talking on the phone, police I assumed, I spat some blood on the ground toward him, he seemed to get the message…I’m not real happy with him, he walked away. I could hear distant sirens for some time before they arrived, medics first, then one police car, then another, and another, the place was swarming with activity. Police were marking the ground with chalk, measuring, interviewing, inspecting his car and my bike; meanwhile I was busy trying to explain that I wasn’t going to go to the hospital.

The medics struggled in English, “ummm…Hospital. Let’s go.”

“no, no, no… no thank you,” I said.

“Why?” another medic jumped in.

Why? Because I don’t want to, I thought. Granted, I felt like I had just been blindsided by a linebacker, but nothing was broken, I knew that. My knee hurt, but I could walk; my lip was bleeding, but my teeth were all still there. The hospital would be a nightmare.

“watashi wa daijyobu desu” [I’m okay], was all I could think of.

The medics eventually left and I began sorting things out with police. Japanese police don’t assign blame in such instances, they write a report and let insurance companies deal with blame, but it was becoming clear that they believed he was at fault, that was a relief. After nearly two hours of talking with medics and police I finally got the go-ahead to leave, the driver had never said another word to me. I picked up my bike and started to walk home, but was quickly stopped by a man who I thought was a spectator but turned out to be the driver’s nephew, he spoke good English and was kind enough to give me and my bike a ride home, which was much further than I had realized, it would have taken at least a couple hours with my swollen knee. When we got to my apartment he offered to take my bike back to his shop to take pictures for the insurance company, my cynical side knew this was a bad idea, never let someone else have control of the primary piece of evidence, but my cynical side was too exhausted, “Yeah. Sure.” I went to bed.

My swollen lip, black eye, and limp made it impossible to keep from my coworkers the next day, who promptly told the assistant principal, who told the principal, who called the Yamaguchi Board of Education; nothing is your own business when you’re a JET. That afternoon a teacher told me I had a visitor waiting downstairs. I assumed it was the police, damn, how is this going to look? But, to my surprise, it was the driver. He had brought me a box of sweets and had come to apologize and wish me a speedy recovery, claimed he was to shaken up to speak immediately after the accident. HE was shaken up!? I resisted the urge tell him to keep his sweets and open his damn eyes next time. A few people later told me the coming the next day with a gift is customary in Japan, so I guess we’ll just chalk the whole thing up to a cultural experience. All is well that ends well.

By the way, I ended up getting x-rays to confirm my back was all in the right place, all good, his insurance bought me a new bike, and I eventually got my old bike back from the nephew as well, good for parts.