The running man...: Life in the Pony Express 2005

a race with no finish line

Immersion - to become completely involved in something, absorption coming from extensive exposure to surroundings or conditions.
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Hiroshima - Trains, motorcycles, homemade flashcards, and shoulder pads; these are the tools I use to fulfill my obligations. My daily schedule is planned to the minute regarding work place, meals, transportation, even my own training regimen. These days, my life and work are perfectly entwined so its all the same. Central to keeping things organized is my trusty daily planner; which, I always carry inside my waterproof shoulder bag.

I'm in the saddle from dawn to dusk often changing clothes, and mounts, up to four times a day; its a busy, yet satisfying, routine heavily dependent on human interaction. My biggest challenge is being at the right place at the right time; the life of a modern day Pony Express rider, just without arrows or bullets.

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Continued...

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Since escaping the world of the nine to five job I've become a free agent allocating my time to assorted contractual agreements; this has afforded me the flexibility to merge my working situations with my own interests. I've since discovered irregular income is par for this course.

In early 2002 I sold my house, quit my job, and moved to Japan. After spending two years at a local Hiroshima area company I jumped ship and started teaching in local schools. By the spring of 2005 I'd fell into the rabbit hole of coaching high school football in Hiroshima; which, strangely enough, turned out to be exactly what I needed. Reenergized from being surrounded by youth, and a simplified purpose, I settled into a busy routine of teaching to make money and coaching to give it all away; so far, altogether, it's been the hardest, most satisfying, work I've been lucky enough to get.

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The teaching and coaching situations I stumbled across aren't really jobs in the typical sense; mostly, they're underserved local needs that nobody really wants that I just happen to be capable of fulfilling. I've known for quite some time that one, all consuming, job would be way too confining for me. Over the years, I've come to realize there's a lot more to life than chasing a buck.

One of my former jobs chasing money

After years of working in various occupations, I vowed to try to live more purposefully and, of course, to do so I had to reevaluate some of my priorities and long held beliefs. Consequently, these days, I'm content and much of what I do now aligns with how I aspire to live. I'm now of the opinion that, sometimes, we're all better off following our own compass.

.T The local San'yō-honsen train
One of many iron horses that I ride daily
Hiroshima, Japan

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Shintoku High School (2004)
Hiroshima, Japan

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Sogogijutsu High School (2009)
Hongo, Japan

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.A raucous bunch (2004)
Fuchu Minami Elementary School
Hiroshima, Japan

Johoku High School (2007)
Hiroshima, Japan

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Sotoku High School (2011)

Hiroshima, Japan

Johoku alumni game (2016)
Hiroshima, Japan

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(2016)
Hiroshima, Japan

Hiroshima, Japan (2017)
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The (train) station relays...

running against imaginary opponents

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On Fridays, as a result of having the afternoon off from coaching, I have some free time after finishing my teaching assignment. With an eye towards efficiency, I came up with the idea of integrating training into my homeward commute; this is done by getting off of a homeward bound train at a train station of my choosing and running towards the next station in the same direction.

Since I'm more of a sprinter than a long distance runner I, typically, break up the five to ten kilometer distances between stations into shorter, training specific, routines that match the characteristics of the terrain. In mountainous areas I usually sprint portions of the uphill sections and jog the flat areas. Because sprinting uphill is quite strenuous (anaerobic) I often use downhill grades for recovery. No matter where I happen to be on the course, every ten minutes or so, I stop somewhere on the roadside to do push-ups.

.The world is just one big training facility

(as seen from the window of a local train)

Hongo, Japan

Temple stairs - Matsuyama, Japan

(old school elliptical training)

From top to bottom that's one hundred

meters of stairs. Good for training agility, stamina,

and knee lift.

For motivation, I use my imagination to free me of reality's limitations; the possibilities are endless. Perhaps, I'll relive my younger days with a sprint to a distant end zone, or maybe I'll think of myself as something non-human; a cheetah running down a gazelle, or a WWII era destroyer cutting through the stormy North Atlantic. On uphill grades I may imagine myself as a piston-engined fighter plane racing from sea level up to twenty thousand feet to intercept the enemy; only, instead of a supercharged V-12, I have lungs and legs.

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Imaginary mission...

.A Red tailed devil
racing to altitude

Northern France (1944) - On the return flight from Berlin my P-51 is running on fumes with over fifty miles to go; its risky to fly across the English Channel during winter while on low fuel. If I had to ditch I wouldn't last thirty minutes in the frigid water. Then, as I scan the French countryside for someplace to make an emergency landing, I spot a small airfield to the east adjacent to what appears to be a train station.

Though low on fuel, I circle the area to make sure there are no hostile forces present. My fuel starved V-12 sputters ,intermittently, as I descend. As my landing gear touches the ground my engine cuts off completely. Now, out of fuel and unable to taxi, I have to walk the length of the airfield to reach the station platform. As I climb from the cockpit, I can see the airfield is deserted. Aside from my plane, the only others present are a scrapped P-47 and a B-17 missing it's stabilizer.

Its strange standing on the station platform alone; only a month ago this station was crawling with allies southbound in pursuit of a steadily retreating enemy. Suddenly, I hear the faint rumble of artillery in the distance; it seemed to come from the north, towards the channel. That can't be. We've had the enemy on the run for a month and driven them inland as far as Luxembourg. Then I thought, perhaps they counter attacked and had already overrun the airfield? A chill came over me as I realized, at that moment, I may be standing in the cross hairs of a sniper; then, to my relief, I detect the familiar raucous of an Allied locomotive approaching from the southeast.

The train slows and lurches to a stop at the platform. I sense the other passengers watching as I board and make my way towards a seat; as a fighter pilot I'm used to this. Perhaps, they're admiring the uniform; after I'm seated reality kicks in. I open my eyes and its 3:45 in the afternoon and I'm sitting in an empty train at the Hiroshima Station platform and the cleaning staff are vacuuming in the aisle; I must have been dreaming. Panicked, and half asleep, I grab my belongings and dash out the train. Lucky for me, Hiroshima is the last stop.

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The routine...

A typical train station

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Board any Hiroshima bound train

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Get off at any station of your choosing

Run towards the next station in the same direction

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The distance between rural stations
is anywhere from 5 to 10 kilometers

Enjoy the sights as you run

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. Board another train at the next station

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Just find a seat and do as everyone else is doing

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Running between train stations is a good way to see little things that often go unnoticed from the window of a speeding train. In rural Japan, sights can vary from local seasonal agriculture to the daily minutia of small town life; rice fields, rickety old houses, and streets devoid of youth are hints into local culture. Having run in so many different places it was inevitable that I'd encounter some local residents.

Close encounters...

Friend or foe?

Fuchu, Japan - It was late in the afternoon and I'd just finished struggling through a long and hot run and I was searching for the local train station in an unfamiliar town. The streets were all deserted except for an elderly man I saw in the distance.

The elderly gentleman, who looked to be in his mid to late 80's, was walking very slowly in a slouched posture; we were approaching one another from opposite directions on opposite sides of the street when, suddenly, he veered towards me. Naturally, me being an American, I interpreted this as a potentially hostile act; which triggered my fight or flight instinct, so I quickly sized the old man up and pondered whether or not I should to try to outrun him, or just dropkick him in his chest.

As I waffled between my options the old man closed the distance between us. Before I knew it he was standing in my path; then he inquired, in what probably was the only English he could muster: “Where are you come from?” I paused, while struggling to suppress the combined humor and indignity of being addressed so informally. Then, without answering the old man's question, I asked him the exact same question in Japanese; to which he replied “I cannot English,” then he turned and shuffled away.

<HOME>

A day in the saddle...

I typically rise at 4:40 am to catch the 5:50 train to Tabuse Town, Yamaguchi Prefecture. At this early hour, everything is done by routine so brain use is minimized; out of bed, fifteen paces to the bathroom, right hand to light switch, etcetera. After finishing off my oatmeal and orange juice I'm out the door.

It's still dark as I roll my bicycle out from underneath my apartment building. Except for the taxis always darting about, the streets are deserted. Every morning, at the crack of dawn, I pedal the exact same route to the local train station. I gave up the sleek sports car I owned in America for this; the peace and tranquility of a five minute bicycle ride. It's a pleasant change from lip reading profanity in rush hour traffic.

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Whenever I have to go to Hiroshima Station for anything I stash my bicycle near the post office; actually, my bicycle is hidden in plain sight. In space challenged Japan, there is designated bicycle parking near most urban train stations but since they aren't free, or convenient, I never use them.

The area where I keep my bicycle during the day can best be described as a shanty town; the atmosphere there is a hint into local after work culture. Stray cats track my eyes as I pass and rickety old buildings run the length of each of the narrow thoroughfares; the sake bottles on the door stoops indicate this place only comes to life after dark.

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.Still dark: 5:15 am
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.Hiroshima Station

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.The shanty town during the day
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The shanty town after hours
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.A tiny car stuffed into a shop
One of many odd things I see everyday

At this early hour the area around Hiroshima Station is desolate except for some stray cats and a couple drunks. In another hour or so the entire area will erupt with a steady exodus of salarymen, office workers, and students. As always, I'm going against the flow.

Its 5:35 am and there are short lines of commuters standing on the platform awaiting the first westbound train. When the train pulls in the crowd surges prematurely; this annoys me. At this early hour the trains are empty so there's no need to push; although, over time, I'd learn, it's part of local culture to press one's self against a train's unopened doors.

To me, boarding trains in Japan is not unlike the running of the bulls in Spain; from the moment you enter the train station turnstile it's a struggle for survival. When I first arrived in Japan I was taken aback by the bees entering the beehive dynamic ensued whenever I boarded public transportation. Without fail, if I was waiting to board a bus, or a train, and there was a even sliver of space between me and the person in front of me, someone would come along and interpret that space as an open invitation and stake a claim on it. Oddly, it seems the local middle aged women, or "obachan," are the main perpetrators of this behavior.
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.Pre-dawn: boarding 5:50 am

Hiroshima Station platform 5:30 am

Before moving to Japan I'd lived and worked in a number of different places in the United States and had always commuted by car. Having driven in some of the bigger, more congested, cities I've witnessed the behavioral depths to which humans can descend while driving so, for me, "rush hour" means combat. I've survived some of America's most hellish commutes (Los Angeles, Atlanta, Philadelphia, and Washington D.C.) and wanted no part of big city life overseas. Before accepting my work assignment in Japan I was asked if I had a preference for where I wanted to live; my response, "not Tokyo or Osaka." Silly me; I was moving to one of the most heavily populated countries on the planet and thought I could avoid crowds.

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A different kind of rush hour

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The ol' bag toss technique...

A lesson in doing what's necessary to win

Most mornings I'm one of the first commuters on the station platform and happened to be at the front of the line this particular day. At 5:35 am sharp the earliest train bound for Yamaguchi Prefecture pulled up to the platform; the hydraulic doors opened and the crowd surged. I bolted into the train while, simultaneously, stiff-arming a salaryman to my left. Then I made a hard cut to the right and accelerated towards one of the two remaining empty seats. That's when the middle aged woman behind me made her bold move. As I removed my shoulder bag and prepared to sit down the woman executed a "Hail Mary," launching her duffel bag over two rows of occupied seats, into the seat I was preparing to sit in. When her bag landed in front of me I was stunned causing me to lose precious seconds.

I quickly regrouped and whirled towards the last remaining vacant seat when, out of the blue, a young girl in a school uniform slithered past me into the last vacant seat; she'd contorted her small frame, backpack and all, through the narrowest of gaps to claim her prize. As the train started to move the girl just sat there pokerfaced, looking straight ahead as if it were just another day on the playground. I sulked back towards the "stand up loser" area of the train overcome with negative feelings about humanity.

Hiroshima City to Tabuse Town, Yamaguchi Prefecture
a ninety minute train ride

The long ride to Tabuse is relaxing; the sights of the Seto Inland Sea, with the numerous islands and fishing villages along the route, have a calming effect. I pods and coffee make the journey pleasant.
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Tabuse is roughly fifty miles from Hiroshima City; the train ride takes ninety minutes and there are thirty or so stops along the route. During the winter, it's a journey comprised of long periods of warm comfort punctuated by frigid blasts of air whenever the train's doors open; its impossible not to fall asleep on a cold winter morning.

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In Japan, trains are brutally efficient stopping for a mere thirty seconds at every stop. When I first started commuting by train my biggest fear was to be asleep when it arrived at my destination. As a result, I'd panic whenever I heard the sound of the train's hydraulic doors; when they open they make a distinctive "hiss" followed by a "clunk." For me, the "hiss" served as an alarm clock and it went off seventy-five times each and every morning. .

Like clockwork, within minutes after boarding I'm rocked to sleep in the train's cushy heated seats. Then, minutes later, Hisss! Clunk! Frantic, and still half asleep, I dash towards the nearest exit, bulldozing women and children in the process; then I pause at the open doorway, uncommitted, yet prepared to leap, eyes squinting in an effort to quickly recognize a sign or familiar landmark. When I realize it isn't my stop I slink back to my seat.

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Sunrise: 6:50 am
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The Seto Inland Sea
as seen from the train
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Upon arrival in Tabuse, the thinking stops and everything goes to automatic. Depending on my schedule, I'll drive to one of five local elementary schools, or I'll walk to a nearby junior high school; in either case, I only teach until mid-day. There is a company car kept in the train station parking lot for my use when I need to drive.
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On the days I'm scheduled to teach in one of the elementary schools, I spend a few minutes in the station parking lot organizing that day's lesson cards. As a rule, there's no margin for error because, in Japan, lateness is punishable by death.

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Morning: 7:15 am

.Tabuse Junior High School
Yamaguchi Prefecture

.The world's smallest car at my disposal

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.Defrosting windows & sorting lesson cards simultaneously

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.One of five elementary schools in Tabuse

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.The calm before the storm

In rural elementary schools the classes consist of anywhere between four and forty students and require the use of multiple visual aids, setting up blackboards, and arranging of classrooms, all done beforehand; this all has to be done up to four times a day within a five minute window between classes while in the presence of numerous excited kids. Amazingly, the host teachers seem to be under the impression that lesson preparation occurs via osmosis.
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In spite of my minimal Japanese ability, the very youngest students always try to communicate with me on sight because they are fearless. As their new teacher I'm their toy and that's just how it is. As I go about my preparation some kids try to wrestle me, one boy jumps on my back and covers my eyes with his hands. A handful of the older kids corner me and demand candy, to which I always reply "I don't have any." Then, in a flash, six hands start rifling through my pants pockets while I only have two hands to defend with. Luckily, the chocolate I purchased earlier that morning is in my sock.

Morning: 8:15 am
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11th graders
Sogogijutsu High School - Mihara

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.6th graders
Fuchu Chuo Elementary School - Hiroshima
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10th graders
Suzugamine Girls School - Hiroshima

After finishing my last class I bolt from the classroom, hop into my egg shaped company car, and make a beeline back towards Tabuse Station. Within minutes, I screech into Tabuse Station's long term parking area and dash to the platform on a dead run.

Reversing course: 1:59 pm

.The 1:59 pm Hiroshima bound "iron horse"
Tabuse Station, Yamaguchi Prefecture

Local trains in Japan are brutally efficient
stopping for just 30 seconds at each station

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My homeward ride is another ninety minutes of nodding off and waking to the intermittent clatter of hydraulic doors. I'm unconcerned about oversleeping on the return trip because Hiroshima Station is the last stop. At exactly 3:30 pm the train pulls into Hiroshima Station, the hydraulic doors part, and a mass of humanity pours forth onto the station platform.

Hiroshima Station is packed during business hours. I've always disliked crowds but I discovered that jostling through them is just part of life in Japan. Right on cue, as I make my way through the masses towards a stairwell I take a blow to my left shoulder; unfazed, I just shuffle along like everyone else. Like most urban transportation hubs, Hiroshima Station is used by a variety of commuters, most of whom, are going about their daily routines. As with most urban transportation hubs there are pockets of eccentrics loitering about.

.Hiroshima Station (circa 1930s)

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The area south of Hiroshima Station (2011)

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.Another leg of the journey

A local cat known for his unique
hair pattern and character

Refreshed from my long nap on the train I head over to the shanty town where, hopefully, I'll be reunited with my illegally parked bicycle. Once I arrive at home, I eat and change into athletic gear. I now have three clothing changes remaining in the day; once at the practice field before football practice and again just before riding over to my evening teaching assignment; and finally, the last clothing change in the evening at the gym before weight training.

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Back in the saddle: 3:45 pm

The last horse change of the day

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.. A second wind: 4:00 pm

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The football office

I typically arrive at the practice field a little after 4:00 pm, about the

same time the earliest football players start arriving.

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Just cold, hard, dirt

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The best part of the day

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Home stretch: 7:00 pm

.Teaching night classes

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Last stop: 8:50 pm
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This is how I live; I work yearly renewable teaching contracts, when I can get them, for the typical salary and I'm outdoors with kids all day. For me, teaching, less than full-time, is the only situation that allows me the necessary time to coach properly. I stumbled into coaching in 2005 and have since shaped my life around it. The teaching and coaching situations I'm often involved with are far from perfect; yet, somehow, everything works.

The informal agreement between the young athletes, students, and I specifies I only answer to them. Basically, its little or no compensation and no promises; I'll just ride the horse until I fall out of the saddle.
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