Mud, blood and cherry stones

I'd figured it might be the death of my bike to take it down the slopes of Mt. Zao through tall grass and plants where before I'd only known snow and a landscape a good giant taller. So really, I shouldn't be annoyed or surprised at the outcome. The front brake is now held in place with a plastic tie, both wheels are bent and rub against the brakes, brake cables have splintered, the tyres run down right through beautifully even track to a smooth evenness marked by gristly patches where something under the rubber shows through...

Rainy season starting to live up to it's name, Hiroshi came round and picked up our bikes right to the top of his car and attached them to the roof rack. Oba-kun came over too and one stop more at Omi's place and 5 people 5 upside strapped in bikes were on our way to Zao. Max had bags of cherries, just one from the cute next-door neighbour with just the one small razor blade hidden inside. We ate and spat stones out of the car window, and as far as we could from a manhole cover in as straight and true a line as we could when a little bored as Hiroshi strapped the fifth bike in.

Not hiking nor biking but more hike-biking we slid and crashed through mud over rocks along a trail that wasn't perhaps meant for bikes, after we'd passed through the clouds in a ski gondola with only a pair of tourists aside braving the rain for god knows what. Moments when enthusiasm wilted with the leaves under the weight of the rain nicely countered with the sheer joy of sliding down a muddy bank on arse, the hilarity of watching someone else slip on the mud.

Whimpers from the bushed, bugs and mozzies, old cuts not yet healed shredded back to life, brakes pinging out mid-ride, a horrific moment listening to a rock crash down the undergrowth and the hill with awful volume and a numb terror we might have bitten off more than we could chew or spit without choking when it looked we mightn't get off the trail for a while.

All of that washed off with the mud at the bottom, in Zao village. An open onsen spot in the ground with pipes worming between rocks and over the sulphurous, pale green onsen water. Some glances from out-of-towners wandering about with brollies.