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.
.

____________________________________

.
Hiroshima - Trains, motorcycles, homemade flashcards, and shoulder pads; these are some of the tools I use to fulfill my obligations. My daily schedule is planned to the minute regarding workplace, meals, transportation; even my own training. These days, my life and work are one so its all the same. Central to orchestrating everything is my trusty daily planner; which, I always carry with me inside my waterproof shoulder bag.

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

.......

Continued...

..
.
.

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 combine my work 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 Hiroshima, Japan. After spending two years working for a local Hiroshima company I jumped ship and started teaching in local schools. By the spring of 2005 I'd fallen into the rabbit hole of coaching high school football; which, strangely enough, turned out to be exactly what I needed. Reenergized from being constantly surrounded by youth, and a simplified purpose, I settled into a busy routine of teaching to make money and coaching football to fritter it all away again; so far, altogether, it's been the hardest, most satisfying, work I've been lucky enough to get.

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

My former life chasing money

After many years of working in various occupations, I vowed 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 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 the many iron horses I ride daily
Hiroshima, Japan

.
.....

Shintoku High School (2004)
Hiroshima, Japan

.
..

Sogogijutsu High School (2009)
Hongo, Japan

.
..
.

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

Johoku High School (2007)
Hiroshima, Japan

.
.

Sotoku High School (2011)

Hiroshima, Japan

Johoku alumni game (2016)
Hiroshima, Japan

.
.

(2016)
Hiroshima, Japan

Hiroshima, Japan (2017)
.

The station relays...

running against imaginary opponents

.
.

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

Since I'm more of a sprinter than 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 local terrain. In mountainous areas I usually sprint the uphill sections and jog the flat areas. Because sprinting uphill is quite strenuous (anaerobic) I often use the downhill grades for recovery. No matter where I happen to be, every ten minutes or so, I stop and do twenty push-ups.

.The world is just one big training facility

(as seen from the train)

Hongo, Japan

Temple stairs - Matsuyama, Japan

(old school elliptical training)

From top to bottom that's one hundred

meters of stairs. Good for 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 racing from sea level to twenty thousand feet to intercept the enemy; only, instead of a supercharged V-12, I have lungs and legs.

.

.
Imaginary mission...

.A Red tailed devil
racing to altitude

Northern France (1944) - On the return trip from Berlin my P-51 is running on fumes with just over a fifty miles to go; its risky to cross the English Channel while low on fuel during winter. If I had to ditch I'd only survive thirty minutes in the water. Then, moments later, as I scan the French countryside for someplace to make an emergency landing, I see, what appears to be, an abandoned airfield to the east adjacent to a train station.

Though low on fuel, I circle the area a couple times to make sure there are no hostile forces in the vicinity. My fuel starved V-12 sputters intermittently as my landing gear hits the tarmac; then, out of fuel, the motor cuts off completely. Unable to taxi, I'll have to walk to the train station platform. As I climb down onto the wing, I can see the airfield is deserted. Aside from my plane, the only others on the tarmac are a scrapped Thunderbolt and a B-17 missing it's stabilizer.

It feels strange standing on the train platform alone; one month ago this station was crawling with allied soldiers boarding trains bound for southeast in pursuit of a retreating enemy. Suddenly, I hear the faint rumble of artillery in the distance; it seemed to come from the north, towards the English Channel. That can't be. We've had the enemy on the run for well over a month and driven them inland as far as Luxembourg. Then I thought, perhaps they recently 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 distant sniper scope; then, much to my relief, I hear the familiar raucous of an allied locomotive approaching from the southeast.

The train lurches to a stop at the platform. I sense the other passengers watching me as I board and make my way towards a vacant seat; as a fighter pilot I'm accustomed to this. Perhaps, they're just admiring the uniform; after I sit reality kicks in. I open my eyes and its 3:45 in the afternoon and I'm sitting inside a empty train at the Hiroshima Station platform and cleaning staff are vacuuming between the seats; it must have been a dream. Panicked and half asleep, I grab my belongings and dash out the train. Lucky for me, Hiroshima Station is the end of the line.

.
..

.
.

The routine...

A typical train station

...
.

Board a Hiroshima bound train

...
.

.
.

Get off at any train station of your choosing

Run to the next station going in the same direction

.
.

The distance between rural stations
can be from 5 to 10 kilometers

Enjoy the sights as you run

....
.
.
..

. Board another train at the next station

.
.

Just find a seat and do as everyone else is doing

.
.

Running between 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 of local culture. Having run in so many different places it was inevitable I'd encounter some local residents.

Close encounters...

Friend or foe?

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

The man, who looked to be in his mid to late 80's, was walking very slowly in a slouched posture; we were approaching each other from opposite directions on opposite sides of the road when, suddenly, he veered towards me. Naturally, being an American, I interpreted this abrupt change of direction 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 to merely kick him in his sternum.

As I waffled between my options the old man quickly closed the distance between us. Before I could react he was directly in my path; then he inquired, in what probably was the only English he could muster: “Where are you come from?” I paused, 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 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 bound for Tabuse Town, Yamaguchi Prefecture. Everything is done by routine so using my brain is minimized; out of bed, fifteen paces to bathroom, right hand to light switch, etcetera. After finishing my oatmeal and orange juice I'm out the door.

It's still dark when I roll my bicycle out from my apartment's parking area. Aside from the black taxis darting about hunting for fares, the streets are deserted. Every morning, at the crack of dawn, I pedal the same exact route to the train station. I gave up the sleek sports car I had in America for this; the peace and tranquility of a seven minute bike ride. It's a pleasant change from lip reading profanity in rush hour traffic.

.....

Whenever I have to go to Hiroshima Station for something I park my bicycle somewhere inconspicuous near the old post office; actually, its hidden in plain sight. In space challenged Japan, there are designated parking areas for bicycles near most urban stations but since they're not free, or convenient, I never use them.

The area where I park my bicycle 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 the ramshackle buildings along the street lean against one another as if from a Tim Burton movie; the empty sake bottles on the door stoops indicate this is a place that only comes to life after dark.

.
.
.Still dark: 5:15 am
.

.Hiroshima Station

.
.
.

.The shanty town during the day
..
.
.

The shanty town after hours
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.

.A tiny car stuffed into a shop

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

At 5:35 am there are short lines of commuters 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 discover it's only part of local culture to press one's self against a train's unopened doors.

Boarding trains in Japan is not unlike the running of the bulls in Spain; from the moment you enter the station turnstile it's a fight for survival. When I first arrived in Japan I was taken back by the "entering the beehive" dynamic that ensued whenever I boarded public transportation. Without fail, if I was waiting in line to board a bus, or a train, and there was a sliver of space between myself and the person in front of me, someone would interpret that "space" as an invitation and stake a claim on it. Oddly, it seems local middle aged women, or "obachan," are the perpetrators of this type of behavior.
.

.Pre-dawn: boarding 5:50 am

Hiroshima Station 5:30 am

Before moving to Japan I lived and worked in a number of different places around 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 behind the wheel so, for me, rush hour means combat. I've survived some of America's most hellish commutes (Los Angeles, Atlanta, 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 and work; my response was, "not Tokyo or Osaka." Silly me; I'd moved to one of the most heavily populated places on the planet and thought I could avoid crowds.

.
.

A different kind of rush hour

.
.

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 on this particular day. At 5:35 am sharp the first train bound for Yamaguchi Prefecture pulled up to the platform; the crowd surged and the doors parted. I dash in and make a beeline towards one of the last vacant seats. That's when the woman behind me made her move; as I removed my shoulder bag and prepared to sit in one of two remaining seats, the woman executed a "Hail Mary" launching her duffel bag over three rows of occupied seats into the seat I was about to sit in. When her duffel bag landed in front of me I was stunned causing me to lose precious seconds.

I quickly regrouped and turned towards the one remaining seat when, out of the blue, a young girl wearing a school uniform slithered past me into the last 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 sat pokerfaced, looking straight ahead as if it were just another day on the playground. I sulked back to 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 quite relaxing; the sights along the Seto Inland Sea, with the numerous islands and fishing villages have a calming effect. I pods and coffee make the journey pleasant.
.
Tabuse is roughly fifty miles as a crow flies from Hiroshima City; the train ride takes ninety minutes and there are thirty or so stops along the route. During winter, it's a journey comprised of periods of warm comfort punctuated by blasts of frigid air; on a cold morning in a warm rocking train, its nearly impossible to stay awake.

.
.

In Japan, trains are brutally efficient stopping for a mere thirty seconds at each stop. When I started commuting to work by train my biggest fear was to be sleeping when it arrived at my stop. As a result, I'd panic whenever I heard the distinctive sound of the train's hydraulic doors; every time they open they make a loud "hiss" followed by a "clunk." For me, the "hiss" was 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 by the train's cushy heated seats. Then, minutes later, Hisss! Clunk! Frantic, and half asleep, I dash to the door, bulldozing women and small 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. After I realize it isn't my stop I turn and slink back to my seat.

.
Sunrise: 6:50 am
.

The Seto Inland Sea
as seen from the train
.

After arriving in Tabuse the thinking stops and everything goes to automatic. Depending on my schedule, either 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 whenever I need to drive.
.
On the days I teach in one of five local elementary schools I spend a few minutes in the train station parking lot organizing lesson cards for the day's lessons. As a rule, there's no margin for error in Japan because lateness is punishable by death.

.
Morning: 7:15 am

.Tabuse Junior High School
Yamaguchi Prefecture

.The world's smallest car at my disposal

.
..

.Defrosting windows & sorting lesson cards simultaneously

.
.
..
.

.One of five elementary schools in Tabuse

..
.
.
.

.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 beforehand; this all has to be done up to four times a day in 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.
.
In spite of my minimal Japanese ability, the youngest students always try to communicate with me on sight. As their new teacher I'm their toy and that's just how it is; some kids try to wrestle me, one of them jumps on my back and covers my eyes. A handful of kids demand candy, to which I reply "I don't have any." Then, in a flash, six hands are rifling through my pockets while I only have only two to defend with. Luckily, my chocolate bar is in my sock.

Morning: 8:15 am
.

11th graders
Sogogijutsu High School - Mihara

..
.

.6th graders
Fuchu Chuo Elementary School - Hiroshima
.
..

10th graders
Suzugamine Girls School - Hiroshima

After finishing the last class I bolt from the classroom, hop into my tiny egg shaped car, and make a beeline back towards the local train station. Within minutes, I pull into the station 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

.
.
.

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 journey because Hiroshima Station is the last stop on the line. At exactly 3:30 pm the train pulls up to the Hiroshima Station platform, the doors part, and a mass of humanity pours forth.

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

.Hiroshima Station (circa 1930s)

...

The area south of Hiroshima Station (2011)

.<HOME>

.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 walk to the shanty town where I'm hopefully reunited with my illegally parked bicycle. Next, I pedal the exact same route homeward that I use every morning. Once I arrive at home, I eat a small meal and change into my athletic gear. I now have three clothing changes remaining in my day; one at the practice field prior to football practice and another just before riding to my evening teaching assignment; and finally, my last clothing change of the day at the gym right before training.

Next, I grab my bags, hop on my motorcycle, and head over to the high school practice field.

.
Back in the saddle: 3:45 pm

The last horse change of the day

.
.

.. A second wind: 4:00 pm

..
.

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.

.
.

Just cold, hard, dirt

.....
.

.
.

..
.
.
..

.
.

..
.
.
.
.

.
.

The best part of the day

.
.
...
..

Home stretch: 7:00 pm

.Teaching night classes

..
....
..
Last stop: 8:50 pm
..

This is what I do; 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 half days is one of the few workable situations that allow me the requisite time to coach. I stumbled into coaching high school football in 2005 and have since shaped my life around it. The teaching and coaching situations are far from perfect; yet, somehow, everything works out.

The smiles in the preceding photographs are genuine but what they don't convey is the machinations and effort required to maintain this juggling act. In Japan, the culture of volunteerism and individual pursuits is uncommon so much of what I do goes against the grain. I've found it difficult to volunteer my time here because, for the most part, few people do and local institutions tend to operate in a very conservative manner. Compared to the United States, I'd say the local culture is highly risk averse.

.
The informal agreement between my players (students) and I specifies that I'm only answerable to them and doesn't leave room for much else. No compensation, very little appreciation (from the schools anyway) and no promises for the future. Regarding my own future, this situation can best be described as one where I'll just ride this horse until I fall out the saddle; as long as the kids continue to show progress, that's fine by me.
.

....