My first puncture

Today was such an absurdly unrealistically fantastical day that I feel the need to write about it. So now, 3 months buri ni, I will write an entry.

Whenever it's sunny, I do my best to wake up and get ready early so as to provide time for a bike ride to work (along with a quick breakfast at a local cafe). So I checked the forecast the night before and WOW(!), despite the unrelenting rain, tomorrow was slated for bright skies. The next day proved Yahoo a dependable meteorological resource, and I headed out on my road bike all happy and giggly and thinking about what bread I would buy at the local panyasan. About half-way between my destination and home, my back tire began to thunk a lot louder and air-lessly than usual. I had a "punk". That's what the Japanese call a "flat tire". It's been about two years since last having to deal with a "punk" of this kind so with a little apprehension, I pulled out the tools and set to work. -- "Jona-san!!" Shouted from across the busy intersection, it's an aquaintance who frequents many of the schools I visit. He delivers special order school supplies and... I can't remember his name. "Jonasan, daijoubudesuka? Noseteagemashouka? Are you ok?? Do you need a lift?" He asks concernedly. I really wanted to deal with this "punk" and show off my mastery of the road bike. "Daijoubudayo, tadanapannkuda! I'm fine! It's just a flat tire.' He walks over to investigate. Permit me a bleak generalization (and segway) but the Japanese are excellent about giving you their time, even if they have absolutely no clue how to help you. If you're say, having a hard time finding something in the supermarket and ask one of the clerks where that can of diced tomatoes might be, not only is the clerk going to come, but also the eight or nine old ladies who happened to have heard your story AND the 2nd grader to whom you just taught "fried egg" to that morning.

So anyway, Mr. Tanaka (that's not his name but it'll have to do for now) comes over and says, "Jitenshayasan ni ittahouga iinnjanai? Muzukashisou. Noseteagemashouka? Monndaijanaidesuyo! Shouldn't we take it to a bicycle shop, it looks like you're having a hard time. I can take you, it's no problem!" I stubbornly refuse so he procedes to survey my work. I'm not too good at this. I manage to work the tire off using the tools available, but getting the new air tube onto the wheel is hard. "Jonasan, tetsudaimashouka? Jonathan, can I help?" I'm at a loss so I quietly nod and let him take a hand at it. AND LO, he figured it out. So the wheel has it's new air tube and we are all ready to fill it up with air. Mr. Tanaka and I head on over to the nearby gas station, who fills my brand new air tube up. Two seconds later, KABAAM! Explosion, in the station. An important part of changing your air tube (should you choose to attempt it) is to NOT let it get twisted or there will be a block that will result in a rupture of the tube from the ensuing pressure. Definitely forgot to do that. Oops. At this point, it's been about 30 minutes since Mr. Tanaka first arrived and mentioned that it might be better to hit up the local bike shop for help. I sheepishly ask for a ride and 15 minutes later, we are at the bike shop. Mr. Ogata (that's his real name) is the 70 something owner of the bike shop and a man whom I have spoken to about bikes before. He used to compete in Tokyo and is one of the founders of the road bike movement in Miyazaki. "Narainasai! Learn a little, would ya!" He shouts whilst laughing and repairing my remaining "punk" tube.

Another 30 minutes later, Mr. Tanaka has gone back to work after laughing at Mr. Ogata's calling me a "Shushinsha Beginner" for the umpteenth time, and I am riding my bike frantically to make it to a school visit without being late. And I still haven't eaten breakfast. I make a hurried stop at the breadshop that was supposed to be breakfast and grab some food, thinking that I'll stuff my face right before class. Upon arriving at school and heading to the changing room I discover that... lunch has spilled over everything in my backpack. Including my work clothes (which I was going to change into). And my underpants. We are talking sticky. Sweet and sour style sticky. Delicious sticky. I fume with rage for a full 10 seconds. Meanwhile the bell rings announcing that I have about 10 minutes to get to class, and a bee-line of little 4th grade elementary school kids start talking outside, "Nani iebaiideshou? What should we say?" "Mukaenikimashitadeiinnjanai? We've come to take you is enough, right?" I wanted to shout "Leave me the fuck alone so I can clean all this shit off my shirt. And eat food. Delicious gobou bread which I bought and by rights should be allowed to eat." I do not say anything. I let out a last burst of futile rage and slap on the disgusting, sticky clothing then head for class. "Senseinozubon ga yaburechatta! The teacher's pants are dirty!" The kids giggle. I wag my butt (that's where the sticky stain-age is worst) right in their face. That'll give them something to talk about. They scream and jump away, but quickly grab my arms and legs and push me to class.

Class is over now and I am sitting in my office in inappropriate clothing. My boss says, "Oohh, kakkoiidesune! Woh, that's cool!" At the sight of my crazy road biker getup. I explain the story and ask sheepishly, "Gomennasai, daijoubudesuka? I'm sorry! Is this alright?" To which my boss replies, "No." and sits down. Should I just head home and hang my head in shame? The world may never know.

Jonasan, youkoso, nihon-e. Welcome to Japan, Jonathan Slakey. Every day that's the feeling that vibrates down my body and along my spine and past my toes and into my eyes and out my ears. But I also can't help but remember what Mr. Tanaka said to me on the way to the bike shop, "Kouiu keiken ga naito, hontouni ikiru koto ga dekinai jarou. If we didn't have these kinds of experiences, we wouldn't really be living, right?"

You said it, guy whose name I can't recall, you said it.