PRS: Furious Japanese Cyclist
Gonna start a new thing called Possibly Real Stories (PRS). I’m going to share some life stories on occasion. Some of them might even be real.
Anywho, I used to live in Japan. Great place. Delicious food. Very clean. Public transportation was always on time.
One additional thing of note is that the Japanese people are some of the kindest, most patient, incredibly weird, but still remarkably nice people you could ever have the privilege of meeting. My house in Japan had an old wood door that would occasionally warp a bit and be unable to lock in the Summer. I felt no qualms about leaving my home unlocked during the day while I was at work because the country is probably the safest place in the world.
Altogether, I have very few experiences where a Japanese person has terrified me and made me fear for my life. One was a 6′ 4″ man with leathery skin, an unhealthy affection for small children, dark eyes devoid of a soul, and suffered occasional demonic possession. Another was an interaction with a man with ties to a criminal organization. Oh, and some run-ins with the Cult That Must Not Be Named because they love lawsuits. I’ll probably talk about those some other time.
Today, I’m going to talk about Angry Bike Guy.
I love biking. Chalk up one more point to Japan since it welcomes and supports bikers and gives them clearly marked transit areas instead of the U.S. where bikers are treated like a nuisance and at constant threat of being hit by some prick in a truck. During my six years of living in Japan, I only owned a car for about nine months before disposing of it since it was just a waste of money. I biked. It was great.
I also have a habit of greeting most people I pass in the street. Usually pretty simple. A little gesture with my chin and a, “‘Sup,” to acknowledge them. People in New York City think I’m crazy since I don’t treat other pedestrians like they’re invisible. Don’t know why I do it. Just seems impolite to ignore people.
So I’m biking along on a beautiful, sunny day in Japan and pass by another cyclist going in the opposite direction. I bid him a hearty, “Ohayou,” in passing. Not sure why, but it seemed to catch him off guard. He twitched and swerved a bit, stopped, and released a furious howl to the heavens. Something primal. Deep, unrelenting fury. He transformed from Regular Bike Guy to Angry Bike Guy. I kept on riding, not sure exactly what his deal was.
Most of my focus is on the road ahead. I had glanced back in passing when the guy first skidded to a stop and started screaming because I thought he was injured. He wasn’t. Angry Bike Guy was fine. Just inexplicably furious. But now my eyes were fixed firmly forward, making sure I was riding safely. The screaming continued. At first I gave kudos to the guy for having such powerful lungs that I could still hear him even from clear up the road.
Then I realized that he wasn’t getting any quieter as I kept riding. The screams were following me. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t look back. Looking back would have likely been the end. Angry Bike Guy was on a mamachari. Thankfully slow bikes. For several blocks, the inexplicably angry man furiously pedaled after me. I kept on riding, always looking forward, pedaling a little harder until the howls of fury slowly drifted away as he fell further and further behind until only silence remained.
To this day I wonder what Angry Bike Guy’s deal was. How a simple passing greeting had evoked berserker rage from a random Japanese cyclist. I may never know. Unless he somehow hears this story and remembers a strange event from years ago and proceeds to track me down, I will never know.
Should he ever track me down, I doubt I’ll live to tell another Possibly Real Story.