Bike.

Here is a filler (probably the definition of filler) wot I wrote for the ganbatte times. It is not good, but it saves me the time of writing about my new bike. 読んで。I put it in courier font so it looks like I typed it for the Daily Planet.


The Adventures of Otoshita Kagi
Rachel K. Sreebny


Most people come to understand their lives after near death experiences, torrid affairs, or on their deathbeds (at least, this is what TV and movies have taught me). However, for me to realize the bizarre state of my life in Japan after six months in Ine-town, it simply required me to drop my brand new bike keys through the sewer grate.

My brand new bike is what the locals call ‘enji-iro’, which roughly translates to, ‘the color of a Dr. Pepper can”. It has three speeds, a basket, a bell, and a crazy Japanese bike lock, which I am only beginning to understand. The last bike I owned was a purple Huffy. It had magenta, pink and white streamers that danced in the breeze (much akin to Freddie the leaf), and some neat, neon-coloured rubber things made for bicycle spokes (as was the style in 1992). My bike, as I remember it, had a kickstand. When I wanted to abandon my bike for the day, I would simply pull the kickstand down and lean the bike on it. No problems there – I was quite the clever 2nd grader.

I was feeling fairly accomplished having spoken to the delivery man over the phone and directing him to my apartment (as many know is almost impossible to find amongst the monkey-infested forests of Upstate Tango). The idea of riding a bike again sounded lovely, and was part of my growing denial of the cold, cold weather. Certainly if I purchase a bicycle, wear spring clothing, and never turn on my heat, the weather will change accordingly. The bike arrived, and I hurried to unpack it from its meticulous Japanese wrapping. I quickly understood how to lock and unlike the bike with the keys. I pushed the bike stand up over the wheel, but couldn’t seem to get it all the way back down. As I was jimmying (Yankee term to mean ‘fiddling with’) the swinging bike stand, the key leapt out of the locked part of the bike and fell straight through the gutter into the muck below.

Two minutes, a potted plant hook, meter stick, knitting needle and scotch tape later – I had fashioned a mighty tool! A tool with which I hoped to procure my bicycle keys! Crouched down on my stoop in my school clothes (knee socks and all…), I came to the realization that this tool I had so carefully fashioned, I considered how lucky it was to drop my keys at the end of winter. The knowledge that I may not bump into the Jurassic insects that surround my home during the more formidable months helped me to continue my efforts of poking around in the muck and the mire. However, my tool was as efficient as the insulation in my house. I switched to the undeniable power of the garden shovel, which failed almost as immediately. Finally (and adhering to the rule of thirds), I acquired my keys by using my broom and dustpan. It was no simple task, but I had ganbatte’d and succeeded –a hero for the ages.

Disinfecting my keys in the kitchen sink, I thought about the evening’s events. Living in Japan is no small feat, but in this program I often feel that I never have to do anything on my own. My lack of language skills paired with my predecessor’s overly “independent” actions have led me to a lifestyle of sitting pretty, while lovely Japanese office workers manage my life. Doing so very little for myself on a daily basis, it was nice to feel accomplished – even in the simple actions of retrieving lost keys, ordering a bike over the phone, or realizing that the disinfectant I was using is actually lilac-scented fabric softener. I suppose without those small, household disasters, I would forget entirely how to do things on my own.

Perhaps it’s not the Michael Bay climax-style realization I made it out to be. If the reader finds him or herself unsatisfied, please also note that I made a cheese omelet afterwards, and that it was delicious.