Prison On The Saddle -final- -shimizuan- -
And then, just before the final tunnel, I saw her.
By hour six, the prison walls were up. My back was a single knot of complaint. My hands, numb from the vibration of cracked asphalt, couldn’t feel the brake levers anymore. I was running on nothing but the echo of a playlist I’d turned off two hours ago.
Shimizuan is waiting.
She pointed up the hill and said something in a dialect I couldn’t fully catch. But I caught the last word: Shimizuan. Then she made a drinking motion with her gnarled hand. Tea. Rest.
Not because I’d finished the ride. Because I’d stopped trying to escape it. Prison on the Saddle -Final- -Shimizuan-
Inside, the owner (a man with the face of a patient turtle) gestured to a low table. No words. Just a pot of hojicha and two rice balls wrapped in bamboo.
Shimizuan appears like a held breath. One moment, forest. The next, steam rising from a wooden trough at the side of the road. The guesthouse has no sign, just a blue noren curtain flapping in the dusk. And then, just before the final tunnel, I saw her
Shimizuan isn’t a town you’ll find on most maps. It’s a resting post. A few wooden buildings leaning into the wind, a shrine with a missing fox statue, and one onsen that smells of sulfur and salvation. The route there is a liar. It starts gentle, with a tailwind and birdsong, luring you into thinking you’ve finally gotten fit. Then, around noon, the road remembers its purpose.
I called this series “Prison on the Saddle” not because I hate the bike. I don’t. I love the bike the way a sailor loves a leaky ship—because it’s the only thing between you and the deep. No, the prison is the having to continue . The rule you set for yourself that morning, over coffee and a stale biscuit: No shortcuts. No vans. No mercy. My hands, numb from the vibration of cracked
I nodded, clipped back in, and crawled the last three kilometers at 6 kph. A true prisoner of the saddle. But now, a prisoner with a destination.
I dropped my bike against a post—didn’t even lock it. If someone wanted to steal it, they’d be doing me a favor for exactly four seconds, until they tried the first pedal stroke.
