Random thoughts; afterburners

Perhaps I was meant to be a trainspotter; there's something romantic about travelling this way. These metal snakes of engineering perfection carve through the countryside whilst offering a sublime view and providing comfort and relaxation that no other transport can. On land, traversing a fixed path and safe in the knowledge that there's no other vehicle to avoid, nor no altitude to plummet from, it must be said; I'm a fan.

Arguably this is worth the trip alone, marvel as the workforce cleans the train to Hospital hygiene standards, spinning the seats to face in the direction of travel and wiping every surface down; eat off the floor you might. And can. South West Trains you suck, and in a country where trainspotting originated I'm bemused why we've allowed such a shambles of a service to continue unchallenged. Rip it all up and start again, just build it properly this time.
Already we've nosed into triple figures and this is just the beginning; without GPS calculating my speed I’d simply never have guessed; for the ride is unsurpassed in its smoothness. I've even managed to balance a coin for a whole 10 seconds; imagine that on the Windsor and Eton Riverside.

One hundred and sixty and still accelerating; it's now apparent that were getting up to speed. The motors sound like the afterburner of a fighter jet as we spin all the way up to a mind-boggling 267 km/h: That's some serious momentum, Mr. Newton. Let's think about that for a moment; London to Edinburgh in two hours. John o'Groats to Landsend in three. I doubt the infrastructure in Britain is in place to support such a service; no wonder the tickets start at £45 on the Shinkansen.

The first line from London to Manchester, as designed and engineered by the genius that was Brunel, cut tunnels, built bridges and levelled hills in order to lay the foundation for the straightest and flattest route possible. You'd think he was alive and well, consulting for Japan Railways in that case as the route that my Tokyo to Kyoto train is taking is as close to a straight line as they dare make it. As the crow flies, so to speak, not that it would stand any chance of keeping up.

Visiting Akihabara to marvel at the electronics on sale, I passed through many different premises, a large number offering toys for sale. It's no wonder I found so many train-related plastic; and it's something the Japanese can truly be proud of.

Irashaimasu!

Japan is indeed expensive, but in most cases other than boozing; cheaper than London. For the prices that do rival and best London, made all the worse by the miniscule portion size facilitate a questionable maintenance of physique. Certainly not through sport; baseball is hardly energetic so it must be genetics and metabolic rates. Clearly I'm generalising and there are some larger people, but at just under a pound for a small bottle of water and two for a basic yoghurt, justification of love handles becomes near impossible.



It's a place of sheer beauty that is unrivalled in splendour and heritage. To say the people are proud would be a gross understatement of galactic magnitude; and yet there are definite undertones that lurk behind the appearance of well-behaved, subservient manners. Even in the major cities, locals will extend a helping hand for a lost tourist; try their best to communicate small and large portion size (though sadly both are considerably smaller than to be expected by western eyes). Turn a corner and there will always be something happening; be it a ceremony of religious importance, hopping a golden box around the streets to the delight of on looking crowds; or a themed bar or cafe with an interesting take on foreign cuisine. Stray further and a Taito centre awaits your button bashing technique, fruit machines beckon your money offering a glimmer of hope and if you're able to withstand the noise – try Pachinko which is easily the quickest way to burn paper in history. Watch as the balls fail to negotiate the pin-laden trajectory and miss the centre so often, it's a wonder that this be considered a pastime.




Head out to town and there's no shortage of things to do in both the light and dark. Shrines await your cheesy photo taken, or ask one of the traditionally dressed folk for a picture with them. Be warned to expect the ritual two-finger peace salute en-mass, we are all children of mother Earth after all. Eight countries and I’m still none the wiser as to where it stems from; theories and rumours including “cat whiskers”, “makes you look cute”, “world peace” and just something to do with your hands.



With so many people suggesting food stuffs and delicacies here, you can expect cuisine from every corner of the planet; as indeed you would in any major city. Add a second expectation of inflated pricing and you're there; gone are the cheap meals of SE Asia, replaced with some unnecessary Japanese flare, but interesting culinary experiences nonetheless. Hit a Sushi bar and don't be frightened when the whole restaurant stops dead to stare as the strange white, red faced foreigner enters. Does he know how to eat using chopsticks? Do you think he even knows where he is? I wonder if he can speak any Japanese?


Like Tescos, every little helps and it's a great place to meet people. My first true Sushi from its inventive home and I've befriended a local football coach who insists on paying for my meal. When was the last time that happened in London or New York, let alone from someone in the profession of his?


Yes the vicious rumours are indeed accurate; Japanese males are all perverted individuals, each more seedy and twisted than the next. That is, compared to what the Western world considers normal. Their attitude to sex being positively Victorian, almost pretending it doesn't happen and each child is the result of immaculate conception by some mystical force, leaving no trace of bodily fluids, let alone messy bed sheets and a raided fridge.

Well I'd rather have it all out in the open. Take Japan for instance, your local convenience store will have a plethora of tits, prepubescent schoolgirls, anime porn and all other manner of five-knuckled paper-based relief on offer. And whilst it must clearly be difficult being female here, it's not like they do themselves any favours. Most dress like whores. Some like schoolgirl whores. Others simply look like they're trying to out-whore every other whore in whoreville. It's a veritable stampede of whores, strutting and tearing toes to shreds, risking ankle fractures with each step and giggling as if puberty was a fleeting fantasy.



No wonder all the men here will stop and gawk as they strut by; hair died, curled and faffed with for surely hours and clothing from one of the many skimpy retailers as frequent as Gap at home. Not that I'm complaining mind you - it makes for superb eye-candy - though try to take a picture and suddenly a wave of introvertedness will wash over them as they do anything possible to avoid capture by CCD. And this all stems from a strong and determinable underlying insecurity that women in Japan seem to suffer from. The stresses of looking good mean that the false eyelashes, curled hair, stilettos and impossibly short puff skirts (actually hiding a secret pair of Lycra shorts), are in fact simply fronts to hide the truth. As much as Western women are pressured to conform to a set of unreachable standards, they are in many ways subject to far easier acceptance. Fall short in any way here and risk being left on the shelf; the result of a much larger female population. Supply and demand couldn't be more relevant.

With men about as good at talking to women as your average World of Warcraft subscriber, it is a wonder that the population has grown. Most men meet their spouses at "hook up parties", where the design is to introduce friends and score points for the most coupling achieved. It's a purely female pursuit - and who'd have thunk it - proving that men here have all the confidence and poise of a stoned Sloth, suffering serious paranoia. Having met a CBC in Matsumoto and the following night speaking with a Japanese man in a Curry house, it transpired they worked in the same company. Without any delay; "can you introduce us?" he asks me, his eyes opening wide and the enthusiasm oozing from every pore. "Sorry I think she's gone back to Canada now", I say and the look of disappointment reminds me of a child being given the wrong computer game for Xmas.

The rumour goes that there are more women here than men. With society grooming women to be content housewives and mothers, it's clear where the source of immaturity stems from. Though either way, I wonder why they don't make more effort – at least that's a start to finding Mr White. I meant Right, right.

Flying solo

Stop it, please I insist. Really there's no need to bow to me each and every time you offer me a refreshment, pillow, blanket, meal – in fact this is fantastic service and even in cattle-class I feel like a king. A "Samurai" according to some Taiwanese I've met, is how I sound with my Hollywood Japanese accent; but i blame Hiro Nakamura for making a cliché of the proceedings. Seriously though, I think the hostesses would carry me to the toilet and wipe my arse for me if I asked. There's a thought. Oh hang on; there's another.

They say (whoever "they" may be), that smiling uses fewer muscles than frowning. Perhaps, but clearly it uses less energy to frown, which must explain why fat people always look sad. You get fat by being lazy after all. In that case these girls – and they are all girls – dressed to utter perfection with each strand of jet black, perfectly straight hair placed with complete precision, must be fit as fiddles. Or each has suffered multiple jaw locks in their careers.

There she goes again, bowing even before seating for landing. This is Extreme Manners, like one of those awful scraping-of-barrel TV shows voiced over by a booming American Wrestler type. Exit the plane and little changes; much like the hacking of the Cantonese, here the manners know no bounds: I think I prefer the latter. And with incredible style, cleanliness and attention to detail and precision; this truly is the Asian Germany.

I'm suffering a little shellshock sat on the Narita Express, which is currently hurtling, tilting and positively bounding it's way along the steel railings at Warp 9 (that’s 130km/h measured), stemming from the quick turnaround of countries and differing cultures. It's not that I'm nervous, no hardly, more that I'm completely drained and soiling my trousers every 7 seconds wondering about my next move.

Through Japan by train using my £403 three week JR rail pass, I'm entitled to use any Shinkansen Magnum .45 “the most powerful train in the world” I like. I hear these formidable machines travel so quickly that you actually arrive before you depart. It's an expensive ticket certainly, but compared to a minimum monthly £1000 travelcard in London – solely for London commute – this is incredible value for the location.

So back to the airport; walking through immigration and security, my heart rate jumps rapidly. I'm not guilty of anything but they really don't mess around here. My bag is searched, I'm questioned and just as I feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead from the Gestapo gentleman interrogating me, he smiles and bows; "Thank you sir, have a pleasant day", and it's difficult to hide my relief. Any more sign of relief and I'm certain that my cavities would have been thoroughly inspected with an electron microscope. Either way they've got my finger prints now and that surely means the Old Bill back home are also in possession of my pinkies; no more drug dealing or pimping of pre-pubescent girls from Cambodia for me, then.

I depart with a thought; throughout Asia the public transport infrastructures have been incredible (I’ll overlook the cockroaches of Vietnam for now), able to both withstand and function in high temperatures and humidity along with monsoon rainfall. For the main pinpoint accuracy, efficiency and delays rare, I am left questioning why is it then that all public transport in the UK creates the same kind of misery and suffering on a daily basis that you might find in say, a concentration camp?

Six of one and half a dozen of the other

With so much untouched beauty in the countryside of Taiwan, it’s refreshingly easy to find a route to run. There’s a definite interest in ground pounding here; sports shops are littered everywhere with any make and model of shoe you may be attached to. They’re also almost as common as the 7-11s; cheap for supplies of liquids and carbs before heading off. A population of only 23 million ensures that even in Taipei there’s very little jostling amongst crowds; especially when compared to the Sardine Tin that is Hong Kong.

I’ve borrowed a Giant mountain bike (a major Taiwanese manufacturer), from my hotel for the afternoon and my plan is to head East toward the beach; find somewhere to lock it up and depart along the seaside. A convenient bicycle track has been laid along what appears to be a large portion of the coast in Hualien, Taiwan. Kilometre markers signify a potential cycling race and mean I don’t have to glance at my watch so often. That’s good as the frequent seemingly wild canines dispute their territory furiously and require sprint bursts, until they’re satisfied of your departure. It doesn’t particularly bother me as I’m used to it from the rest of S.E. Asia, and in addition I get to add fartleks to my run.

The scenery on this windy, drizzly and somewhat humid day is still impressive even in this light; although at times I do wonder why the beaches resemble something from a beach landing scene in a WWII film. Gigantic rocks in the shape of jackstones are ever-present along much of the coastline, which is generally shingle and rocky in parts. Clearly man made, it doesn’t detract from the enjoyment of running with the salty sea air filling my lungs as I set in to my regular triplet breathing rhythm. Around 3k and I’m warmed up, having pushed through the usual bodily reflex trying to stop me punishing my muscles. It’s a strange symbiotic relationship; as much resistance as my muscles and nerve endings provide it’s always the same end result – euphoria and a sense of achievement.

The weather is perfect for me and reminds me of something my surrogate P.T. once said to me after I refused to head out in the rain; “If that’s your attitude, you’ll never go running”. The light drizzle is perfect to keep my temperature down and with average humidity ensuring that salty coolant is expedited quicker than on UK shores, I’m glad to have brought a 600ml bottle of water to sip as each K passes. I’ve always found it a little tricky to drink whilst running, with the best option I can find being as follows: Breath in deeply, hold breath and swig, swallow and breath out. Your heart rate will increase slightly, but it ensures the breathing pattern is uninterrupted mid-flow.

To the half way point and my route is blocked by a pack of dogs intent on standing their ground, so it’s either back the way I came, or along a highway. Choosing the latter and now heading North, the wind is firmly against me; although I do say it’s six of one and half a dozen of the other. I’m cooled and any sweat is blown away from my eyes; something less to worry about, even if the jogging is harder going and the volume on my iPod needs to be increased to eardrum piercing levels.

Returning I’m one kilometre short of my targeted 15, but it’s a great run nonetheless especially when given the locals had all shown admiration by nodding, waving and smiling as I passed. What a friendly place this is indeed.

Hualien 14K

Taipei 11K