All I heard was a muffled “PETEEEEEEER!!” and the Honda which had screamed past screeched to a stop and turned around. Behind the visor was a huge grin and Mr. Macha, the tempura master, smoking like a maniac, one of the tenkara fishermen from Ōita who had invited me for picnic five days, 130 kilometers, and a mountain range before. “It would be wonderful to go with you but it is an impossibility now,” he said, zipped up his waterproof Honda mechanic’s overalls, and rode back into the rain, into the mountains from where I came, and I laughed for minutes, and I walked to the sea.