日本夏2026年

I slept well in Room 914 at the Saga City Hotel. When I woke, rain tapped steadily against the window, and the news warned that Typhoon No. 8, “Higos,” had formed, creating a double-typhoon threat alongside No. 7. Most of my gear had dried overnight—everything except my socks—but given the conditions, they wouldn’t stay dry for long anyway.

I had a short detour planned for the morning: a train ride to Arita for some souvenir shopping. I left my bike locked at the hotel and stopped at Lawson for a café latte and a cookie before heading to the station. At 9:40, I boarded the Midori Huis Ten Bosch 24 Limited Express, arriving in Arita about 30 minutes later.

Arita, known for its centuries-old porcelain tradition, was quiet under a light drizzle. I wandered its narrow streets, lined with ceramic shops—though many were closed for the day. I made my way to Imaemon Pottery, masters of porcelain since 1644. While the workshop itself wasn’t open to visitors, I was warmly welcomed into the showroom. One delicate cup caught my eye—priced at $600—but I settled, more reasonably, on a piece to within my price range.

Back in Saga, I retrieved my bike and set off on the final leg of the tour. On my way out of town, I stopped at Maruhachi Ramen. The server was incredibly kind—almost disarmingly so. She fussed over me like a mother, asking about my travels, and when I told her I’d come by bicycle from Tokyo, she insisted on stepping outside to see it for herself, astonished.

The ride out of the city was defined by steady drizzle and thick fog. The land was flat with a patchwork of rice paddies and greenhouses as I followed the Chikugo River, crossing it once, then again. In Kurume, I admired the carefully sculpted bushes and palm trees lining the boulevards—small touches of elegance in an otherwise gray day.

Originally, I’d planned to stop in Asakura and save the climbing for tomorrow. But while sheltering under an overpass to reassess, I realized the sights and onsen I wanted to visit were farther off route than expected. I pivoted and booked a room at Hotel R9 The Yard—one of the container-style accommodations I’ve come to rely on during past tours.

Getting there meant enduring National Route 322—a narrow, shoulderless stretch packed with fast-moving traffic. It was, without question, one of the least pleasant roads of the trip.

Before closing the day, I found myself thinking about friends scattered across the world, chasing their own journeys. Jeff is riding through Ireland and England, now pushing onward through Europe toward Copenhagen. Linda has just wrapped up a Northern European tour. Dylan and Tom are deep into the Tour Divide, and Justin—more than a year on the road—is currently somewhere in Thailand.

Tomorrow will essentially be my tour's last day.