Rush hour, downtown Tokyo…The pink neon lights of Shibuya come alive as the wave of grey suits flood its famous barcode crossing. But against the commuter tide, a menace is loose. Weaving through pedestrians- elegant like a dancer, fast like a piranha- a lone cycle messenger is racing against the clock, pedalling towards Shinjuku like Genghis Kahn on a steel horse. He is one of hundreds of Tokyo’s Kamikaze messengers, who with no brakes, no helmet and no fear, risk their lives to courier letters and parcels across Japan’s dizzying metropolis. And what’s more, these feckless riders spend their free time too, racing through the city streets, competing against rival couriers in top-speed, illegal street competitions known as ‘alley cats’. These dangerous, rarely-photographed events like ‘Mixpression’, ‘Pillage’ and ‘Kyoto Loco’ are closely guarded by the messengers, as Loaded was to discover at our peril: Cling on. This is one hell of a ride.
Loaded arrive in Tokyo with a bike racing photographer, our translator, ‘Fat’ Phil, and our customised, £1,200, fixed-gear bike- to infiltrate the ‘scene’ and try to race in one of the city’s secret alley cat races. What we were to discover is a closely guarded community who will protect their sport at any cost. Our attempts at messenger-style cycling on Tokyo’s tough streets would prove irresponsibly calamitous and after two days in Tokyo, we are lucky to leave without a serious kicking at the hands of hostile bikers. Yet for one mad night, we ride with the top boys, tearing through Tokyo and clinging onto taxis for speed, jumping red lights, drunk on adrenaline, high on fear.
We tear through Tokyo clinging onto taxis for speed, jumping red lights, drunk on adrenaline, high on fear.
“Being a fast messenger…it comes from within,” explains 28-year-old courier Shino-San, his words translated by Fat Phil like a badly dubbed Kung Foo movie. “You need passion and skill to be the best.” And Shino should know, he’s the world’s most famous and successful messenger. Hailing from Chiba, Japan, Shino is the reigning world champion. He tells my translator that he used to be a nightclub host, but today he’s the reigning champ of the WBMC World Bike Messenger Championship, and this year has won Mixpression and Kyoto Loco, completing an impressive treble. Some say he has memorised the sequences of every traffic light in Tokyo. Others believe he controls them with his thoughts.
“We race once a month in alley cat races,” Shino says quietly, knocking back a strong beer. “It’s a competitive sport and I am competitive about everything whether it’s delivering a package or racing.” Loaded loves Shino- he’s a top geezer, and his cool colleagues “Hal” and Yoshi, (the president of the Tokyo Bike Messenger Association) show us a great time in a local messenger bar.
We learn that alley cat races are gruelling sprints through a city, stopping at various checkpoints in any order (as a messenger would deliver packages), often having to complete a task such as climb stairs, or neck a shot of hot sauce or vodka. But when we ask about the recent tragedy that occurred in America, the messengers go very quiet. A race in Chicago ended in tragedy when on February 24, 2008, 29-year-old chef Matt Manger-Lynch was killed by a collision with a car mid-race after jumping a red light. Chicago’s transportation department said the race was “unsanctioned” and “a solemn reminder that avid cyclists should adhere to the rules of the road just like motorists and pedestrians.”
This is why no one wants to talk about alley cats. Especially as the recent ‘Mixpression 8’ race was shut down by cops after many strong anonymous threats and calls to the police. While at the Wbase bike shop in Shibuya, we later meet an American racer, Zac*, who’s a former messenger and alley cat organiser:
“There’s a ton of bike accidents in Tokyo,” he says. “New kids jump on fixed-gear bikes with no brakes and no skill. They’re a danger to the real messengers. Messengers get heat because people ring up the courier companies complaining about fixed gear bikes, when it’s actually people like you fucking things up.”
He casts an angry glance over my bright blue, show-off bicycle with its needless Aerospoke wheels.
Sheepishly, we cycle off, as Shino has agreed to take Loaded on a run around Shibuya, Tokyo’s business and fashion district where much messenger work is based. Riding for top courier firm Cyclex, messengers like Shino deliver documents and photographs to everyone from real estate agents to fashion designers. Email may have wrecked the messenger business in New York, but according to Akira Tanaka, vice president of courier firm T-Serv, business is booming in Tokyo, because Japanese people still feel insecure until they see printed material or photos. And on Tokyo’s maze-like streets, pedal bikes are faster than motorbikes:
When Japan’s Imperial Palace was moved from Kyoto to Tokyo in the second year of Meiji (1868), the Emperor decided that the grid-like streets of Kyoto had been too easy to navigate for conquering armies. So, they built the streets of Tokyo into a winding labyrinth; check it, a map of Tokyo looks like someone’s thrown up their noodles. And now there’s taxis to contend with too.
Cyclex riders, however, are cool, street-wise pirates who’ll stomp into your office in a puff of Marlboro smoke and hit on your receptionist, but deliver your letter faster than you could fax it.
“Taxi drivers are not our friends,” says Shino, as we saddle up. “In Tokyo, messengers get arrested for hanging onto Taxis. Sometimes the driver gets surprised and swerves.”
As we take to the street by Tokyo’s famous Hachikō statue, Loaded notices how Shino has a kind of supernatural presence. It’s as if he somehow owns the road, as we pick up speed and tear down a hill jammed with black taxis. “Come on!” he shouts, as we whisper down the centre stripe just millimetres from motors on both shoulders, then suddenly traffic starts to move and we’re as one with the flow of cars! Shino, Yoshi, Hal and Loaded, legs pumping, like a school of dirty fish swimming with shiny black whales. The sense of being in water is indescribable, but apt. With fixed gears, there are no brakes and to stop, one must slow down by pedalling backwards- which takes a few yards. Not handy when a lady driver pulls out doing her lippy in the mirror.
The company he works for, Cyclex, have a reputation as the best in Tokyo, and the world champion is a prized asset. “There is no real competition to Cyclex,” says Shino. “We have no rookie messengers.”
See, rival firm T-Serv employ newer riders and offer customers service with a smile, a courier dressed in a uniform and delivery for 500Y (£3.30) within four hours. Cyclex riders, however, are cool, street-wise pirates who’ll stomp into your office in a puff of Marlboro smoke and hit on your receptionist, but deliver your letter faster than you could fax it.
“If we don’t get the package there on time, we don’t get paid,” explains Shino. So while T-Serv pay their messengers an hourly wage, 1,200Y (£7), Cyclex dudes get paid per delivery. More deliveries, more Yen. More Yen, more beer. I’ll leave you to imagine how red lights are observed by Cyclex riders.
Meanwhile, Loaded are speeding through Tokyo at a frankly frightening pace. What might feel like a gentle pleasure ride for Shino and the boys is punishing muscles in my arse and legs I didn’t know I had. I fall off, twice, trying to get my trotters out of the metal cages while waiting at a traffic light, and endeavour to learn the messenger technique of hitching a ride with a taxi to keep up with the other messengers. Zooming down one of Tokyo’s rare hills, in a two-lane street taxicabs jostle for position, forcing me into a tiny gap between two vehicles. Next to me in the back of the cab, I see a businessman watching a Japanese schoolgirl suck off teacher on a tiny TV screen, and I reach out and grab his door handle. Lift off! The taxi accelerates and I’m away! 5, 10, 15 miles an hour and the fixed gear is rotating the pedals so fast the bike is riding me, not the other way round. Yeaah! The wind whips into my jacket as I struggle to hang on, adrenaline squirting through my veins. This is amazing! Suddenly, two bandit Cyclex messengers appear alongside me, and quickly overtake with ease, killing my massive testosterone buzz.
More deliveries, more Yen. More Yen, more beer. I’ll leave you to imagine how red lights are observed by Cyclex riders
But it was Loaded’s intention to find an alley cat race and represent England against some of Tokyo’s finest, a mission that was becoming increasingly unlikely and dangerous. Although Shino and his boys are highly respectable figures, there is an undercurrent of violence among others in the community, one that we were to experience first hand. Firstly, messenger gossip moves as fast as their packages, and all of Tokyo became quickly aware there was a journalist among them, trying to do ‘a story’. To alley cat racers, Journalists are somewhere between a taxi driver and a cockroach, and much is done to prevent publicity of their races, which are then quickly shut down. We take Zac, an English teacher, and his messenger mates to an Okonomiyaki restaurant where he promised to tell us more about where we could find a race. In these authentic Japanese eateries, you squeeze around a table with a large hot plate built into it, below a dazzling light the Japanese police could use for interrogating suspects. Me, Fat Phil, our snapper and Zac, all sat hot and sweating as a waiter smashes eggs and noodles over the scorching hotplate. On the next table, four of Zac’s messenger mates keep looking over.
“So Shino was a nightclub host before a messenger,” I say to break the now unbearable silence. Zac’s face drops. “He told you that?” Phil nods. Zac goes on to explain that in Tokyo, nightclub hosts are young, good-looking fellas who are paid to entertain older ladies, at great expense. News to me, and it’s an unlikely start to a messenger career but I like to think Shino would have been good at it, like he’s good at everything. Apparently, there’s no shagging, just some cash for a bit of harmless rabbiting.
“I wouldn’t have known that if you hadn’t have mentioned it, mate,” I smile, nervously.
“I tell you, guys. You print that…if you fucking print that…” shouts Zac, a film of sweat appearing on his forehead. Loaded appear to be in some trouble. “You want to write about alley cat racing? You haven’t seen an alley cat race. You write about this, or alley cats, and I’m gonna fuck you up!” As Zac screams, specks of spittle shooting out of his gob and sizzling to nothing next to his egg.
“I’m gonna fuck you up. I will find you motherfucker,” he says as he storms out of the restaurant, sending polite waiters scattering.
Outside, my bike is left with two flat tyres. I’ve been warned, and I know the mission is over.
But this I know: Alley cats won’t be underground for long. In September the World Championships will be held in Tokyo: Legal, brakes-and-helmet required, beer sponsored and with journalists everywhere, this will be a nightmare- not for messengers, but for the uptight groupies who own fixed gear bikes and pretend once a month.
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