Down Town Tokyo, on the outskirts
of Arakawa. Away from the glitz, skyscrapers and salarymen. Old,
low-rise houses and shops, worn down by the heat and pollution.
And the noise! A gathering of cars and motorcycles, screaming
their engines in neutral whilst the drivers and riders pose. Brylcream
hair slicked back, stripped off shirts showing tattoo muscles;
wide grins with hard eyes.
I had tagged a ride with a group
of Japanese drop-outs who didn't make it through the rigorous
educational process that the Japanese deem necessary to inflict
on their kids. There were still plenty of manual jobs where they
could earn easy money and the ever open option of finding a career
in one of the gangster groups whose influence went all the way
into the top companies and highest political positions in the
country.
I wasn't sure how seriously I
should take this mob, calling themselves the Midnite Devils. Oh
sure, they were evil looking bastards but the badass image was
highly stylized - how can you take someone who wears flared trousers
with turn-ups seriously? And the machines wouldn't have raised
an eyebrow at any half decent custom show.
Harsh licensing practices in Japan
made it difficult to attain the seat of anything more than 400cc,
not that the massive car park that most of Tokyo resembled gave
much point or need in buying anything bigger than 50cc. The rush
hour in Tokyo was gridlock time when even a nifty fifty had trouble
navigating a path through the endless rows of stalled cars.
My own attempts at riding a CB125
through the chaos had ended when I'd been viciously cut up, crashing
over into a group of startled pedestrians. The police had not
been very amused at the lack of licence, insurance and valid registration
documents. I was only let out of the police station after telling
a pile of lies about representing an international magazine and
that their tourist industry would be profoundly damaged if I was
locked away in prison. They kept face, mind you, by confiscating
the Honda.
It was whilst at the cop shop
that I met this dubious character, who after hearing my litany
of complaints about brutal police behaviour decided I must be
a hardcore kind of chap, inviting me to a motorcycle run on the
back of his machine.
One thing led to another, more
out of boredom than anything else, I turned up at the appointed
time and place. Five taxi drivers had refused to take me there,
the sixth demanding cash up front and about six times what the
meter registered. Still, a bunch of bikers that actually obeyed
the law and played along quite happily with a crowd of auto totting
thugs failed to impress me.
The Midnite Devils were part of
a growing Japanese cult of disaffected youth, Bosozoku maniacs
who bored out of their heads with conventional Japanese life become
speed tribes that deliberately set out to upset the rest of society.
As laughable as these youths might seem to a superficial western
eye, they are so intricately interwoven with the Japanese Yakuza
(gangster) scene that the better part of valour was to keep a
straight face and avoid direct eye contact. I was getting enough
hard looks for just being where I shouldn't have been.
These speed tribes are not just
famous for roaring up the road at an inconsiderate pace, they
are also feared for their massive and frequent abuse of methamphetamines,
having developed a strain of speed that gives you a six hour high
then suddenly switches you into a murderous depression so black
that the only way out is to consume yet another handful of pills.
Couple that with a liking for potent brandy, and I was pretty
sure that the night's run would turn up some very interesting
antics.
I was to be pillion on the back
of a Kawasaki GPZ400, a bike of inordinate ordinariness only made
tolerable by our lack of crash helmets and the nervous way the
pilot's hands shook. The bike's only modification as far as I
could see was a pair of clip-ons that were ill suited to the standard
pegs and a couple of decals with weird Japanese characters that
could have meant anything from F... You to Have A Happy Day.
You could tell that these kids
didn't have that much spending power....the cars were jazzed up
Toyotas and the like that would have had the editor of a custom
car magazine in hysterics...weird Japanese stickers were stuck
over the worst rust patches and the interiors were velvet bad
taste. Having noted a collection of large knives in the back of
one of the autos I naturally refrained from expressing my thoughts
on these, er, hot-rods!
All these vehicles had one thing
in common. A lack of silencing. After a minute or two of madly
revving engines my head was throbbing with the pain of it all.
The convoy, maybe twenty bikes and thirty cars, sped off towards
Joban Expressway after the late evening rush hour had dissipated.
Cars skidded out of the way, narrowly avoiding causing mass pile-ups.
The sheer noise of the convey was enough to send car drivers scurrying
out of our path. The wind whipped my head from side to side, other
pillions punching their fists in the air, either in sheer joy
or repressed anger.
The pilot wobbles as the crowd
of machines slows down, all this effort and pose is apparently
wasted on speed and it's much more fun to block off the whole
Expressway with a 5mph crawl. The Kawasaki wobbles about so much
that I'm fingering the back of the machine, trying to work out
if I'd be able to step off without doing myself permanent injury
if the rider loses the bike completely. Looking down past the
guardrails of the elevated expressway I can see the midnight lights
of northern Tokyo and my mind is filled with visions of being
flipped off the side, spinning down and down until flesh is torn
asunder.
Once the traffic is piled up to
the back of us as far as the eye can see and the road in front
is clear of vehicles, a race to Moriya begins. Vibes blitz the
poor old Kawasaki as the rider misses the second to third change
and the revs go right through the red. I'm perched high above
the near midget at the controls whose head is anyway buried in
the clocks, so take the full wind blast in my face. Even with
my eyes closed in an Oriental squint, tears begin to flow as the
bike wobbles up to 100mph or so.
We can't burn off the cars, they
might look pretty mundane but have had their motors tweaked. Some
sport flashing purple lights in imitation of the Japanese cops
who so far have been entirely absent from the proceedings, others
an assortment of orange, red and blue lights that flicker on and
off with enough intensity to throw a disco maniac into the wildest
of frenzies.
Speed doesn't seem to faze anyone,
there are some pretty strange antics. Women on the pillions climb
up on to the seats, others in cars stick there bodies out of the
windows. Flags are unfurled and stuck out of windows in victory
at having taken over the road. Lights flash, horns blare and disembodied
screams manage to filter through the rush of wind.
This rolling convey of anarchy
and rebellion roars over the landscape in total exclusion to every
other, sight, sound and sensation. I was already slightly drunk
before slinging a leg over the saddle and am now finding it hard
to sit in a composed, upright stance. The temptation to join in
the screaming is great!
When there are no vehicles left
behind the procession slows right down again. Cars start doing
handbrake turns spinning through 360 degrees with such precision
that they avoid colliding with each other. Some of the motorcyclists
try to imitate these manoeuvres and cause a mild pile-up of tangled
limbs and broken machinery. Luckily, my pilot limits his excess
to a numberplate scraping, seemingly endless, wheelie. My head
feels dizzy and my stomach was left behind a long time ago. I
have to cling desperately to the rider to stop myself falling
off the back, feeling foolish as well as frightened. I am not
a very good pillion at the best of times and this is certainly
not the best of times. More like sheer hell!
The cars at the back form an effective
road block whilst the rest of the motorcyclists turn around to
go back to aid their fallen colleagues. About fifteen minutes
later there is a massive tail back of cars, who strangely don't
sound their horns in anger, and still no sign of the cops. One
girl had broken an arm and is bungled into the back of a car which
speeds off to the nearest hospital. The rest are merely bruised
and bloodied, the machines kicked straight. No-one has turned
off their engines and the almighty row has left my head feeling
like it's been pumped by a pneumatic drill.
The rest of the journey is mostly
clowning around. Everyone trying to cross each other up without
actually knocking each other off. But there is more youthful exuberance
than dedicated skill in evidence. By the time we hit Moriya there
have been two more collisions, one of which degenerated into a
fight. I stayed well in the shade as the participants flayed each
other with knives and vicious kicks. All out war was but narrowly
avoided.
The horde descends on a huge parking
lot belonging to a restaurant. It's 3.45am and what few diners
are around at that time hurriedly dash for their cars and exit
with squealing tyres. No-one tries to intercept them, and apart
from sheer numbers and noise there has been no violence vented
on innocent citizens.
Tokyo is normally one of the safest
cities in the world to wander around, the iron grip of the Yakuza
makes indiscriminate, raw violence a rare occurrence. The gangs
will cut each other up like no-one else but unless there's lots
of money up for grabs they stay within their own orbit. At least
that's what I kept telling myself!
To add to the chaos of cars and
bikes, the surface has been dug up and showers of loose gravel
rain down on everyone as wheels are spun. Everyone takes this
as an excuse to go completely berserk, whatever little decorum
and cohesiveness there was on the road dissipates. I leap off
the back of the Kawasaki just in time to watch the owner drop
the clutch with what must be 12000rpm on the clock. His face turns
to surprised shock as he loses it all and turns the bike over
on its back wheel. The GPZ lands on top of him, his head hitting
the ground with a sickening crunch.
He's out for the count. Hands
grapple with the 400lbs of alloy and steel in time to stop him
being covered with a couple of litres of fuel. His mates gently
boot him back to life, the blood streaming out of a large gash
in the back of his head. His previously lacquered hair is all
over the place which probably causes him more concern than the
loss of blood. A bandana is used as a bandage and he starts picking
over the Kawasaki like a concerned parent with a child who has
just suffered a fall.
Meanwhile, several mini-skirted
girls who look no more than 14 have emerged from nowhere. They
eye the riders as if they are movie stars rather than juvenile
scum. It takes no more than a few minutes for them to scurry off
to a barely lighted grass area besides the restaurant. I quickly
lose count of the number of men they pleasure but feel pretty
damn sure that worries of AIDS didn't enter their heads nor affect
their actions.
Brandy is passed around, quaffed
with handfuls of pills. Everything is falling apart rapidly. The
restaurant had quickly closed its doors and no doubt summoned
the cops, so the real fun is only a matter of minutes away. A
group of distraught Japanese youths are pointing fingers in my
direction, trying to give me the evil eye whilst I look into space
pretending that I am invisible, couldn't possibly exist and therefore
couldn't be beaten to death by a bunch of irate, drunk and drugged
jail-bait kids.
Our attention is suddenly focused
on two beat up Datsuns that have turned the car park into a chicken
run. The heavens rain gravel as they viciously spin their back
wheels, snaking off the mark, each at an opposite end of the car
park. They close rapidly, no-one willing to give an inch they
crash head-on at maybe 50mph. amazingly, the drivers crawl out
of the wreckage, shaky on their feet but apparently avoiding serious
injury. The cars seem to have fused together and not even the
combined efforts of the assembled mass are able to pull them apart.
Another fight has broken out,
this time over a girl. Not any girl, maybe 17, she had enough
looks to make it on to the front cover of Vogue. What the hell
she was doing with this motley crew of hoodlums I could not comprehend.
She looked on as two louts, stripped to the waist, showing off
vivid tattoos on their backs, tried to kick and punch each other
into oblivion. I felt weak at the knees, whether from all the
alcohol I'd been consuming or the all pervading atmosphere of
violence and madness I couldn't be sure, probably a combination
of both.
The GPZ400 owner was frantically
trying to start his machine. This caused me some concern, the
last thing I wanted was to be stranded in the car park when the
pigs turned up. Blood was seeping out of his bandana and his pupils
had disappeared into pinpricks. He gave me a vacant look as if
he'd never seen me before. The Kawasaki eventually clattered into
life but the poor idiot didn't have enough energy to clamber back
on board. He fell into a heap next to the machine, adding to his
injuries by trying to clasp the hot engine with his left hand.
The fight had progressed to the
stage where one of the youths was writhing on the floor, curled
up into a fetal ball whilst the apparent victor rained kick upon
kick down upon him. The girl had a wild smile on her face and
eyes that were popping out of her head from an overdose of pills
and alcohol. Suddenly, the guy on the floor unfurled and tried
to rip a hole in the belly of his opponent with a flick-knife
that had appeared from nowhere. There was a sickening crunch as
his arm was broken over the knee of his intended victim and the
knife clattered on to the tarmac.
I had prised the apparently dead
Japanese youth off the Kawasaki, stopped myself throwing up at
the sight of the bone deep burn and decided it was time to do
a runner. The sudden intrusion of wailing sirens produced all
the diversion I needed for a quick exit. About twenty police cars
sped into the car park and disgorged riot clad cops waving big
sticks and guns.
The rest of the youths ran to
their vehicles, laughing maniacally and throwing their fists in
the air in an anti-salute to the law enforcement agencies. I was
moments ahead of the mass exit of screaming vehicles, taking the
Kawasaki on an assault course over a large embankment which dropped
the machine right back on to the expressway. The back wheel skidded
every which way, making me think the bike was going to pitch me
off but we soon rattled and thumped back on to the tarmac.
I was unsure how the gang would
react to my half-inching one of their fallen members' pride and
joy, so rode with the lights turned out at about 110mph until
I could find the relative safety of the first exit and abandon
the machine. By then the first hint of the rising sun was trying
to break through the darkness of the sky and I could join the
hordes of Japanese salarymen commuting back into central Tokyo.
It wasn't until I got back to
the hotel that I realised why I was getting so many horrified
glances. I looked a complete wreck. My face covered in exhaust
fumes, my clothes dishevelled to the point where I'd have no problems
pasting muster as a tramp and my eyes bloodshot, out on storks,
making my face look about twenty years older than it really was
and madder than a mass murderer who'd quaffed a bottle full of
sulphuric acid.
The incident at the restaurant
made the early evening news, twelve arrests had been made and
my pilot carted away in an ambulance, not dead but brain damaged,
although he was probably halfway there without the help of the
accident. Earnest politicians tried to play down the problems,
social workers blamed the harshness of Japanese society and well
adjusted youths shook their heads in a mixture of awe and horror.
It seemed pretty obvious to me that the report had done a good
PR job for the speed tribes and yet more disaffected youths would
be joining their merry if mad band. As for me, once was more than
enough.
Mike Prescotte