日本夏2025年

June 12, 2025

日本夏2025年 - Day 14

June 10, 2025

Otobe to Shimamaki - 133 Km

Start 6:42 AM

Finish 5:21 PM

Total Duration 10:38

Moving Time 6:20

Stopped Time 4:18

Ascent 698 m

Descent 703 m

Tour Total 1,538 Km

Details at: https://ridewithgps.com/trips/293984968

I slept well last night in front of the closed tunnel just outside Otobe, nestled along the coast. I turned in early, lulled to sleep by the soft crash of waves nearby. My tent was pitched on a clean patch of asphalt near a seawall, directly in front of an older boarded-up tunnel. There was even a large boulder to lean my bike against. I spent the evening sitting on the seawall, editing my report with the ocean at my back.

First light arrived at 4 a.m., but I managed to roll over and sleep for another two hours. I could hear the distant hum of small fishing boats offshore. Breaking camp was a smooth, methodical process, and I took a moment to appreciate the beauty around me—sheer cliffs of packed dirt dropping straight into the sea, and not another soul in sight.

Small ants had swarmed the area overnight, likely drawn in by my empty beer cans and cracker crumbs. I also discovered bird droppings on my red dry bag—the one that holds my shoes.

I pedaled back into Otobe and stopped at a Lawson’s. After a quick cleanup, I grabbed a Craft Boss latte and a butter kouign-amann.

Due to the tunnel closure, I couldn’t continue north along the coast on Route 229. I had seen detour signs yesterday, so I followed them inland. The sky was completely clear, and I rode with my gilet unzipped, the air cool and still.

A quiet local road took me away from the coastline for about 4 km. I passed horses grazing in a field and, sadly, a road-killed badger. Eventually, I reached a busier highway where the traffic picked up.

My first impression of Hokkaido is that it feels much more rural than Honshu. Many fields lie fallow, and there are far fewer train lines. It feels expansive and unhurried.

The detour around the collapsed tunnel added 15 km, but eventually the sea came back into view. I rejoined Route 229 and entered another tsunami inundation zone. Riding through the Otobe–Genna area, I saw a sign marking the Hokkaido Scenic Byway. The landscape earned the title—rolling curves, scenic overlooks, shrines tucked into hillsides, and vibrant flower beds lining the road.

I came to the 363-meter Shibinomisaki Tunnel, split into two tubes. Then through Toyohama, a port town, followed by the 1,270-meter Toyohama Tunnel. It was narrow and a bit nerve-wracking, with just a foot of space between the curb and the white line—riding it demanded focus.

Exiting the tunnel, I passed a police car and a truck spraying water on the road. Later, I saw billboards topped with actual police lights warnings to watch your speed.

The sea looked calm. The water was a clear aquamarine, and I could see rocks lying beneath the surface.

I rolled into the small harbor town of Kumaishi. Hungry, I stopped at Kobai Sushi, where a kind woman welcomed me warmly and asked all about my journey. Her husband prepared the meal while we chatted. She told me the tunnel I had camped near had collapsed four years ago, cutting off access to a once-beautiful park. I asked about winter—she said they get a lot of snow, but it's cleared efficiently. I also asked about bears. She nodded, saying there are many in the mountains, and deer too.

Because I was on a bicycle, she insisted on serving only nonalcoholic beer with my green tea. It was 9 a.m., and I took the opportunity to charge my phone while eating.

Leaving Kumaishi, I realized my lane had been freshly sprayed with water. I caught up to the spraying truck and passed it. Along the coast, jagged rock formations jutted out, some with natural arches. A few were named, while others stood beside concrete tetra pods.

I passed a road crew painting fresh dotted lines down the center of the highway, then stopped at a roadside station for ice cream. As I sat there, a police officer pulled in and offered me a safety flag for my bicycle. I thought I accepted, but we may have gotten our wires crossed. I asked about the many fluorescent yellow flags along the road—he said they were part of a regional safety campaign.

I paused to apply sunscreen and removed my gilet. Route 229 veered inland across a short cape, and I temporarily lost sight of the sea. I climbed through the 1,000-meter Hiyama Tunnel and enjoyed a smooth descent on the other side.

As I neared the coast again, I spotted distant snow-capped mountains to the north, hazy but majestic. The sun was strong, so I stopped to put on my arm protectors before passing through the short Wakamatsu Tunnel.

The snowcapped peak ahead was 1,170-meter Mount Okotsunaidake.

I rode into Setana, population 8,501, and visited a public bath for a deep clean, a hot soak, and a much-needed shave. On the far edge of town, I stopped at a popular sushi restaurant. The menu was overwhelming in the best way. Again, no alcohol—only nonalcoholic beer, in consideration of my cycling.

After lunch, I continued through the 1,000-meter Abura Tunnel and hugged the rugged coast. Then came the long, new Shinbiya Tunnel. On the other side, the road was scattered with sea urchins and shells—debris from the tide or a recent storm.

I passed through a series of tunnels nestled along the coast at the base of the Okotsunaidake range: the 660-meter Yokotaki, 600-meter Sukki, 71-meter Moiwa, 48-meter Benten, 2,000-meter Motta, 1,600-meter Kariba, 1,400-meter Kabutoiwa, 1,800-meter Shiraito, 220-meter Sakaehama, 340-meter Anama, and 480-meter Enoshima.

By 4 p.m., the air had turned hazy, and fog rolled in from the sea.

I reached Shimamaki and passed the roadside station, then continued a bit further to a Seicomart, where I stocked up on provisions. A short ride brought me to a peaceful seawall where I pitched my tent. As the sun dipped low, the fog lifted just in time to reveal a stunning view of snow-capped Mount Okotsunaidake to the south, bathed in the soft gold of sunset.