It's a pattern I know well by now: every bike trip ends earlier than planned.

Today, after 530km of riding, I boarded a 6pm bus for the final 170km home. As always, I try to rationalize it - to silence that voice whispering "failure… failure…"

There were good reasons this time. My bike bag broke. Not a big deal until you realize it meant juggling a bunch of unnecessary gear, which somehow led to losing both my water and some food between Suwa and Fujimi. Add to that getting lost before the Suwa mountain crossing - costing me a full hour - and a late start that already had me chasing daylight. Then came the slow grind of rerouting, managing broken gear, and trying to make up lost time.

Even if none of that had happened, my plan was flawed: riding over 200km on the Koshu Kaido from Suwa to Shinjuku. That stretch - especially through the mountains - is narrow, car-heavy, and thankless. There's no prize at the end. No onsen. No sweeping downhill. Just concrete.

So yes, I gave in and took the bus.

But as we pulled into Shinjuku Terminal, something unexpected hit me: relief. Or was it... comfort?

Could it be that I actually missed Tokyo?

From my seat, I watched the endless stream of people - rushed, tired, animated, indifferent - all moving through the city like they belonged. After a week in the countryside, I saw them differently. Not just as "city people," but as another ecosystem. Each person - like the bugs and wild plants I passed on the road - fitting into a system with its own rhythm.

Maybe I was only able to see it this way because of the trip. The bike, the bags, the solitude - they opened up a different kind of interaction with people and places. And maybe that contrast - between human bustle and rural stillness - is what keeps me bouncing between the two.

Maybe it's a yin/yang thing. Too much of one, and I crave the other.

Or maybe I just couldn't wait to see Tomoe and the birds again.

Whatever the case, one thing is certain: I'll be ready to head out again - tomorrow. Or at least next week.