Canon's Diary

Last night’s tennis session felt good. My body moved well, and my focus was sharp. The indoor court was brightly lit even at night, its blue carpet offering little in the way of irregular bounces. I made few mistakes at crucial points, and I was able to return serves with controlled counters. My emotions stayed steady, and my body remained relaxed. My serves had good pace, with no double faults, and I held my games consistently.

After practice, I exchanged brief farewells with the others and went alone to the locker room for a shower. Saturday nights are usually the last session of the day, and if I take too long, I often end up being the last to leave. Not wanting to keep the staff waiting, I hurried through rinsing off. The lesson began at eight and ended at half past nine. By the time I had showered and changed, it was close to ten when I stepped out of the court.

With a backpack holding my shoes, clothes, and racket slung over my shoulders, I started the engine of my NC30, put on my helmet, and fastened the strap. Even at night, the air was still warm, and my black long-sleeved riding suit was beginning to feel heavy for the season. Traffic on Route 171 at this hour was relatively light, though there were always some cars on the road. The lanes were wide, making it easy to pick up speed, so I kept myself in check. I rode in lower gears, letting the engine rev high. Since I only ride about once a week, it felt better to let it run a little. About twenty minutes later, I arrived at my apartment. I carefully covered my Honda VFR400R—an OKI-colored version reminiscent of the RVF ridden by Wayne Gardner in the Suzuka 8 Hours in the early 1990s—with a black rain sheet.

Back in my room, I sank into a chair and took a sip of Scotch. At night, I usually dim the lights to relax. But it was already half past ten. Having just been active, my body wasn’t ready for sleep. I played some jazz, letting the soft glow of a single lamp settle my mind.

I began riding motorcycles in high school. On a 50cc scooter, I commuted daily along Route 246 from my family home near Komazawa University Station in Meguro to Hiroo High School in Shibuya. In college, I obtained a mid-sized motorcycle license and bought a Honda NC21 on loan, sometimes riding it to Chuo University in Suidobashi. That was around 1987. To pay off the loan, I worked as a waiter for four years alongside my studies, but I still remember fondly a touring trip to the Noto Peninsula with my coworkers.

After joining a company, I began spending weekends at a local motorcycle shop, where I learned how to clean carburetors, replace spark plugs, change tires, and maintain brake pads. Around that time, I bought the NC30 and started riding at Tsukuba Circuit. Back in high school, I had been a quiet student, sitting in the corner of the classroom with few friends. For the younger me, a motorcycle felt like a companion. Looking back, it was almost frightening—the morning traffic on Route 246 was aggressive, full of sudden lane changes and abrupt acceleration, and motorcycles weaved through cars at high speed. Since that was the road where I first began riding, I never questioned the way everyone seemed to compete with one another. Opening the throttle, pulling the clutch, pressing the brake—the bike surged forward, carving through corners. It became the closest thing I had to someone I could talk to.

Then one summer day, an accident happened. It must have been around 1995. At the final corner of Fuji Speedway, I lost control in a high-side crash. The NC30 was wrecked, and I spent three months in the hospital. After that, I kept my distance from motorcycles for a while.

Instead, I turned to tennis. I had belonged to a tennis circle in college, but our activities were hardly what one would call tennis. I even served as the club’s president in my third year, yet none of us were at a level to compete in matches—we mostly gathered to drink and make noise. I think there was always something in me that felt unfulfilled.

In 1998, after being transferred from Fukuroi in Shizuoka to Kofu in Yamanashi, I joined a tennis school at the recommendation of a colleague. It was the first time I had taken proper lessons from a coach. As I practiced, I became absorbed in the depth of the sport—the footwork to reach the ball, the take-back, the rotation of the torso, the follow-through. When everything connected, tennis felt almost like a kind of dance.

Around that time, the Grand Slam tournaments broadcast on Wowow featured matches between Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal, battling for the world No. 1 ranking. Inspired by them, I entered many tournaments myself. The night before a match, I would be too excited to sleep. I cried when I lost. I was simply happy when I won. And I kept practicing.

If motorcycles had once washed something away inside me, tennis became a way of facing myself. Before I knew it, thirty years had passed. In 2010, when my feelings had begun to settle, I found myself wanting to speak again with that old companion, and I bought a used 1993 NC30. Of course, I no longer ride recklessly as I once did. Modern bikes no longer use carburetors, relying instead on electronic ignition, but I have only ever ridden these older machines. Time moves on, changing everything. I wonder if there will come a day when I can no longer keep up with that flow.

I took another sip of Scotch. In the dim glow of an incandescent light, I listened to a jazz playlist, my iTunes connected to the living room amplifier. After Chet Baker’s “My Funny Valentine,” “April in Paris” followed. Originally composed by Vernon Duke in 1932 with lyrics by E.Y. Harburg, it has been covered by many great singers, but my favorite remains the version by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong.

In the glass, the ice slowly melted, making a quiet sound.