Forward

A brief introduction:

This piece is an extended metaphor that utilizes a structure and storytelling to convey its message. The pacing and length of story-elements throughout are very deliberate choices in regards to the metaphor.

The story is based on a character in Wataru Watanabe's Yowamushi Pedal named Arakita, Yasutomo. While the show briefly provided his backstory, I took upon his persona and expanded upon his character—essentially role-playing him—to embellish the metaphor. Given how short the assignment was, I decided that it would be best to utilize a pre-constructed character rather than attempt to establish my own.

Additionally, I've included an image of the character in question to better convey his personality.

I entered high school learning forward to a bright future as a baseball player. I had a bright future—I was the best pitcher in the prefecture. I always felt like my teammates could trust me with their dreams; they were always cheering me on, never doubting that I would overcome the obstacles in front of me. After each game, they would punch my chest, grinning from ear to ear and say something like “Good work!” or “I knew we could count on you.” I felt awesome.

 

But as fate would have it, I broke my arm the summer of my second year. It happened just before I was supposed to make my starry debut at Hakone’s regionals. I couldn’t pitch.

I had to drop out.

No one came running to my hospital bed while I fumed over my luck. No one came to sympathize. No one came to grieve the loss of the team’s designated pitcher. I sat coped up in my hospital room, leg twitching and shaking the bed with nervous energy that had nowhere to go. Whatever—I didn’t want pity anyway.

When I finally made it back to school a few days later, my teammates would mutter condolences as we passed in the hallways.

“Arakita, sorry to hear you were injured.”

“Too bad. Looks like you won’t be coming with us.”

“Sorry. Maybe next year.”

All I could do was nod at their words. They felt so empty. 

I couldn’t help but walk to the baseball field after school. I watched them practice, the new pitcher gaining favors from the team all around. In a week, the team had gotten familiar with him. It was as though I had never been part of the team.

My teammates hadn’t given a damn. I was tossed aside. Forgotten. Yet I couldn’t move on; I kept thinking about them, about the ‘what-ifs.’

I tried hanging out with other groups of people, but no one ever stayed. I chased them away.

“Get me a Pepsi! I told you I hate Coke!” I threw the Coke can on the ground and stomped on it, shattering the aluminum and sending it flying, soda spewing out in every direction as it flew through the air.

Stupid, useless bums. Morons. Garbage. I hated the world. I hated everyone.

My moped became the only thing that I believed wouldn’t double cross me. With a twist of my wrist, it could take me anywhere—wherever I wished, wherever I told it to go. 

Go. I gripped the handlebars harder and leaned to the side as I turned, adrenaline pumping and wind rushing in my face as I pulled by body and scooter closer and closer to the ground.

Go. Take me to a place far ahead. Take me to a world where no one else exists: a world where nothing bad ever happens.   

But no matter where I went, nothing was satisfying. My memories always crept back up on me, making me remember stupid things.

If only I hadn’t been injured!

One day, I ditched class early and hopped on my moped. I raced up Mt. Hakone, stopping halfway up once I found a rest spot. Parked there, I had a good view down at the school. It was disgusting. I wanted to transfer or drop out. Whatever I could do to get away from this miserable place. I sat there for hours, fuming to myself over resurfaced memories.

I was interrupted from my thoughts when a group of cyclists raced past, a few club members veering away from the group toward the rest stop to refill their water bottles. I ignored them, but there was one person lagging behind, his bike parked next to mine. I couldn’t help but stare.

The frame was so thin. How did it support him? Why did these losers even bother riding bikes when mopeds exist? Bikes are so stupid—obsolete!

At that moment, I didn’t care who it was. I wanted to take my frustration out on someone. I got off my bike, approaching the blond man chugging water by the vending machines.

“What’s with that lame outfit?” I called out, sneering at him. I noticed his uniform said ‘Hakone Academy’; so we were from the same school. “It’s hideous!” I insisted.

 “These clothes are necessary. They decrease wind resistance to give you better performance,” the blond replied coolly.

“I wasn’t looking for an explanation! Lately you guys have been getting in my way, riding on skinny bikes like that and flitting around.” I stomped right over to the man’s bike, kicking it over. “Road bike? Don’t try to pass off a lame bicycle as something more than it is!” The bike clattered to the ground, and the stoic blond finally changed his expression, horror stricken as his spare water bottle cracked under the bike frame when it hit the ground.

Provoked, the blond turned to me and recomposed himself before speaking. “The bike takes you forward with absolute certainty. Your efforts in practice won’t lie to you. I want to move forward; that is why I ride bikes.”

This bastard had the nerve to act like he knew me—! I grabbed him by his shirt collar and shouted in his face. 

It’s not like it was my fault I got injured!

He gazed back at me with unwavering determination and challenged me to a race. ‘Sure, why not?’ I thought. Bike versus moped. Man versus machine. It should have been no contest! But no, the freak managed to beat me by riding downhill at 80 kilometers-per-hour!

How? How?

The next day I snuck over to the bike racks during cycling practice and jacked the nearest bike. I hopped on, wobbled two meters, lost my balance and crashed into the ground. The cycle repeated itself each time I climbed back on. My neck hurt; my butt hurt; I had no idea how to change gears and I felt like I was going to fall on my face. I didn’t care that I was being laughed at; I just needed to be able to ride a road racer.

Every day for the next week, I would wait until nightfall to go to school and steal that bike. Forward. Forward. Move forward, damn it!

Why couldn’t I ride it? The damned blondie was riding 80 kilometers-per-hour!

“It’s because you’re not looking in front of you,” said a low voice behind me. I turned, finding the captain I had raced. Why was he watching? How long had he been standing there?

“That’s my bike,” he stated, as if reading my mind. “The bike won’t move forward if all you do is look down. Look ahead of you—into the distance.”

I looked up in shock. Suddenly, pedaling wasn’t so hard. I could see the horizon as I pulled ahead, faster and faster—faster.

If I didn’t use everything I had to move myself forward, I would have never moved on from the past.

Works Cited

Watanabe, Wataru. Yowamushi Pedal. Akita Shoten. 2008-2014. Print.