Hiratsuka, the next town down the coast, is clearly wealthier than ours—it has a splendid art museum for example. I knew the reason was gambling tax revenue from keirin cycle racing but that was all. Then my visiting nephew, a bicycling enthusiast, asked to see keirin, and I found that it may be the only Olympic sport that costs practically nothing to go and see, and gives you the chance to get within a few meters of its stars before you witness the excitement of race after race.
A free shuttle bus took us from right in front of the station to the velodrome. Put 100 yen in the turnstile and you’re in. Once inside, there’s unlimited free tea or coffee, and races every half hour from 11AM to 5PM. Walk down to the starting line and join the handful of people gathered to see the nine cyclists. As they prepare to set off, you notice something perhaps unique in sport. The nature of the keirin challenge means that the ideal age for riders, balancing strength and experience, may be the early to mid 30s, and some are riding into their late 50s in direct competition with others a third their age. All of them have massive thighs.
The riders mount their stripped down bikes: no gears, no brakes, just pedals that turn the wheels directly. They balance, stretch, strap their legs to the pedals, the pacing bike sets off, and the field is away. White, black, red, purple, pink: each rider wears a jersey and mushroom helmet in one of nine vibrant colors, stripping him of his identity but making him easily identifiable as the speed gradually increases. After a couple of laps, the pacer peels away, a gong sounds and the race is on: a lap and a half of speed, tactics, jockeying for position in a coveted slipstream before a blinding dash to the finish. It’s over in less than a minute.
There is one other thing. Keirin’s minimal cost, free beverages and up-close experience are possible because it’s a gambling sport. Those at the stadium on this midweek afternoon are the retired and unemployed, 98 percent male, median age 50, most solitary, and with an evident gambling addiction. The bicycles were incidental; no one was there to see them and most people stayed in the betting areas and away from the track, watching the outcome on monitors. The mood is one of quiet and dogged application, everyone filling out their betting slips while checking the changing odds displayed on giant screens.
Betting is optional of course. At a beginners’ table near the entrance, we had a quick and friendly tutorial on how to wager. We then made each race interesting by putting 100 yen--the minimum--on the cyclists we chose to be first and second. All told, we came up lucky just once in ten tries.
The clientele and facility are slightly shabby and the perfume is cigarette smoke. In contrast, the cycling track itself is maintained in pristine condition inside a clear plastic wall. Black-clad stewards zip around the track on small-wheeled bikes fielding every stray fragment of torn-up betting slip. Pre-race, the riders are impassive as a few spectators shout their names and “We’re counting on you.” or “Do your job.” They’re equally oblivious to the isolated cries of “Idiot” and “Fall off your bike” as they circle the track to lose speed after the race. But there’s little time to dwell on the result: the riders for the following race are already parading around the track, the odds go up and the countdown begins.
We took the bus back to the station a couple of races before the end. It was clear that our fellow passengers were leaving early for a different reason and one or two wore expressions of pure despair. On our part, it had been an afternoon of sporting thrills and all the coffee we could drink for less than 1000 yen.
--Julian (with nephew Chris B)
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