On Saturday I bought my third bike: a mid-range one, good enough to ride smoothly to work but still write-offable if some thieving gypsy or non-gypsy liberates it.
It's added new flavour to my Tokyo experience. Now every morning I circle the Palace in my suit, bag slung on back like a bicycle courier, weave through the offices of government and the bureacrats on their way to work, before blending in to an upper enclave of expatriate wealth, hoping nobody will notice the imposter.
Whatever about the destination and my degree of belonging there, the journey itself is so much nicer than the rush-hour train.
Then come lunchtime I become Michael Collins transplanted to the east, roaming the city by bike, stopping off at known refuges from years past, making small talk with old friends or saying little at all, basking in their hospitality and the comfort of connection, before moving off as abruptly as I arrive, not to return sometimes for months.
A modern-day Michael Collins sampling the lunch specials, his network of friendly waiters and waitresses.