Blackstairmountain Part 2

The Nakayama Grand Jump is the richest steeplechase horse race in the world. The winner takes home 65 million yen, roughly 550,000 euro (though given how the yen is plummeting in value by the hour, you could knock a couple of thousand off that by the time you read this).
Three weeks ago we went along to our local Japanese Racing Association (JRA) off-track betting facility to watch Blackstairmountain's Japanese debut in the Pegasus Stakes..
And we all know how that went.
We wailed, we gnashed our teeth, we pulled our hair (or at least Sanae and Cian did. I can't afford to do that with what little I have left); we lamented the loss of three thousand of the Gaynor-Takahashi family's hard earned yen.
But then Barry, this blog's resident expert in all things equine, weighed in with his considered opinion. The 'Keane Eye' as Ennis' resident turf oracle is known, assured us that Blackstairmountain could and would do better next time out.
Hmmmm.
Well 'next time out' arrived today. Cian, having been bitterly disappointed the previous time opted to stay at home digging a stream with his friends in front of our house. So Sanae and me drove down to the JRA with me sternly warning her that we were not going to bet another three thousand yen on a horse that seemed to be in Japan solely in order to hide out from Tesco's meat suppliers.
She nodded, agreed, and then did what she always does; ignored me and put a four thousand yen each-way bet on the horse. And picked two other horses for a place bet as well, horses I'd like to point out, she had never seen nor heard of until, and I am not making this up, she glanced up at a monitor as she was placing the bet and picked them based on their odds.
And nothing else.
That my friends, is gambling.
That, my God, is my wife.
And as for the race? Well you can enjoy it in full HERE, along with my helpful commentary. Please forgive the shaky camera work as things became a tad 'exciting' towards the end.
Those of you who suffer from visual vertigo can watch the actual broadcast here, unfortunately in Japanese, along with a post race interview with Ruby Walsh.

Sotsuen-shiki

There were a couple of things I didn't get around to writing about last month - my trip to Dallas and Sanae's sudden enrollment in Gamblers Anonymous delayed things. One of these neglected events was Cian's 'graduation' from nursery school.
In Japan they like to mark the various educational milestones with 'graduation' ceremonies as opposed to say, achievement tests. 'Completion' ceremonies would be more apt as the term 'graduation' usually implies a sense of academic achievement, which would be a tad implausible for a 6 year old boy - though Cian would very much justify a combined honours degree in 'messing' and 'annoying his Daddy'.
Japan likes these ceremonies; Monday will see Cian participate in his primary school 'entrance ceremony', and subsequently there will be an ongoing combination of entrance and graduation ceremonies as he moves from one level of the educational system to the next, right up to the end of university.
Coming from Ireland where 'ceremony' tends to be most associated with weddings and funerals, I find this all a bit bemusing, unlike Sanae who (so far) finds them deeply moving. Nor is she alone. Cian's graduation ceremony was marked by some fantastically left-field fashion displays from the kids (and don't get me started on Cian's Little Lord Fauntleroy look. I disown it completely - planned, sought, and bought while I was in Dallas); and floods of tears from the parents. There's a lot of emotional button-pushing at these occasions; the kids make emotionally fraught speeches about nursery school being the best days of their little lives so far, how they'll never forget it, their friends, teachers, school lunches, earthquake drills, etc. Then each of the children individually presents their mothers with a small bunch of flowers and thanks her for 'making delicious rice lunches', or 'taking them to school', or 'making them wear shorts and girly knee socks'. There's a lot of gender stereotyping going on here with only the mothers being thanked. The fathers, it seems, are presumed to have been too busy working to have much part in their child's upbringing. Which in the case of the Gaynor-Takahashi family at least, is completely the opposite case.
And yes, I am bitter about that.
So when Cian got up on the dais and embarrassedly thanked Mammy for "making him delicious rice", I'd like to think his chagrin arose from knowing that what he was saying wasn't honest, that in fact he was engaging in a ritual designed to reinforce traditional Japanese gender roles rather than convey the emotional truth.

Then again maybe he was just embarrassed by those girly knee socks.

Out and about

As winter's icy grip slackens our thawing thoughts turn to spring.
...
Yes, I'll give you a moment to savor the alliteration.
...
We took ourselves off for a walk last weekend, the first one that didin't necessitate dressing up like Scott of the Antarctic and bringing 2 days worth of food supplies with us, just in case.
We headed for Chikyu Misaki, Cape Earth, which has been voted Hokkaido's most scenic spot by, well, I don't who exactly. But whoever they are they would do with getting out and and about Hokkaido a bit more.
Anyway, as there was a bit of a biting westerly wind blowing (I know, I know, alliteratively effortless), we made for the shelter of the sea side, descending a winding trail to the city's boarded up Marine Research Centre and the sheltered cove it overlooks.
We spent an hour doing little else besides enjoying the sunshine and aimlessly pottering around, though Cian did attempt some fishing by lobbing large rocks into the sea hoping he'd hit something.
He didn't, so we're planning to return this weekend, weather permitting, with fishing rods and nets as Sanae reckons "there's food to be had in these waters". Though given past experience we may just end up eating seaweed again.

Blackstairmountain

On Saturday morning as I was browsing the Irish Times online, I came across the following intriguing headline: "Ruby Walsh travels to Japan to team up with Blackstairmountain". I was, well, intrigued, so I read on. Seems that Blackstairmountain (who is a horse by the way, lest some of you were thinking that a mountain range from south Carlow had relocated to Japan) had come east to take part in next month's Nakayama Grand Jump, the richest grand national in the world. On Saturday he was running in the Pegasus Jump Stakes, the designated 2 mile and a furlong qualifier for the big race. Trained by Willie Mullins. And Ruby (sings "Ruby, Ruby, Ruby!") had made the 20 hour journey to ride her.
Like I said intrigued. Patriotically so. Years ago, I used to take quite an interest in the horses; summer evenings spent with Aunty May at Leopardstown, the big days out at the Curragh, the stop everything for the Cheltenham Gold Cup, and even working as a security guard at the final fence at the Irish Grand National in Fairyhouse.
So I called up to Sanae, "Are they showing the racing from Nakayama on television today?" They were, but only from three o' clock and the Pegasus Jump Stakes was off from two.
But that wasn't going to put Sanae off. The girl likes her horses too. How much so I was about to find out.
She gets on the internet, tap-tap-tappity-tap, makes a phone call to 'some people she knows'.
Who are?
'In the know', is all she replies.
By now she's got this slightly manic gleam in her eyes.
Turns out that the race is being screened at the Japan Racing Association's (JRA) off-track Tote facility here in Muroran. So, yes we can see the race.
More importantly though for Sanae is that we can also bet on the race.
Down to the JRA we go.
As soon as we enter the complex you could physically see Sanae's heart begin to race as a excited blush spread across her cheeks, her breathing quickened and her hands started trembling from the sudden surge of adrenaline. The manic gleam in her eyes had been replaced by one of complete obsession.
"Is Mammy alright?"
"I think so Cian, but I have only seen her like this once before. At Limerick Junction when we were on our honeymoon and she was pregnant with you. I thought it was just her hormones, but now I am not so sure..."
I turn to confirm this with Sanae, and she is ... gone.
Disappeared.
We scan the hall and can't see her anywhere.
Ten minutes later she returns clutching a betting slip. In those ten minutes she has learned how to use the Tote and put a three thousand yen each way bet on Blackstairmountain.

Without a word to the rest of the increasingly unsettled Gaynor-Takahashi family. We have a few minutes before the off so we sit down. And then the comments start coming from her.
"This would be a good place to come in winter when the weather is too bad to go anywhere else. You could spend the day here. It would be good fun".
I look around at the overwhelmingly male, overwhelming over 60 clientele, crunched into hard, uncomfortable chairs, chewing on pencils, the pages from the racing papers strewn around them, fueled on diet Pepsi and Lipovitamin D (the Japanese equivalent of Red Bull).
"Yeah, fun".
A few minutes later.
"Lot of old people here. It must be fun when you are retired to be able to spend the whole day here, enjoying the races".
I am not sure but I think 'enjoying' for Sanae means "gambling with your weekly pension".
And finally;
"You know, you can gamble online too. And on races overseas".
I looked long and hard at my wife then, or rather who I used to think my wife was. This was a different  Sanae, a Sanae from the dark side.
Darth Sanae, the gambler.
And Cian is Luke. Which means I am the, eh, Queen of Naboo.
Throughout all of this I have been explaining to Cian that Blackstairmountain is an Irish horse, he has come all the way to Japan for this race, and if he has come all this way his trainer must think he has a good chance of winning.
Cian wants to know if horses get jet lag.
Good question.
No idea.
Really should ask the experts. Barry?
Anyway, amongst the three of us there is a lot of talk about Blackstairmountain. Now this isn't lost on the regular punters scattered around us. Nor the fact that I am the only foreigner in the place; I could well have been the first foreigner there ever. As the clock ticks down to two o'clock there is a slow but steady stream of regulars heading to the betting windows.
The odds on Blackstairmountain started out at 7.2 - 1 (yes, they decimalize the odds here. It's Japan after all). With Sanae leading the way, the Muroran money starts flowing down from the north and the odds begin to shorten. This spooks the big boys down in Tokyo and more money goes on the Irish challenger. So that by the off she is the favorite with her odds down to 4.3 - 1, ridiculously short odds for a horse that has never run on this course before, a fast right hand course too, out of stalls and she may well have jet lag.

I try explaining this to Sanae but she is in the grip of a passion that obliterates all else and her world is now Blackstairmountain, 2 miles one furlong and the finishing post.
They're off! (You can watch the race here).
Well, the other 12 horses are off. Blackstairmountain doesn't seem to really want to leave her stalls, ambles out and within five seconds of the start I can tell that we've just blown three thousand yen. As have numerous other punters around us who have immediately begun to glare in our direction and snarl.
The horse finishes 9th out of 13 and if I had my way she would be for sale in Tesco's meat section on Monday morning.
I take Cian's hand and pull my wife out of there before a mob of increasingly irate pensioners turn on us.
"That was fun", says Sanae. "We should do it again next month".

Home

As the plane swung low across wind flecked Tokyo Bay on final approach to Haneda airport I thought to myself "it's good to be back". Which made me realize that I have come to consider Japan 'home'.
Which it is, I suppose, but as an emigrant its a little disconcerting to find yourself pining for fluffy white rice as opposed to mashed potatoes. 
I had a 90 minute lay over in Haneda - just enough time to do my souvenir shopping and hope I could appease Cian with a scale model of the Japanese government's official plane (Air Force Ichi) in lieu of a Texan fire engine. I sweetened the deal by adding a strawberry mousse to the package.
Then it was a turbulent hour and a half up to Chitose where, the Captain informed us, the temperature was currently minus five. Did the usual mad dash to the airport train station, made the Hakodate train and was back home in Muroran by 10:30 that morning.
Ahh, 'home'. Who'd have guessed I would find it here?

LAX

Or Los Angeles International Airport to give it its full title. The airport is reminiscent of the old Bangkok airport in the mid 1990's; dated, ramshackle, confined, badly in need of refurbishment if not outright demolition. As I arrived on a domestic flight I had to walk nearly a kilometre to get to the international terminal on a narrow sidewalk, all the time weaving my way through lines of grumpy people waiting on pick-ups, taxis, shuttle buses, or just waiting. There seemed to have been a rampant outbreak of food poisoning prior to my arrival as there were vivid splashes of vomit on the sidewalk and dripping off one of the escalators. The noise was insistent, very LA I suspect; the constant irritated beeping of horns, yells, shouted negotiations between the taxi drivers as to which car picked up which passengers.
Inside the airport was no better. Lines at security were long and slow, and what our American cousins term 'airside facilities' (i.e. duty free shopping, restaurants, cafes, etc.) consisted of a couple of kiosks and a packed 'Samuel Adams' cafe. And nothing else. And this is supposed to be land of the brave and the free and the consumer. I am afraid Cian there will be no fire engine this time. For that you can blame the resolutely socialist infrastructure planning of the airport authorities.
I should have gone with the good old boys to Houston. Instead I have 12 long hours to Tokyo ahead of me, during which time Wednesday, March 20th will disappear in one of those space-time continuum paradoxes that afflict Michael J. Fox and trans-Pacific flights.

The Jet Set

So, it's just after seven on Tuesday evening and I am sitting in the departure lounge at Dallas-Fort Worth airport with some good old boys watching the college basketball.
I have no interest whatsoever in college basketball but I am grunting along with them in all the right places to maintain my newly achieved 'good old boy' status.

Though I need a pair of cowboy boots.
And a considerably larger gut to truly qualify.
I am at the start of my 24 hour journey back to Muroran, and even though it is still winter and, well, still Muroran, I will be glad to get back.
It is indicative of just how spectacularly dull Dallas is that it has forced me to write those words.
Oh, the good old boys are all leaving - their flight to Houston has just been called. And yes, I did say "I'll catch you down the road, pardner".
Anyway, Dallas. Bland beyond despairing disbelief. Or certainly the downtown, where I was staying and attending a conference. If I had a car, sorry 3.5 liter, V-6, 290 horsepower built in the US of goddamn A Ford Explorer (which seems to be the jeep de jure here in the Lone Star state) and got out and about a bit then maybe my opinion would have been different.
But I doubt it.
I came to the airport early this evening to see if I could buy a fire engine (and Cian, if you ever read this years in the future, let me apologize once again. But Daddy did try to find you one), because the only shops in downtown Dallas are 7-11, a PVC drugstore, and rather incongruously, a Neiman Marcus store (a very upmarket clothing shop for the failed fashionistas out there). And nothing else. Just street after street of boarded up store fronts and entire skyscrapers with 'For Sale/Lease' signs in front of them.
'Downtown' to my mind means the bustling centre of a city, predominantly given over to shopping and banks. Not vacant office buildings, boarded up windows and advice from the hotel concierge not to go for a walk after dark.
Alright, have to go, my flight has been called. I have a three hour layover in Los Angeles, so if the lines for security aren't too long, I will write another post from there.