In her first column for SNOW, Sophie Knight takes us on a cycling tour of the Yamanote line.

I used to think Tokyo was ugly. I hated its grim aesthetic; the ramshackle incongruity of crumbling, rusty buildings and shard-like skyscrapers; the mottled damp paint of run down houses, riddled with external pipes, wires, fuse boxes and air conditioners. I disapproved of its lack of history and its addiction to concrete, that colour sapping material that plasters the city like Pompeian lava.

It wasn’t just the street level views that shocked me; it was the way the city lay, too. I come from a country — and continent — where cities have centres. They unfold from tight whorls, like red wine stains on a tablecloth, their leakage stemmed by a strip of green countryside.

Tokyo, therefore, was a shock. It was relentless, centreless, haphazard; a rash of priapic skyscrapers overlook industrial wastelands or ancient houses. A map revealed the palace as the conceptual centre, but with so many competing hubs, I found it difficult to mentally conceptualise and navigate the city.

So I turned to the Yamanote line for solace. I may come from the country that invented railroads, but Japan may be the only country to mentally conceive space in terms of train stations (which Google maps uniquely accommodates). Moreover, instead of train lines linking up pre-existing settlements, they seem to be the precursor to growth. It’s as if a JR chief mutters, “Build it, and they will come” — and lo and behold, up springs a bunch of multi-purpose blocks, pachinko parlours, combinis and ramen-yas. The Yamanote line runs like a green, fertile river around the city, spawning urban clusters like mushroom around its banks.

For a while, it was all I knew. Too scared to venture out into the spaghetti squiggle of the metro, I travelled in crescent-shapes around the city or walked. Then I got a bike, and disowned the densha all together. However, for some reason I couldn’t rid myself of the conceptual loop in my head. I ignored the (il)logic of the road system and orientated myself only to Yamanote stations. I wasn’t interested in all the other capillaries of the Chuo or Toei or Keio lines; I only wanted to feel the pumping energy of the main artery, which spins a whopping 3.55 million people around on its tracks every day.

However, as my knowledge of the rest of Tokyo grew, my dependence waned. I started cheating on it with the lesser grey and orange and pink lines, led by the hip whispers wafting up from the Nakame and Daikanyama and other hidden corners. Despite my infidelities, however, I still felt a sense of affection for the 36km of track that so neatly connected all of my Tokyo memories and experiences like a charm bracelet.

So one blustery Saturday, I set off on a mission around all 29 stations. I live in Takadanobaba, the fictional birthplace of Astro Boy, Osamu Tezuka’s manga creation — and the miniature statuettes, the mural outside the station and the jingle to announce the arrival of the trains sing proudly of this distinction. Unfortunately, this boast is marred by the sea of Waseda students’ vomit that washes over the pavements, so I try to spend as little time here as possible. Well acquainted with the escape routes, I head straight up Meiji Doori towards Mejiro, a quaint little area that squats on the borders between Toshima, Bunkyo and Shinjuku wards. My only memory of the area is spending a sunny Christmas Day on a friend’s balcony here, stuffing myself with mikan and boozy Christmas cake.

It was only when I got back onto Meiji Doori that I realised I had seriously misjudged the “blustery” weather; it was literally a baby typhoon, the kind that makes owners of Chihuahuas or small children scared to go out. The wind was funneling straight down from Ikebukuro, at times rendering me stationary or squashing me into the kerb. But I battled on, past the wafting smells of the ramen and Indian restaurants that Ikebukuro is well known for. Like many visitors — and embarrassed guide books — I find it hard to see the charm of Ikebukuro. There is Café Pause, of course, but to me it’s like a small chink of light in a cacophonous wall of department stores and the screaming of staff.

Perhaps it is notable for the fact that it marks a shift from the hip western side of the line and the traditional and financial sections of the East. A friend of mine has postulated the “Attraction Index” of the Yamanote, whereby the beauty of the passengers hits a peak around Shibuya, Harajuku and Shinjuku, and then slowly fades as it heads out east, picking up grannies and sleep-deprived salarymen. Despite the wind, I get a feeling of this as I head out to the quieter areas of Sugamo, Komagome and Otsuka, where the architecture, like the obaachans, gets squatter and greyer as I go on. By the time I reach Tabata, I have concluded how maddeningly difficult this area is to navigate by bike; I have to make elliptical diversions off Shinobazu-doori to get to each of their almost identical stations. My only happy memories here are finding a rare KitKat flavour in a Family Mart in Otsuka, and hearing Nirvana’s “Smells like Teen Spirit” piped over the intercom at a municipal swimming pool in Tabata (which thoroughly enlivened all the old men puffing over their rajio taiso stretches on the side).

Next; Nishi Nippori to Nippori, the gateway to the world! Well, the escape route from Tokyo when it all gets too much; thousands of grumpy, jetlagged gaijin must have ridden through it on the Keisei Skyliner out towards Narita. It was here that I realised I had left my passport in a bathroom at the airport — there are times you appreciate that no one understands English profanities.

Uguisudani has a pretty lime green highway and a highly ornate church next to a ‘see/hear/speak no evil’ monkey statue. Its religious aspects, however, are drowned out by the love hotels blocking the horizon which I skim as I head towards Ueno. I worked in nearby Nezu last year, which forms part of ‘Yanase,’ along with Yanaka and Sendagi (see what they did with the name there?). It’s one of the most lovely parts of Tokyo, dotted with gorgeously preserved old houses, tiny tea houses and dozens of shrines. Nearby Ikenohata pond is home to an expanse of lotus plants, swan-shaped pedalos and old men playing go and smoking their lungs out. I wish I could spend longer here, but enough with the rhapsodising — the wind is telling me to press on. Uenookachimachi can be passed without comment, as can Akihabara, which I have always considered the appendix or spare kidney of Tokyo; lop it off and it’d make no difference to me. I hate manga; am an electronic retard; and like my maids to keep their pants on when they serve me coffee. Enough said.

With Kanda I cross my first river, but long to follow it in either one of two directions; either to Jimbocho, to ogle at snowboards and bikes, or else get my black sesame ice cream fix in Asakusa. It’s about here that I realise the futility of only following the Yamanote, when the reality of the city I have come to know transcends such a linear restriction.

Onwards, onwards; I spill into four lane traffic on the way to Tokyo, one of my favourite stops. The higgledy-piggledy collection of low, tired buildings make way for soaring glass-clad boxes and chi-chi European boutiques. For a second it seems that the penguins have chased me from Ueno zoo- but no, it’s just the packs of monochrome salarymen, marching in pointy shoes to their lunchtime location.

The glamour and subtly perfumed streets of Ginza, however, break out into the deliciously scuzzy Yurakucho station, where the fug of thrice-cooked vegetable oil and piles of cigarette butts float in scummy puddles around the elevated train track. The dirt seems somewhat oblivious to the more illustrious buildings around it, which only increase as I sweep part unremarkable office-block Shinbashi. The next, Hamamatsu-chou, retains the distinction of being The Only Station I Have Never Used, but seemingly a million toilets have, as a sickening l’eau de sewer hits me as I cycle past.

Tamachi was the setting for a late summer house party on a ridiculously high floor of a towerblock. I remember staring down at the gently undulating water from one of the massive skyscrapers. The buildings here looks like Corbusier’s grand plan for Paris; massive, detached, broken apart by tiny and inconsequential sidewalks. The water, throbbing with waves, was just as unwelcome.

Shinagawa, praised in the guidebooks for its strong international flavour, has always been one of my least favourite stops. I used to work here, and despite developing an unhealthy intimacy with the free samples from the food court in Wing Takanawa, never found anything else interesting. There’s also the grim joys of Immigration across the limescale-slapped bridges, which simply augments the misery. Happily, perhaps, there is a shinkansen to get you the hell out , which I would highly recommend (after nicking a few freebie chocolate covered coffee beans and squares of croissant, of course).

Osaki was where I once sweated my way to the hilltop Burmese embassy on a sweltering day, as part of a passport mission at the UN (believe it or not). There’s also a lovely playpark with a fiberglass giraffe… if you’re into that sort of thing. Gotanda may be somewhere to linger during hanami, when Meguro river explodes with petals, but on a windy February day, there’s little holding me back.

Meguro is apparently the coveted ward among those in the know; it’s quiet, arty, civilized, pretty. The river is dotted with a plethora of cool bars, restaurants and shops, as well as an outdoor swimming pool and tennis courts. Ebisu, likewise, is like the grown up sister to neighbouring Shibuya; just a little more reserved and quieter, but with a great range of restaurants and bars (one of which has bike frames hanging from the ceiling, so gets extra kudos from me).

The clanking of the temporary road panels between Ebisu and Shibuya are a warning of the aural and visual cacophony about to hit. I love the rush as I hit Shibuya, dissolving in its immense, vibrating streets of lights and feet. However, I prefer to remain among the ranks of scallywag cyclists — running reds and going too fast — than getting caught up in the sea of PVC stilettos that is Dogenzaka.

I’m growing weary now, and the quiet backstreets linking Harajuku to Yoyogi offer a little respite. The latter is an odd one; a stone’s throw from Shinjuku, but very quiet and understated in its own way. As soon as I edge closer to the busiest station in the city — perhaps even the world — the urban roar begins again, and doesn’t let up until I reach Little Korea, or Shin-Okubo. You can come here for your kimchi fixes or warm yourself over the coals of yakiniku. It has a bustling, rough-and-ready feel that makes Tokyo seem more like an Asian city than other areas. There’s also a few Indian food shops with those elusive and rare ingredients you might be hunting down for your dhal.

And, at long last, Takadanobaba once more. I can’t say that it was a hugely enjoyable journey; in fact, it made me realise the futility of cycling the line, when the tracks and roads are strangers to one another. True, Meiji doori flirts briefly with the Yamanote from Ebisu to Ikebukuro, but it then splits off and invents its own logic, criss crossing roads willy-nilly. I also expected something more startling and exciting from each of the stations, but think that they would be better explored by foot to soak up the street atmosphere and nooks and crannies around them. Travelling on a bike, you have concern for little other than the open road, and stopping for photographs is, as the kids say, chou mendokusai (a pain in the ass). And finally, I realised how much more accessible and enjoyable the city is on two wheels, without the tyranny of predetermined lines, transfers and the dubious joy of so many other passengers. It was a brief romance, but, Yamanote; I’m afraid it’s over.

Sophie Knight is a freelance writer and zine fanatic, who creates her own as well.