When my Dad came to visit me in Japan, one thing he had to get used to was bicycles. Dad knows how to ride a 20-speed touring bike very well. But bicycles in Japan aren't ridden for pleasure, they're merely used as transportation to get from one place to another. The average Japanese bicycle is a sturdy black contraption like the one the Wicked Witch of the West rides in the Wizard of Oz. The Japanese have nicknamed them "grandmother bicycles."

Riding a bicycle in Japan is a mundane yet leisurely activity and no one would ever dream of taking it as seriously as Dad. There was a conflict of attitude from the start as Dad headed out for his first ride on his grandmother bicycle: back arched, helmet on, ready to follow all the bicycle safety rules.

But in Japan, there are no rules for bicycles. That's the way they like it. It's one of the few times Japanese people don't have to follow rules. Riding a bicycle is a kind of self-expression. Japanese people ride like maniacs. They're probably the ones not allowed to drive cars. "My God! Did you see that guy?!" Dad exclaimed as a man in a business suit cut him off then went on swooping in and out of pedestrians.

"That one's going like a bat out of hell," he said as a mother with her two children mounted in baby seats whizzed by him.

"That guy almost ran me over!" Almost doesn't count Dad: He either ran you over or he didn't.

They came in all directions; high school boys with their girlfriends standing on the foot pegs in the back, old ladies hogging the road, traffic weavers, people dodgers, slalom racers and speedsters-every one of them out to get my Dad.

"You should be using hand signals," he warned me with a stern "just listen to what I say and do it" Dad-like look.

"Dad, calm down," I suggested as a high school girl in a plaid skirt sideswiped him while shrieking into her mobile phone. "You just have to get used to it."

We continued, me leading and Dad following. One time, when I looked back to check on Dad, he was gone. I stopped and waited. Nothing. I backtracked, nothing. Then I spotted him.

"Dad?! What are you doing in the azalea hedge?"

"Did you see that guy? He walked right out in front of me!" "Did you apologize Dad?"

"Me? Apologize?! HE walked out in front of ME!"

"Dad, this is Japan. You have to apologize. Everybody apologizes, it doesn't matter whose fault it is."

"That #@!$!*#!!!"

After a few days the helmet came off, the swearing was down to a minimum and although he couldn't quite hunch over his bicycle properly, Dad was doing pretty well. Then it started raining.

I admit, umbrellas can be a bit unwieldy on a bicycle and steering a bicycle single-handedly is a Japanese skill that grows over time. I gave Dad my special umbrella that is spring-loaded so that with the press of a button, the umbrella would pop up instantly. But, being an American dad not versed in umbrella use, he unwisely hooked the umbrella under the handlebars while trying to open it with his free hand.

I didn't see what happened but when I saw people pointing at the foreigner on the pavement, I could guess.

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