Some (urban and rural) observations from six months on a bike

What cycling through New Zealand, the Philippines, Taiwan and Japan revealed about infrastructure, public life and the design of cities

I recently finished my ‘Ring of Fire’ cycle tour, inadvertently stringing together a series of very geologically active countries: New Zealand; Philippines; Taiwan and Japan. It was most importantly a brilliant adventure. But travelling at a slower speed you also have plenty of time to observe, notice, experience, stop and eat. You notice the changes in infrastructure between countries, and how this influences behaviour, and in turn how behaviour and culture influence the design of infrastructure. 

Life on a bike is fundamentally simple: wake up, move a little further than yesterday, find food somewhere along the way, and eventually work out where to sleep. Sometimes that meant campsites; sometimes a lake edge, a mountain plateau or an abandoned hotel. There were tunnels that felt genuinely terrifying, descents that felt euphoric, and roads with no margin for error hanging above 3,000m drops. But the real reward for travelling this way is time to watch the world go by.
 

Cycle touring doesn’t get much better than this

Some important non-cycling activities too 

Infrastructure can influence culture, and vice versa 

A really clear observation from my trip was how dramatically infrastructure affects the experience. In all countries you could end up on designated traffic-free cycle routes, blissful in the knowledge that you could just focus on the actual pleasure of cycling through these incredible countries. 
But in New Zealand you occasionally find yourself on state highways with no shoulder, no verge and traffic travelling at 100km/h. Even spectacular scenery quickly loses its charm when articulated lorries are skimming past your handlebars.

In Japan, roads of a similar scale often felt noticeably calmer. Speed limits were lower, driver behaviour more predictable, and where segregated infrastructure didn’t exist there were still reminders embedded into the road itself: blue chevrons and lane markings signalling the likely presence of cyclists. Small interventions, but psychologically important.
 

Even these blue chevrons painted on the roads in Osaka made a difference when cycling in busy areas

Cycling as a group in New Zealand made it slightly easier on busy roads in New Zealand

And drivers behave differently when they expect cyclists to exist.

The culture of driving varied significantly between countries, but much of it came down to expectation. In Taiwan and the Philippines, scooters dominate the streets. They have dedicated lanes, their own signals and, at times, their own logic. While this infrastructure isn’t designed specifically for cyclists, it creates a road environment where drivers are constantly anticipating smaller, slower-moving vehicles around them.

Contrast this to New Zealand – where outside of the cities cyclists are comparatively rare – and some drivers (giving them the benefit of the doubt) genuinely appeared uncertain how to overtake safely and seemed to have a ‘maintain speed and hope for the best’ attitude. Whereas in Europe the prevalence of cyclists means that good driver behaviour is common knowledge (if not always practiced): slow down, wait, move out, leave space.

In Japan, Taiwan and the Phillippines, cycling appeared calmer, slower and less performative – embedded into everyday routines without any drama. Many people rode without helmets, in ordinary clothes, at ordinary speeds. Even cyclists travelling the wrong way into oncoming traffic somehow failed to provoke the outrage that would almost certainly accompany the same behaviour in London. The whole system seemed to operate with a lower level of tension.

The contrast with the UK is stark. So much debate around cycling infrastructure focuses on conflict between modes, when often the issue is simply whether the environment has been designed to accommodate coexistence in the first place.

When bike theft is not your first thought in cities

One of the most quietly transformative aspects of Japan and Taiwan was the near absence of theft. 

In Japan and Taiwan there is (generally) a complete lack of theft. It is strongly discouraged through shared civic responsibility deep-rooted in social collectivism and the influence of Buddhist philosophies. So not only does this mean you are likely to have a wallet returned with the contents intact, it also means you can safely lock your expensive bike in central Tokyo for a few hours whilst you wander around the museums – something that would be unthinkable in London. 

It reduces friction. It alters how people use public space. It creates a level of baseline trust that allows environments to feel more open, relaxed and usable. It also makes you realise how much urban infrastructure in the UK is shaped by the assumption that things will either be stolen, vandalised or misused.
 

Leaving high end bikes is common in the city. 

Urbanism in Tokyo

I feel very lucky to have seen Japan outside of the ‘big 3’ cities (Tokyo, Osaka and Japan). It highlighted the realities of rural depopulation, but also the actual beauty of the country and landscapes. But I have always wanted to visit Tokyo, and it did not disappoint. I picked up a copy of Emergent Tokyo: Designing the Spontaneous City, for some light holiday reading, and a nice reintroduction to thinking about work. A fascinating book that I can highly recommend, with some beautiful illustrations and interesting observations around how history and opportunity have influenced the city’s design. 
 

Yokochō alleyways

One of the most memorable urban typologies in Japan is the Yokochō alleyway. Originally emerging after the war as informal black-market trading spaces, these narrow lanes evolved into dense clusters of bars and restaurants tucked behind major commercial streets.

Culturally they are fascinating – traditionally late-night eating and drinking spots for regulars – people will often have their favourite seats, their favourite memorabilia on the shelves, and easy warm rapport with the owner. The bars and restaurants themselves are tiny, initially claustrophobic, usually seating (or standing) only 5-10 people, creating a sense of intimacy and encouraging interaction between diners and drinkers.

Morphologically, they feel almost impossible by contemporary western planning standards. Yet they survive precisely because of their looseness, adaptability and low overheads.
Their success is economic as much as cultural. Shared infrastructure, small footprints and low rents allow independent businesses to operate with relatively low start-up costs. In an era of increasingly homogenised high streets, they offer something difficult to replicate: genuine character. What was particularly striking was the juxtaposition – the alleyways were almost a physical symbol of resistance nestled amongst huge regeneration projects packed with towers in popular commercial centres such as Shibuya. 
 

Photo: Original buildings now host micro-businesses, in this case operating out of a hatch on a pedestrian street. 

Illustration: An illustrative example layout of a small restaurant in a Yakochō alley. The ground floor may only be 2.5x2.5m, with some limited seating upstairs. 

Solving the undercroft problem

Often cavernous spaces devoid of activity, hard to access, and polluted, Tokyo has somehow bucked the trend of unsuccessful undercroft spaces.

Railway viaducts, flyovers and undercrofts — spaces that often feel hostile — were instead filled with independent restaurants, bars, workshops and public uses. Areas such as Ameyoko or Koenji demonstrated how leftover infrastructure space can evolve into vibrant and distinctive places when allowed to develop organically over time.

A variety of routes into and out of these spaces help to keep them active at all times of the day and night, making them feel safer and more intimate, in contrast to the large infrastructure just above them. More modern developments have seen successful public realm initiatives, public parks and sports facilities all integrated under flyovers.
 

Vibrant and colourful markets tucked under a railway line in Ueno, Tokyo. 

Planted public realm extends under this flyover to soften this space and make it more inviting to pedestrians.

A case for good public services

A less glamourous and valued part of the urban experience was the quality and consistency of public services. But this actually made a huge difference to my daily experience throughout Japan, which can be appreciated far beyond the unusual experience of bikepacking. 

Cycle parking ranged from futuristic underground automated systems to simple but safe communal storage areas. Public toilets were everywhere: clean, free and easy to access. New Zealand was similarly impressive in this regard. At one point during a thunderstorm in the North Island, I ended up eating lunch on the floor of an accessible toilet simply because it was the driest and cleanest place available.

A exquisite example of investing in overlooked public infrastructure — the Tokyo Toilet Project brought together leading architects to redesign 17 public toilets across the city, transforming them into accessible, beautifully considered spaces that have since become architectural landmarks and destinations in their own right.

The proliferation of vending machines has been well documented. But suffice to say they are amazing. The range of hot and cold options, and their appearance in truly the most remote locations really took me by surprise. Hot drinks on remote mountain roads. Cold cans in tiny fishing villages. Entire meals emerging from illuminated boxes in places where no human seemed to exist.

The public campsites were equally remarkable. Many were free, beautifully located and equipped with toilets, water and occasionally showers. Some sat beside rivers, others on mountain plateaus. The best were near onsens, where soaking in hot water after a freezing day of rain felt euphoric.

Free riverside campsite in southern Shikoku

The lack of public bins and benches was a double-edged sword. There is a well-respected culture of generally not eating outside (especially not whilst walking), and instead people are free to eat in designated ‘picnic areas’. Whilst this does generally mean that people are very good at carrying rubbish with them and the streets are subsequently very clean (though I did see lots of cases of fly tipping in the countryside which is a shame), I did think that some of the conviviality of street life was lost. This was highlighted outside the konbinis (convenience stores) where most people would eat in their cars (and I on the kerb of the car park), which would have been pleasantly solved if there were benches to share.

What linked all of these experiences was a broader sense that the public realm was something worth investing in and maintaining.

From station attendants to road marshals to groundskeepers carefully collecting individual leaves from gardens, there was a visible civic pride embedded in everyday environments.

That is perhaps what stayed with me most. Not simply good infrastructure, but the collective belief that public spaces and services matter enough to look after properly.