As much as I would like to believe otherwise, Keirin is not the sport of kings. It is the sport of septuagenarian pensioners. It is the least expensive form of fee-based entertainment available in Japan - admission is 50 Yen or roughly 50 cents. From what I could tell, Keirin appears to be a good place to drink malt liquor from paper cups at 10am, take a nap in the warm sun, or wager on a sport with that’s delicate balance of physical prowess and political favors.
To sum it up, Keirin is a race that takes place on a banked track or velodrome. It’s more similar to horse or greyhound racing than actual cycling. Racers wear brightly colored outfits with bulky padding that make them look like shiny little superheros. Like Power Rangers on bikes. It’s a 5 lap race, and there’s a lead Power Ranger that acts like a pace car for the first 3-1/2, so you’re really left with a lap and a half of all-out sprinting. They ride fixed-gear track bikes - no gears or brakes.
I think Kristen and Cricket went into this event a little skeptical - they say I owe them a few temple tours for 
this one. Not only were they the only blond American girls, they were the only women under 80 (and we only saw two of those). We stood out just a little bit. As soon as we walked out to the track, we were upgraded to what must have been the luxury box. “Free today” we were told by the uniformed man with the white gloves. My new friend gave us the total white glove service – escorted us to the ticket window and all the way to our front row box seats. The perks of being inside didn’t stop at air conditioning – there were also western toilets in the restrooms and free run of the beverage dispensing machines. We obviously didn’t get there quick enough, because the old men had sucked down everything but what must have been green Nestea.
The races went off every 20 minutes or so with a lot of formal pomp and circumstance. We tried to watch each race from a different vantage point around the track. Indoors was a little sterile because you couldn’t hear the action. Outdoors was a little rowdier – since there’s a lot of time between races, the old men had plenty of time to leer uncomfortably at the girls – I think I was their hero for dragging them to the track. For the third race we went down to the fence at the starting line – right in the thick of things. When the racers lined up in the starting blocks, the yelling began. Although I couldn’t understand a bit, it didn’t sound like words of encouragement. It sounded like they were yelling at the riders. I gues
sed it was something like “I bet my last 200 Yen on you, Purple Power Ranger – win for me or you’ll disgrace your family!” That may not be exactly what they were yelling, but that was certainly the tone.
Before the fourth race, we decided to go back inside to use the western-style facilities – the outdoor seating only had Japanese “squat pots”, or porcelain rings in the bathroom floor. While the girls were away for a few minutes I was accosted by an older gentleman who spoke little English. I was able to hold him off until Cricket came to translate. He introduced himself as a 73 year-old Capo of the Shinjuku area Yakuza, or in his broken English “Japanese Mafia”. Sure enough, he showed us his missing pinky finger, and as told us about the tattoo on his back, he grabbed my arms and pulled up my sleeves checking me for gang tattoos. After I’d passed the inspection he takes a betting card as fills it in “2-5-9” for the 4th race. He instructs us to take the card to the window and wager 600 Yen. It didn’t really seem like he was asking us, so we ponied up the 6 bucks, got our ticket and took our seats. As much as we were amazed by what we’d just experienced, we were also a little concerned. Cricket’s Japanese culture classes hadn’t covered how much tribute we’d owe if this bet came in.
Before the race went off, we go
t another visit from our uniformed friend with the white gloves. He’d printed off English instructions explaining the betting forms for us from a powerboat wagering website. He’d tracked us down in the crowd of thousands to do this for us! We used the printouts to determine that we’d just bet a Trifecta that riders 2, 5 and 9 would place 1-2-3 in sequence. As the pace rider (the fancy orange and blue one) pulled off the track, our 2, 5 and 9 pulled up from the back of the pack and assumed the lead in that order. It was obvious the Yakuza fix was on and we were in on it! I was much more concerned than excited that we were winning. Out of the very last turn just feet from the finish, riders 7 and 4 sprinted past our 5 and 9, so the finish was 2-7-4-5-9. I think riders 7 and 4 may be hearing from some gentlemen from Shinjuku. The 600Y on the 2-7-4 paid about 73000Y, so while it would have been a nice win, I was just as happy to leave without having to figure out how to show our appreciation to a 73-year-old gangster. We took this as the cue to leave the track and Tachikawa – we’d certainly gotten more than we’d expected for our 50 cents.
