By Fujimoto Masaaki
  

  What a difference a week or two makes. Or 11 days to be exact.
  
  A week and a half ago, I had just started my new gig writing this very column while racing for a not unknown Dutch pro cycling team. Now, the circumstances aren't all that different apart from the fact that I've lost my day job.
  
  In an unfortunate turn of events, I now find myself without a team, without prospects and without the cash I splashed out on a new Harley Davidson just 3 days ago. The salesman assured me it was a sound investment.
  But you can't eat your Harley Davidson.
  
  To make matters worse, I'm not even getting paid for writing this column. Let's say I was a little short for the Harley and the agency was nice enough to furnish me a refund. In hindsight, it wasn't the smartest thing to do, but when you're already 25, working your way through a seemingly solid contract and still without a steady girlfriend, a chick magnet is next on the must-have list. Not that I know how to ride a motorbike

by the way, I figured next month's salary would pay for lessons.
  
  Now the contract's been torn up and the future seems bleak. My friend Shusuke Sasaki is contemplating hanging up his spurs, but that's only a viable option when you have more than a million in the bank. On the other hand, if you're a green rider fresh from Kyoto, Japan, let's just say pro teams aren't lining up to offer you juicy contracts.
  
  I'm not even sure I can get a gig riding shotgun in any of the semi-pro teams. The emphasis has shifted to the younger cockier rider of late. Though I may look the part, I'm certainly no spring chicken nowadays. 25 is ancient in cycling years, and a team principal would have to be either unorthodox or plain bonkers to hire a dinosaur like me. Having just recovered from a serious leg injury, my chances are even more miniscule, if existant in the first place.
  
  So what options do I have left? I could always return home back to Kyoto and the fish tackle shop that my father runs. But as you probably already know, losing face is one of the worse things that can happen to you in Asian culture. There's a reason the

Japanese invented ritual suicide.
  
  So that rules out retirement and returning home. And probably ritual suicide too since I have an irrational fear of blades and it seems a painful way to die.
  
  What about a new career? I hear that football professionals are highly sought after as underwear models. I'm sure pro cyclists have lean, mean bodies too that deserve to be pasted on ten storey billboards. I'm carrying a little extra weight after my recent injury layoff but a little gym work and I should be back in shape. You might argue that I'm hardly male model material, but I've heard that the average man on the street look is all the rage at the moment. An extra wad of socks in the right strategic place and I should be good to go.
  
  Or perhaps new surroundings would help. Maybe I could scrape together enough cash for a one way ticket to America. Or I could stowaway on a plane. Either way, it'd be a welcome change from the frigid weather over here. There's not much here to leave behind anyway.
  
  But speaking of possessions, anyone interested in a slightly soiled Harley Davidson by the way?