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I take some test spins around Miyanomae Park, a riverside green space bordered by fields of cosmos, their papery mauve blossoms nodding in the breeze. It’s as if the flowers themselves are proclaiming the beauty and vigour of youth.

“Let’s go!” Takenami calls with a wave. His only two English words become a rallying cry for the rest of the trip. We set off in single file through the village streets of Ochi to the Naka-Niyodo Submersible Bridge, one of many designed to withstand flooding.

This river is low now, and half of the riverbed is exposed. Looking down, I see stones polished by eons of tumbling. Nicknamed Niyodo Blue for its clear waters — said to be the purest in the country — the river’s source is Mount Ishizuchi, Western Japan’s highest peak, and a sacred place where the spring water is considered holy.

Steep green slopes, enrobed in thick cedars and feather-duster bamboo trees, rise from both shores of the Niyodo, the morning mist still clinging to them, but the riverside route is nearly flat. I haven’t yet had to engage the e-bike’s electric assist. Just a few kilometres into the ride, we pause on another bridge for instructions before entering a tunnel, its mouth an intimidating arc of blackness gaping at the foot of the mountain on the far bank.

Through the tunnel and out the other side, we follow the river past houses of simple elegance — they could be 10 or 200 years old — with tidy backyard vegetable gardens, kindling stacked like Jenga towers, and pine trees clipped into giant bonsais. Across Aso Submersible Bridge, we follow a zigzagging single-lane road that dips into dark forests, where water dribbles from thick mosses growing on retaining walls.

Suddenly, we’re back in sunshine, only to plunge again into the forest. Rarely do we meet a car until we reach the outskirts of Kochi city, where a spare but comfortable room and a traditional dinner await at our hotel.

The next morning, we’re on our bikes early, more to leave time for cultural stops than the distance ahead. “Let’s go!” Takenami calls. At the first stop, Sugimoto Shrine, we watch goldfish schooling in a tiny pond as if a Japanese painting has come to life. Inside, we place our hands on a polished wooden Buddha for luck, then pay a few yen and pull a written oracle from a bowl.

When I unfold mine, I read the English translation of an ancient poem that’s broken into modern guidance on everything from childbirth to business. Discussing it with our translator, the oracle seems to speak directly to me: “The storm has died down all too soon, and we can hear a nightingale singing merrily under the eaves.” Nightingales symbolize spring, and with it, ephemeral beauty and the fleeting nature of life.

At the next stop, the , we make our own traditional washi paper. In the same workshop, a woman in her 90s carries out the centuries-old process, perfectly repeating the steps again and again, as if her expertise resides in her hands and body, rather than her mind.

Back on the cycling route, we ride unhurried, sometimes frustratingly slowly, beside the river tamed by concrete levees. We pull up for a nutrition break at a small shrine next to a dozen ginkgo trees. Recharged, we continue on to another shrine, this one dedicated to toads and frogs. The tiny space is bursting with ceramic, stuffed and plastic versions — even Kermit is here. They’re offerings made by aging believers as a cure for warts and other unwanted growths, lumps and inflammation.

The Niyodo is wide and slow now. Though it’s not yet in sight, I sense the end is near. Today, I’ve not turned on the e-bike’s battery, let alone engaged the e-assist. I’m aching to sprint, to finally physically feel this ride, which now seems far too short. Breaking from our single-file line, I pass Takenami and challenge him with his own words. “Let’s go!”

In the last few kilometres, I race ahead of the others, propelled by the need to feel my body working at what it’s known for six decades how to do. As I approach the river’s mouth, I glance behind, but none of the others are even in sight. Euphoric, I pull up at a railing where the Niyodo finally breaks through the mountains to empty into the Pacific, my thighs burning, my lungs labouring, my heart pounding with life.

Darcy Rhyno travelled as a guest of the Japan National Tourism Organization, which did not review or approve this article.