Maybe I'm losing it. With temperatures dropping and the first frost just around the corner, thoughts of winter sports and steaming cups of hot chocolate are starting to dance through most people's minds. But I've still got motorcycles wheelying through mine.

I can't help it. With the 35th Tokyo Motor Show running Oct. 27-Nov. 7 at Makuhari Messe in Chiba Prefecture, the thrill of seeing all the new 2002 bikes is taking its toll on me.

OK, I'll confess: I'm addicted to biking. But that's not so strange, really, and it could happen to anyone living here. You see, Japan is a motorcyclist's paradise.

With city trains jam-packed and public transportation decreasing in direct proportion to distance from urban areas, one of the best ways to get around in Japan is on two wheels. As well, it's now relatively easy to get a license; you don't need to pay the same exorbitant parking fees as for a car; and operating costs compare favorably with public transport.

Best of all, you become master of your own destiny. There's no more waiting for buses or trains, and any destination is within reach, no matter how far off the beaten track.

Because Japan is nearly three-quarters mountains, there's a huge number of roads winding through breathtaking scenery. And thanks to its economic prosperity -- and politicians' pork-barrel tendencies -- most roads are meticulously maintained.

Although I never tire of Japan's natural beauty, touring in the countryside offers much more than that. Despite the best efforts of developers to erase all traces of the country's past, there's historical heritage to be found everywhere. If you have a bike, there's no need to trek down to Kyoto to find old Japan. It's all around you, waiting to be discovered.

Every biker has his or her own reason for riding. Some enjoy sightseeing or the camaraderie that goes along with riding motorbikes; others love arm-wrenching acceleration. And most riders crave the Zenlike feeling that comes with carving a corner perfectly.

Unlike the remote experience of a car driver, who sits in a steel cage and turns a wheel to steer, a motorbike rider is wired directly into his or her machine, which responds instantaneously to any input. Because a motorbike's wheels act as gyroscopes, when moving at anything above a walking pace you have to use a counterintuitive method of steering to turn it. To go left, you pull on the right bar; to go right you pull on the left. And if you brake in the middle of a corner and interrupt those gyroscopic forces, you can easily come off, as the bike wants to stand up and go straight instead of turning. So in the never-ending learning curve that is motorbike riding, knowing just when to get on the brakes and on the gas is crucial. In short, a bike handles unlike any other motor vehicle, giving you total control yet continuously challenging you to do better each time you sweep through a corner.

Of course, though, there's no escaping the fact that there's nothing between you and a lot of solid objects if things go badly wrong. But in a strange kind of way, the element of danger combined with the raw power available at the twist of a wrist only adds to the thrill of it all. And indeed there's power out there if you want it: A typical sports bike will get from 0-100 kph in about three seconds.

But if had to choose the single thing I love best about riding, I'd cast my vote for how it's utterly liberating. Getting a bike in Japan makes you feel like you did when you first got your driver's license as a teenager. Instead of having to rely on someone else to go anywhere -- planning ahead, checking timetables, buying tickets and then being limited to places within walking distance of your destination -- a bike lets you go where you like, when you like, at a fraction of the cost of owning a car.

When I want to escape the hustle and bustle of Tokyo, I just hop on my bike and head off down to the Izu Peninusula. An hour later I'm inhaling crisp, clean mountain air in Hakone. Soon after that I'm riding in Naka Izu, past traditional wooden houses and terraced stone walls built centuries ago by farmers whose descendants I see now working the same fields.

If you're enjoying a Kurosawa film in Tokyo on Friday night and suddenly decide that you want to see that kind of scenery with your own eyes, no problem. Just pack a few things and hit the Chuo Expressway around 7 a.m. Head west, and by noon you can be having lunch in a 150-year-old house in Hida Takayama, a rustic samurai town in Gifu Prefecture. Ride a short time up the road and you can walk among the gassho-style farmhouses of Shirakawa village, a UNESCO World Heritage site.

From there you can head back to Tokyo the same day if you want, though finding a place to stay is usually no problem. It seems there's never a shortage of affordable Japanese inns or hot-spring hotels no matter where you are. Alternatively, if the weather's mild and you feel a bit more adventurous, pack a tent and a sleeping bag and then you can pretty much camp anywhere that's out of the way. One of my most vivid memories is waking up on a beach in Yamagata at 4 a.m. and watching fishing boats putting out to sea before sunrise.

But in Japan, where there's rain on average one day out of three, even the balmiest of mornings can end with you being caught in a downpour in the middle of a ride. Even so, it doesn't need to be a disaster, as long as you've got wet-weather gear and you do the sensible thing by easing back on the throttle and cranking up your concentration. You might even find you're riding better than you do in the dry.

Adding to the pleasure of biking here is the attitude of the people. Japan is a very biker-friendly country, and people usually make you feel welcome wherever you go. You can approach a little old lady in some remote area where no foreigner has been seen for ages, ask for directions and she won't bat an eye at your black leathers and hefty boots.

Once in the outback of Akita Prefecture, a farmer who saw us trying to mend a flat tire put his work aside and drove all the way home to get an air pump. Another time, after my bike fell over in a rain-soaked gravel parking lot in Nagano, the guy at the local gas station called every bike shop he could think of to try and locate a new clutch lever for me.

Even car drivers -- the bane of motorbike riders everywhere -- are generally courteous, more often than not moving over in traffic jams or on mountain roads to let you pass.

To some extent this is probably traditional Japanese politeness. But it also reflects the special role motorcycling has played here. For years after the war, bikes were the only affordable motorized transportation for millions. At one point in the early postwar period there were more than 200 Japanese motorbike and scooter manufacturers. Competition for customers was fierce, and mergers and buyouts were commonplace. The four Japanese companies that eventually went on to dominate the global market -- Honda, Yamaha, Suzuki and Kawasaki -- survived in part by acquiring talented engineers and designers from less fortunate makers like Tohatsu, Lilac, Meguro, Hosk and a host of others whose bikes now only survive in dusty garages, museums and the memories of older Japanese.

As a result, two-wheeled transportation became much more deeply integrated into mainstream society than in other industrialized countries -- and it didn't suffer from an outlaw image like it once did in America. The fact that Japan is the world's leading motorcycle manufacturing country doesn't hurt, either.

Stop at some tourist spot or a highway rest area and invariably an elderly gentleman, with his wife at his side, will approach you, carefully look over your bike, and then start peppering you with questions. "What a great bike. Who makes is it? How big is it? How fast does it go?"

In a famous advert 30 years ago, Honda claimed, "You meet the nicest people on a Honda." Replace "Honda" with "motorbike" and it sums up the situation here today -- with the exception of the reviled bosozoku. If you ever find yourself wishing you could make more friends or get more involved in Japanese society, riding a bike is one of the best ways of doing it. The sense of kinship that exists among bikers in most places is particularly strong here.

For another example, two friends were practicing offroad riding at a popular site one weekend earlier this year. Seeing that they had to share one bike, an older Japanese rider invited them to his house -- and gave them his old bike. Such generosity is rare the world over, but I wasn't as surprised to hear it happened here as I once would have been.

No matter what your motorbike interests are, you can develop them as far as you want in Japan. Track days, where you pay a fee and get to ride your own bike on a race track for an hour or two, are commonplace, and anyone with a bike and leathers can participate. It's one of the best -- and safest -- ways to develop your riding skills.

If you want to get more involved in Japan's thriving racing scene, it's quite easy to acquire an amateur racing license. All that's required is membership of a circuit, then logging a certain amount of hours on the track. After that, you qualify for a racing license.

The same thing goes for motocross riding. Japan has many offroad courses that are open for practice. If you want to get involved in competition, acquiring a racing license is as easy as paying a fee.

For riders who simply want to brush up their skills in a totally non-intimidating environment, the Metropolitan Police Department in Tokyo offers riding classes at motor-vehicle centers every Sunday. Practice includes working on the slow-speed skills essential for riding in the city, as well as faster riding on a set course. The instruction, by motorbike cops, is top-notch -- and all it costs is a few hundred yen for insurance.

Most people who come to Japan to live and work needlessly give up their right to travel freely, resigning themselves to a life mainly confined to cities. But it needn't be that way. If you have time, check out the bikes at the Tokyo Motor Show -- then look into getting your motorbike license. It's a passport to a side of Japan you've never seen before.