Precise, swift, reliable

Through the empty alleys of morning Edo echoes a familiar sound — chirin, chirin — the rhythmic chime of a bell fastened to a waist sash. It’s a machi-hikyaku, an urban courier, running with a lacquered box slung over his shoulder, dressed only in a fundoshi, straw waraji sandals, and a belt with a protective amulet. He moves in the nanba-bashiri style — an old technique in which the same arm and leg advance together, like in a dance step. Sometimes he carries a staff to assist his run, other times he presses the box to his chest. In the light of paper lanterns, a shōji door slides open; an old woman peeks out and smiles — she knows a message has arrived from Kyōto. This image is not merely a nostalgic scene. It’s a trace of a communication system so efficient and organized that Tokugawa Japan could have shamed many 18th-century European states. And it all began even earlier — in the 11th-century Kamakura period, when the first shōgun realized that whoever controls information, controls the country.

The word hikyaku (飛脚) literally means “flying legs.” A fitting name: these messengers were like a gust of wind, traversing mountains and valleys, cities and villages. As early as the Heian period, there existed the ekiden system — a network of relay stations and ekirei, small bells serving as a kind of passport. During the Kamakura period, couriers completed the Rokuhara–Kamakura route in just 72 hours. In the turbulent Sengoku era, they became emissaries of daimyō, sometimes disguised as monks or actually being yamabushi. The Edo period marked their greatest flourishing — thousands of kilometers of routes, a tsugitate relay network, specialization among couriers, and competing private companies working on behalf of aristocrats, merchants, and officials. The world of couriers functioned as precisely as a clockwork mechanism — at the crossroads of information, commerce, and loyalty. Competition was ruthless. Feudal Japan had its own form of capitalism — a dynamic market of courier services.

Today, when a deliveryman from Sagawa Express (the Japanese equivalent of DHL) brings a package marked 飛脚宅配便 (Hikyaku Takuhaibin), few realize that it’s not just a marketing ploy. It’s a living heritage — a logo of a running courier in fundoshi, reconstructions of boxes and sandals in museums, and old routes reborn as ultramarathon trails. Hikyaku were not merely carriers of messages — they were the embodiment of trust, self-discipline, and humility. In times when information could mean war or peace, the courier’s body became a tool of the state, the clan, and commerce. Today, just as then, they connect people — no longer running through mountains, but gliding through cities in vans. Let us now explore their customs and their history.

A Sprint Through the City

Even before dawn, when the sleeping city of Edo was still wrapped in the pale mist of morning, and the streets lingered in the stillness of nightly silence, a faint metallic sound could be heard in the distance — chirin, chirin. Along a narrow alley, where the roofs of machiya still slumbered beneath the weight of morning dew, a solitary machi-hikyaku — a city courier — ran, his presence announced by the bell fastened to his belt, warning passersby of the approaching messenger. The man was as lean as a bamboo pole, his body hardened and sculpted by running, supple, worn by distance and time. His feet were wrapped in wet waraji — straw sandals soaked during his nocturnal sprint. At his waist hung a sash holding a long wooden staff — not a weapon, but a tool of balance — and on his back gleamed a black lacquered message box: intricately sealed, protecting the information within from moisture and prying eyes.

In one of the homes at the intersection of Honmachi and Nihonbashi streets, behind a paper shōji, a rustle was heard. An elderly woman, her face furrowed with age, slid the door open and looked toward the running figure. Her eyes, briefly illuminated by the oil lamp, recognized the rhythm and the sound. “It’s from Kenzō… He’s probably writing from Kyoto…” she whispered. In Edo-period Japan, mothers and fathers awaited the hikyaku like heralds of fate — their arrival was the voice of another, distant world. Often the world of loved ones — sons and daughters who lived in far-off prefectures.

The courier moved fluidly, with a grace forged through thousands of kilometers traveled. He ran in the nanba-bashiri technique, a synchronous movement of the left hand and left leg, which allowed energy conservation and stability over long distances. He passed sleepy pedestrians without stopping for a moment. In a few hours, he would reach the nearest ekiden, a relay station, where a fresh horse awaited — ready to run thanks to prior preparations at the tsugitate point. A network of such stations stretched across all of Japan — from Edo to Osaka, from Kyōto to Sendai — setting the rhythm of communication for the era.

At midday, he stopped at a hikyaku-yado, a small inn designed specifically for messengers. He quickly ate a bowl of miso soup and a rice ball with salted plum, still not removing the box from his shoulder. In his travel register — hikyaku-chō — a new entry appeared, and shortly afterward, the courier set off again, leaving behind the scent of sweat, ink, and damp paper.

A standard journey between Edo and Osaka took six days. For those who paid more, faster options were available: haya-hikyaku completed the same route in four, or even three and a half days, running through the night, skipping some stops, and risking their own health. The fastest couriers could deliver a message in under 48 hours — though the price for such a feat reached several ryō and was affordable only to the wealthiest.

Rain began to fall as the courier reached the Ryōgoku-bashi bridge. Streams of water ran down his back, the wet box gleamed with a dark sheen, like black lacquer covered in pearly rain. Somewhere inside it lay a letter — perhaps an official document, perhaps a love confession, perhaps a farewell. To the courier, it made no difference. But to the one waiting on the other side of the bridge, it was a priceless gift. And it was precisely this bond, this invisible connection between people, cities, and hearts, that the hikyaku bore upon their shoulders.

Who Were the Hikyaku – 飛脚?

Before we begin tracing their footsteps along the old roads of the Tōkaidō or the Nakasendō, it is worth examining the word hikyaku (飛脚) itself — so simple, and yet so vividly expressive.

The first character, 飛 (hi), means “to fly” or “to soar.” At its core lies the image of a bird in flight — the original, classical form depicted outstretched wings in the air, with additional markings suggesting upward movement. The character carries strong connotations of lightness, freedom, and speed — in classical literature, it was often associated with the instantaneous shift of place, with unbounded movement that defies gravity.

The second character, 脚 (kyaku or ashi), means “leg,” or more precisely: “a leg in motion.” This character is used not only in anatomical contexts but also as a unit of measurement (e.g., in the expression isshaku — approximately 30 cm), or as a component of a structure (e.g., kyaku meaning “table leg”). In the context of hikyaku, however, it evokes first and foremost the legs in motion — covering hundreds of kilometers along rocky paths.

The combination of these two characters — 飛脚 — thus creates both a poetic and physical image: “flying legs” or “winged feet.” It is not merely a metaphor for extraordinary speed, but also a suggestion of lightness, agility, and an almost superhuman capacity for movement. To the people of historical Japan, the hikyaku were like birds flying over mountains and rivers — always in motion, always scarcely visible, but undeniably present.

It is also important to distinguish hikyaku as the name of a specific profession from the more general notion of a messenger. Japan had many forms of message transmission — from local tsūshin-nin (通信人), or ordinary urban runners, to imperial envoys known as shōshō (少将) in the Heian period. Hikyaku, however, is a term that became widespread in the Edo period and signified not just a function — but an entire specialized craft of communication: a systematic, extensive profession of couriering, with defined routes, relay stations, rules, and hierarchies. This was no one-time runner, but a person embedded in the bloodstream of Tokugawa Japan.

That is why when we hear the word hikyaku, we do not think merely of someone running with a letter. We think of a network, of a pulsing system, of someone who, through their body and perseverance, built the unity of a vast country. “Flying legs” that moved the heart of Japan — day by day, letter by letter.

The History of the Hikyaku — From the Imperial Court to the Commercial Market

Long before the sound of the chirin-chirin bell awakened the still-sleeping homes of Edo, and the slender figure of a courier flickered in the first light of dawn, Japan had already mastered the art of swift message delivery. The roots of this system reach back to the Nara period (710–794), when the young imperial government sought to assert control over its vast and still untamed archipelago. It was then that the first official courier system was established — ekiden (駅伝), meaning “transmission through stations.” Every few kilometers along key routes, official relay stations — ekisho — were established, where a messenger could change horses, rest, hand off documents, and continue onward. Membership in such a station was the duty of local authorities, and every courier carried a symbol authorizing their rapid passage — an ekirei, a ceremonial bell. Its sound signaled an important message flowing directly from the imperial court.

During the Heian period (794–1185), when the court in Heian-kyō (today’s Kyoto) reached the heights of ceremonial refinement, the ekiden system grew even more significant. Messages written on thin karakami paper, sealed in scrolls, conveyed news of princes’ births, governmental appointments, or decisions regarding provinces. Couriers in imperial service traveled along main roads, often accompanied by guards. But it was the impending age of war that would turn them into true agents of action.

When the Kamakura period arrived in the 13th century, and the shōgunate assumed real power over the country (you can find more about these events here: What Does “Shōgun” Really Mean? One word that forged the Japan of samurai in steel and blood), couriers became the eyes and ears of the military government. The route from Rokuhara (the shōgunate's seat in Kyoto) to Kamakura — nearly 500 kilometers — could be covered by a well-trained hikyaku in just 72 hours. This near-miraculous feat was possible only thanks to a system of stopovers — relays, human and horse changes, rest points, and, above all, a powerful motivation: the courier risked his life, but served the shōgun himself.

During the turbulent Sengoku period (15th–16th centuries), when the country was engulfed in unending civil wars (more on that here: The Real Sengoku – What Was Life Like for the Swordless in the Shadow of Samurai Wars?), hikyaku took on a new, often secret role. They were no longer merely messengers, but also spies, emissaries, sometimes even assassins in disguise. The couriers of the daimyō no longer wore official insignia but operated in secrecy, using mountain passes and temple trails. Often, they were monks — yamabushi, accustomed to physical hardship and spiritual discipline, capable of traversing uncharted paths. Sometimes, a message was hidden in a hollowed bamboo stick or written in microscopic script on a scroll tucked into straw sandals (more on the wartime communication methods of the shinobi here: Encoding the Wind – Secret Communication Techniques of Ninja Schools During the Sengoku Wars).

The true flourishing of the hikyaku system, however, came in the Edo period (1603–1868), under the stable rule of the Tokugawa. Peace fostered the development of communication. Entire networks of specialized couriers arose — both official ones, like tsugi-hikyaku in service to the bakufu, and private entrepreneurs operating on the commercial market. Private couriers — such as sando-hikyaku, jō bikyaku, or junban-hikyaku — competed with each other in time and price, creating a complex, practically capitalist ecosystem of delivery. Already in the 17th century, a message from Osaka to Edo could arrive in six days, and by the 19th century — even in just two and a half.

Then came the Meiji era. The year 1871 brought the reform that ultimately sealed the fate of the couriers: a modern postal system was established, modeled on Western systems. A network of post offices, trains, and mailboxes spread across the country with unprecedented speed. The hikyaku, with their bells, staffs, and lacquered boxes, began to disappear from the roads. Some found employment in the new postal service, others left behind a profession that for centuries had been synonymous with resilience, speed, and service.

Yet the echo of their footsteps has not vanished completely. Modern courier companies like Sagawa Express proudly draw on their symbolism. The mascot Hikyaku-kun reminds the Japanese today of a time when a letter was not just a message — it was a bond, a relationship, a risk, and a mad dash across all of Japan with one’s soul on one’s shoulder.

The Organization and Operation of the Hikyaku

How did the world of Japanese couriers function?

Today, when we picture a courier, we imagine a driver in uniform, with a handheld scanner and a van full of packages. But in the Edo period, in a land scented with cypress and damp pine, a courier was something far more than a delivery person. He was a living link in a network that enveloped the entire country — running through mountains, across bridges, along rice field paths and cobbled roads. He was a word in motion, an invisible connector between the provinces and the capital, between the heart of the country and its peripheries. The entire system operated thanks to exceptional organization and flawless coordination, whose precision would be the envy of many a modern logistics company.

The Foundation of Hikyaku Operations: The Ekiden Relay System

The foundation of hikyaku operations was the relay system known as ekiden (駅伝 — literally “station transmission” or “relay relay”), which dates back to the Nara period and was adapted by the Tokugawa shōgunate with remarkable effectiveness. Along the main routes — such as the Tōkaidō, Nakasendō, or Kōshū Kaidō — every few ri (1 ri ≈ 3.9 km) there were exchange stations for men and horses, known as tsugitate (継立 — literally “stand and pass on”). It was there that a courier could rest, hand over a letter to the next person in the chain, and continue without losing precious time. This entire network was managed by the sairyo (差配 — literally “one who assigns deliveries”) — an unassuming man, often residing in a modest house, but responsible for the punctuality and safety of both private and state shipments, small and large.

Depending on their type and function, hikyaku were divided into many specialized categories, each playing a distinct role within society.

Tsugi-hikyaku (継飛脚) were official couriers in service of the bakufu — the Tokugawa shōgunate. Their routes coincided with Japan’s five main roads (Gokaidō) and enabled the rapid exchange of orders, reports, and messages between Edo and the provinces. They used relay horses and carried special authorizations — often marked with official seals.

Alongside them operated the daimyō-hikyaku (大名飛脚) — private couriers of powerful feudal clans. These envoys were often dressed in the colors of their clan, and their task was to maintain contact between the Edo residence (where the daimyō were required to reside every other year, in accordance with the sankin-kōtai policy — more on that here: What to Do with a Society of Samurai Who Only Know War and Death in Times of Peace? - The Clever Ideas of the Tokugawa Shoguns) and their native province. Their networks were independent and well-organized — for example, the Tokugawa clan’s hikyaku from Wakayama departed from Edo precisely on the 5th, 15th, and 25th of each month, and from Wakayama on the 10th, 20th, and 30th. Each of them had stops every seven ri, hence their alternative name: shichi-ri-hikyaku (七里飛脚 — “Seven-ri Hikyaku”).

In the city of Edo itself, the machi-hikyaku (町飛脚) — local couriers — were especially popular and could be recognized by their distinctive chirin-chirin bells fastened to their waists. The sound of their steps mixed with the metallic jingling — for the residents, it signaled the arrival of a message. They were fast, agile, and moved mostly on foot, often with a bamboo staff called shaku and a lacquered message box tied to their backs.

There were also couriers with even more personal roles — the tooshi-hikyaku (通し飛脚 — “direct” or “non-stop”), who traveled the entire route without relays. These were elite runners — strong, well-trained, moving non-stop for hundreds of kilometers. Their service was associated with the highest priority (and secrecy) of deliveries — they could deliver a message from Osaka to Edo in as little as 2–3 days. Their fee was high — even 8–9 ryō, equivalent to a year’s earnings for an average craftsman.

A unique type was the kome-hikyaku (米飛脚 — “rice couriers”), who specialized in transmitting information about rice prices on various exchanges. For merchants and speculators, such knowledge was priceless, so these couriers were given special protection and often escorted.

In the commercial market, as early as the 17th century, there were sando-hikyaku (三度飛脚) — couriers traveling the Tōkaidō route three times a month, as well as junban-hikyaku (順番飛脚) and jō-hikyaku (上飛脚), whose names referred to the frequency of runs and the direction of the delivery (e.g., “upward” toward Edo). Their operations were organized by specialized courier firms with offices in Edo, Osaka, and Kyoto. The largest of these had more than eighty relay points along major routes, including their own inns (hikyaku-yado), transfer stations, and stables.

Delivery time depended on the type of service. Standard transport from Osaka to Edo took between ten and twelve days, but express shipments — handled by haya-hikyaku — could arrive in six, five, or even three and a half days. Record-breaking deliveries were completed within two days — naturally for an appropriately high fee. The cheapest delivery cost only a few dozen mon, while a direct service could cost the equivalent of a brand-new silk kimono.

But the world of the hikyaku was not without its dangers. In forested areas, bandits — tōzoku — lay in wait, and during the rainy season, swollen rivers could block access to ports and bridges. If a courier died or lost a shipment, responsibility fell on his superior — the sairyo, who had to pay compensation or personally search for the missing item. Strict discipline prevailed in courier companies — negligence could result in flogging, demotion, or the dissolution of an entire station.

Despite these dangers, hikyaku took pride in their role. Their speed, discipline, and quiet dedication made them legendary. Although their world has long since passed, the steps of these “flying legs” still echo in Japan’s memory — in street names, festivals, and courier company logos that nostalgically draw from their symbolism.

Clothing, Style, and Running Techniques

When a hikyaku set out on his journey, nothing about him was accidental. Every element of his attire and equipment served a single purpose — speed, endurance, and effectiveness. He typically wore a fundoshi — a breezy loincloth that allowed freedom of movement and cooled the body. On his feet were waraji — sandals woven from rice straw, light but fragile, and needed to be replaced every few dozen kilometers. A cloth sash often adorned with a protective amulet bound his body, and on his shoulder he carried a lacquered, waterproof box (hikyaku-bako) containing the delivery, carefully tied with string and sealed. For heavier parcels, a transport staff (tenbin-bō) was also used, distributing weight across the shoulders — similar to peasants carrying water or botefuri (more on them here: Wandering Street Vendors, the Botefuri – The Poor Entrepreneurs of Edo Who Carried the Metropolises of the Shogunate on Their Shoulders).

But attire alone would not suffice without the body to match. Couriers used an ancient technique known as nanba-bashiri (ナンバ走り) — a form of running in which the same arm and leg move forward simultaneously, considered unnatural in the Western world. However, this method, used by shinobi, sōhei monks, and samurai couriers, allowed for more economical body movement, reduced hip rotation, conserved energy, and lessened fatigue over long distances.

Thanks to this technique, the best hikyaku were able to cover 100 kilometers a day, running through mountains, fields, and towns, in heat and downpour. The record-holders could traverse the route from Osaka to Edo — over 500 kilometers — in just two days.

That is why, along the main travel routes, there existed hikyaku-yado — inns for couriers, where they could rest, eat, change their sandals, repack their boxes, and sometimes hand over the delivery to the next person in the chain. The relationships between couriers and local people varied — they were respected for their endurance and discipline, but were also sometimes seen as noisy messengers disrupting the order. At night, during stopovers, a hikyaku could also become a source of news and gossip from distant provinces, serving as an informal transmitter of culture and current events.

Courier Business in Edo

In the Edo period, the world of couriers was no longer solely the domain of the government or the daimyō. The flourishing money economy and vibrant urban life turned hikyaku into entrepreneurs — and their legs began to serve not only feudal lords, but also merchants, families, and ordinary people. Private courier houses called hikyaku-tonya (飛脚問屋) emerged, organizing entire delivery networks, employing their own runners, renting horses, keeping elaborate bookkeeping, and developing specialties such as express deliveries or the transport of valuable goods.

One of the most famous companies was Jūshichiya, founded in the 17th century, which for generations operated along the routes from Osaka to Edo, competing with the official bakufu postal system. Their operation was flawlessly organized: couriers departed three times every ten days, had designated rest points, fixed routes, and everything was overseen by a sairyo (manager) responsible for the safety and punctuality of deliveries.

In practice, hikyaku were indispensable to commerce — they transported orders, letters of credit, and information on rice prices. They were also tools of diplomacy between clans — unofficial, nuanced, and delicate. It was not uncommon for them to carry love letters, death notices, pleas for help — serving as nearly intimate connectors between distant worlds.

The shōgunate attempted to control this expansion, regulating the routes, speeds, and privileges of courier companies. But the market showed no mercy. Private entrepreneurs competed for clients with delivery times, service cost, safety, and their ability to handle complaints in case of delays. The faster and cheaper — the better. Thus emerged the hayahikyaku — super-express couriers, who for a few ryō could deliver a letter in two or three days, running even through the night, through storms and mountains.

As a result, hikyaku became not only heroes of the road but also symbols of Edo-period “capitalism” — steadfast, clever, risk-taking. The flying legs of Japan — who carried not only messages, but bound the country together long before the railway did.

Between Drama and Comedy – Hikyaku in Literature

Hikyaku have long fired the imagination of poets, dramatists, and storytellers. They became heroes of tragedies, farces, and moral tales — and their arduous, risky work often transformed into a symbol of something far greater: love, loyalty, obsession, or simply human error.

The most famous literary echo of this profession is without doubt the play Meido no hikyaku (冥途の飛脚) by Chikamatsu Monzaemon, the “Japanese Shakespeare,” first staged in 1711. The title can be translated as “Courier to the Afterlife” — and it is not merely a poetic metaphor. It tells the tragic story of the courier Chūbei, who falls in love with the courtesan Umegawa and, in an act of desperation, uses money deposited by a client. Though his feelings are sincere and his actions driven by passion and despair, he ends up a criminal — and his run becomes a literal journey to hell. The play not only explores the boundary between duty and emotion but also reflects the social pressure that weighed upon the hikyaku — who were personally responsible for every entrusted delivery, with their own lives as collateral.

On the other hand, Edo society loved to laugh at everyday life — which is why couriers also appeared in rakugo, the traditional Japanese form of stand-up storytelling. There, they are portrayed as talkative, absent-minded, soaked in rain, and entangled in comic misunderstandings — like the courier who mixes up two similar love letters or runs across half of Japan to deliver an empty envelope.

Couriers also appear in many ukiyo-zōshi novels and illustrated books of the Edo period — sometimes as secondary characters, sometimes as narrators who had seen too much.

The memory of hikyaku has survived in modern culture as well. In the 1949 film Tengu Hikyaku (天狗飛脚), they are portrayed in an almost mythical way — as titans of endurance, with superhuman abilities reminiscent of the legendary tengu. Their echo can also be seen in anime, where characters dashing with messages wear costumes styled after the Edo period, and in video games — such as Ghost of Tsushima, where a network of informants and couriers plays a key role in the covert resistance against the Mongol invasion.

Finally, in today’s Japan, one can visit theme museums like the Nihon Hikyaku Rekishi-kan (日本飛脚歴史館) in Gifu Prefecture, where lacquered courier box replicas, detailed maps of historical routes, and authentic waraji sandals — worn through after just a few days of running — can be seen. In such places, hikyaku cease to be mere figures of legend — they become once more men of flesh and sweat, who connected the world long before the telegraph did.

Hikyaku Today

Though the paths of the old Tōkaidō have been “overgrown” with asphalt, and lacquered boxes replaced by digital parcel lockers, the spirit of the hikyaku still runs through Japan — sometimes literally, sometimes only symbolically. The word hikyaku itself has not been forgotten. It has survived in everyday language, in culture, and in marketing. One of Japan’s largest courier companies, Sagawa Express, can be recognized by its logo depicting a running Edo-period messenger, and their delivery service is called 飛脚宅配便 — hikyaku takuhaibin, or “hikyaku home delivery.” It is more than a catchy name — it is a conscious reference to a tradition of reliability, speed, and responsibility.

At Tei Park in Tokyo, a combination of postal museum and communications center, visitors can trace the history of Japanese couriers and even try carrying a shoulder box themselves, just as the hikyaku once did. During the annual Edo–Tōkaidō route reenactments, participants dressed in replica costumes take part in a symbolic run — out of respect for those who once bound scattered cities and provinces into the living body of Japan.

Hikyaku also return in another form — ultramarathons and long-distance runs, where some runners deliberately train in the old nanba-bashiri style, moving in harmony with their breath and body, avoiding excessive movement, and listening to the rhythm of their own waraji. This style, forgotten for decades, is returning today as an alternative to modern running techniques — though its actual health benefits remain subject to debate.

But perhaps the most enduring legacy of the hikyaku lies not in running, but in values. The couriers of old did not merely carry parcels — they carried trust. Their bodies were tools, but their currency was reliability. They ran through rain, mud, mountains, and rivers, knowing that the letter contained not only words, but the hearts of those who sent them. Their discipline — often stricter than that of the samurai — and their humility toward the entrusted task made them more than mere cogs in the machinery of old mail. They were the bloodstream of the nation, and their spirit — responsible and attentive — may still serve as inspiration in a world overwhelmed by noise and haste.

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"Strong Japanese Women"

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    未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

  Mike Soray

   (aka Michał Sobieraj)

未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

Mike Soray

(aka Michał Sobieraj)

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