The “Budo Beat” Blog features a collection of short reflections, musings, and anecdotes on a wide range of budo topics by Professor Alex Bennett, a seasoned budo scholar and practitioner. Dive into digestible and diverse discussions on all things budo—from the philosophy and history to the practice and culture that shape the martial Way.

I was in Morioka yesterday. More precisely, at Morioka Hachimangu Shrine waiting for the Nanbu-ryū yabusame to begin, as it does each year on September 16.

Yabusame is the mounted practice of archers shooting at targets at full gallop, a martial skill that developed in the Kamakura period (1192-1333). Well, a little bit before that, actually. The Nanbu-ryū is a regional line of this tradition, passed down in the northern domain of Nanbu (present-day Iwate). It traces its origins back to 1334, when Moroyuki, the fourth-generation lord of the Nanbu, dedicated a performance to Kushihiki Hachimangu Shrine in Hachinohe, Aomori.

After the Nanbu were transferred to Tōno in 1627, a stable was built at Tōnogō Hachimangu Shrine, and a yabusame dedication was established there in 1661. Even after relocating, the family was ordered to continue performing at Kushihiki Hachimangu, travelling every year from Tōno to Hachinohe to offer yabusame. Although it was discontinued during the Meiji period (1868-1912), the ceremony was revived in 1953 and has been performed annually ever since.

One feature unique to Nanbu yabusame is the attendant (kaizoe) following the archer like a bat out of hell while praising them with cries of “Yō itariya!”, words of encouragement that remain an energetic hallmark of the tradition. Rooted in the horse culture of the region, it preserves distinctive rituals and styles, and today the Nanbu-ryū Yabusame Association continues to keep it all alive. Unlike the larger, more widely known schools like Ogasawara-ryū or Takeda-ryū, Nanbu-ryū reflects the traditions of a domain where horses were central to daily life, giving it a more local but no less authentic flavour. Yabusame, as I see it, is at once a technique, a ritual, and a form of competition, and today survives in different ryūha as well as in local shrines and preservation groups. In some places, it has even been adapted into a codified sport called kyōgi-yabusame or sports-yabusame.

I was invited to sit in the stand reserved for the descendant of the Nanbu domain daimyō. The invitation had come through research connections in Tōno, where I had been introduced to Kikuchi Narikatsu, the vice-chairman of the Nanbu-ryū Yabusame Association. For decades he has been a guide and instructor in the etiquette and procedures of yabusame, but he also has a deep obsession with the various implements and what they tell us about the art’s evolution. Saddles, stirrups, bridles, arrows and quivers, bows… he has built a collection that maps the evolution of horse gear from the hard pragmatism of medieval times to the decorative splendour of the Tokugawa period (1600-1868).

In Kikuchi-sensei’s view, these objects are more than accessories. They reveal how warfare, ritual, and society itself transformed. In an age of near-constant fighting, horse gear was stripped down to essentials. Saddles were designed to hold a rider steady in the chaos of battle, stirrups to brace against the shock of charging or sudden turns. As peace took hold under the Tokugawa shogunate, those same objects became canvases for artistry and symbols of rank. Lacquered wood and mother of pearl replaced raw leather and iron, metal fittings were engraved with family crests, and what once served survival and thrival in the fray became a display of prestige.

Kikuchi-sensei has heaps and heaps of very old manuscripts in need of proper academic research. Hence my invitation. He shared stories tracing how the Nanbu domain absorbed outside influences while keeping a distinctive northern flavour in their equestrian culture. “Every saddle, strap, and arrow rest carries the trace of Japanese society negotiating between war and peace, function and form.” At least that’s what I think he said. The Dialect up here is somewhat difficult to decipher!

And, there are a few riddles that keep one wondering. For example, there is no immediate answer as to why the old stirrup shape used from the early Kamakura period, with its higher angle on the connecting bar, was changed in the Tokugawa period to something with a much flatter angle. This makes it very uncomfortable and difficult to stand up in while riding.

With these and other thoughts in mind, the designated hour of the yabusame brought a unique intensity. The grand old shrine of Morioka was truly radiant in the autumn light. The shrine grounds were filled with festival chatter, smells of good old matsuri tucker kept my nostrils twitching, and then the sudden anticipation enveloped us all as the horses came into view. A few salutations were made to the daimyō descendant sitting next to me, and Shinto purification rituals were conducted for safety and good fortune. Then, the frenetic charges at full gallop down the makeshift track began.

The pounding of hooves shook the sandy track as horse and rider covered the roughly 200 metres in about twenty seconds, loosing arrows at three targets spaced along the way. I could not stop thinking about the centuries-old gear and knowledge that made this all possible. The bridle that controlled the horse’s head, the saddle that kept the rider balanced, the stirrups that steadied the body, the bow crafted for use on horseback, each was the product of trial, adaptation, and refinement. Probably more than a few bruised bums as well!

The synchronisation of rider and horse was nothing short of astonishing. You could almost hear it: breathe in with the surge of the horse, breathe out with the snap of the arrow loosed. It was the same unity we hunt for in every other budo, where endless repetition grinds the brain down until thought finally surrenders and the body carries on by itself. The difference here was that the miracle was not one body but two, joined together by years of bruises, sweat, and the kind of trust that looks a lot like madness from the outside. Watching them, I could easily imagine how, a few centuries back, such a pairing would have been absolutely bloody terrifying on the battlefield. Now it survives as a sacred ritual, but the truth seeps through in every gallop and every shot. The energy of combat still lingers, muttering away just beneath the surface.

Can you imagine the nerve it takes to position and loose an arrow at full gallop, let alone actually hit the target? One blink too early or a heartbeat too late and the shot is wasted. The crack of wood splitting under a perfect strike brought a roar from the decent-sized crowd, but even the wayward shots were met with indulgent sighs, as if the crowd itself was riding along. The horses, naturally, were oblivious to the ovation, but without their rhythm and grace nothing could happen. They carried the weight of history as surely as the archers carried their bows. And then, after the archer had loosed all three shots, a kaizoe rider came tearing down the track like a complete maniac to confirm the results. It would almost be comical, if it weren’t for the breakneck speed and the fact he had no hands on the reins, lifting a fan at each target as he flew past.

What made the greatest impression on me was how alive the tradition still felt. It certainly was not a staged museum piece. Riders were young and old, sometimes tentative, sometimes bold. Horses sometimes got a bit stroppy and misjudged strides. Tradition survives because people continue to risk imperfection, not because they achieve flawless performance. That, too, is a lesson familiar to anyone who has stood on the dojo floor.

Kikuchi-sensei relayed how yabusame provides a window into how martial cultures adapt when the conditions around them shift. “When violence was central, horse gear was brutally efficient. When peace arrived, the same equipment became ornate, signalling authority rather than survival.” Yet the act of mounted archery itself remained, carrying both threads forward. He believes that examining these objects through the lens of budo gives us a clearer picture of how martial forms evolve without losing their essence. I find his conviction persuasive. Too often we look at arts like yabusame and imagine them frozen relics of a bygone era. In reality, they are the product of centuries of negotiation between necessity and expression, and the lifeblood of the art still flows strong.

After the yabusame wound down we wandered over to check on the horses, who were still steaming like kettle tops, before being swept into the naorai, the drinking party held inside the shrine. Not the horses, of course! It was a Dai-ni dojo of sorts, with the excitement and meaning of the day’s performance replayed in voices as loud as the hooves had been. The passion this crew has for their horses and their tradition is immense, and the conversations galloped along with the same energy as the runs I had just seen. For the record, the horses looked as if they were having the time of their lives, though I suspect more than one of them was mildly offended that the track was ONLY 200 metres long.

Nanbu-ryū yabusame is so much more than colourful entertainment for a sunny day, although there were plenty of tourists who showed up to witness the goings on. It’s a thrilling, corporeal thread that shows how martial traditions absorb change, how implements embody history, and in what ways people keep breathing life into practice. Today the Nanbu-ryū and its association are working hard to make yabusame popular with children, not only as heritage but as a sport, inviting a new generation to feel the excitement of horse and bow and to carry the practice forward. The arrows may land on targets, but the true mark is left on the hearts of those who ride, watch, and carry the practice into tomorrow.