ROUTE 1 - SEISHO BY-PASS

The edge of night comes loose, and the underside of the sky is faintly blue.

Route 1, the Seisho Bypass. This straight is made of the sea's breathing. I match my breath to the throttle and my spine to the wheel. My heartbeat, a metronome. The needle is on my side.

The smell of the tide slides in through the gap in the window. In the mirror, the lights of Tokyo quietly go out, and ahead, a single horizon is drawn. The hour when night and morning are present at once. I'm strong at this hour. "Smooth and steady, in control." A line of last night's lyrics plays itself back deep in my chest.

The straight goes on. A little grade, a little curve. The white lines are notes. My right foot sings those notes exactly. No clutch. The paddle clicks short. The tach memory dances fine, like the sparks of a sparkler.

The sunrise warms my back. The red convertible steals a pinch of the sky's color and faintly tints its hood. I nod without a word, and one more gear. Into the call-and-response of the surf, the turbine's little whistle mixes in.

The exit curve is always sudden, like a sales pitch. At an angle that all but says "now's the time," the guardrail draws near out of the corner of my eye. I'm serious, so I answer the invitation politely. I turn the wheel, counter-steer, and bring the back—drifting thin—forward again. Three and a half rotations. The world shows me the same morning three and a half times, then becomes one again. The wall comes to a "hello" distance, says a polite "goodbye," and leaves.

I breathe out. The metronome doesn't stop. The meter neither praises me nor scolds me. It just points, impartially, to the next straight.

…That's when it hit me. My butt is cold.

At first, I blamed the sea breeze. Next, I blamed the color of the seat. Third, I tried blaming an invisible mist. And on the fourth, I remember last night's self. The bottle cap. The sound of stopping it at a half-turn.

I verify it seriously. On the floor mat, a round shadow like a slow planet. On the hem of my skirt, a coldness of strong will. "White, maybe?" Wrong. It was clear. When the morning light slipped in, the clear shone beautifully and grew even more convincing.

There's nothing left to hold. The announcement in my head is awfully clear. The option of stopping at a convenience store has vanished off the edge of the map. I laugh and look ahead. I laughed seriously. The sea is blue, the sky is blue too, the straight is colorless. Then I'll go with full-throttle clear.

The sunrise pushes my back. The end of the Seisho draws near. I tick the turn signal just once and slip into the lane headed for the mountains. The smell of the tide fades, and the smell of green grows thick. From here on is the white chapter—mist, or steam, or maybe that white smoke. Any of them is fine. I want them all. I'm an airhead, so I can nod to everything.

The paddle clicks short, once more. The metronome in my head rushes forward by a half-beat. I re-grip the wheel and send the car toward the mountain's opening line. All right—Hakone.