ROUTE 1 - SEISHO BY-PASS

The edge of night comes apart, and the underside of the sky turns a faint blue. National Route 1, the Seisho Bypass: a straightaway built out of the sea's own breathing. She matches her breath to the throttle and her spine to the wheel. Her heartbeat is a metronome, and the needle is on her side. The smell of brine slips in through the gap in the window; in the mirror the city lights fade quietly away, while ahead a single horizon is drawn across the whole world. This is the hour when night and morning exist at the same time, and in this hour she is strong.

The straight runs on, a little climb, a little curve. The white lane lines are notes, and her right foot sings them exactly. There is no clutch, only the short snap of the paddle and the tachometer needle dancing as fine as sparks. The sunrise warms her back; the red open car borrows a pinch of the sky's color and stains its hood pale. She nods without a word and takes it up one more step, the small whistle of the turbo woven into the answering call of the waves.

The exit curve, as always, arrives as suddenly as an invitation, the guardrail sliding up at the corner of her eye. Being a serious sort, she answers the invitation politely: turn in, counter-steer, gather the sliding tail back to the front. Three and a half turns. The world shows her the same morning three and a half times over, then settles back into one. The wall comes close enough to say hello, offers a courteous goodbye, and is gone.

She breathes out. The metronome does not stop. And then she notices it—her seat is cold. First she blames the sea breeze, then the color of the upholstery, then some invisible mist; on the fourth guess she remembers last night, and a bottle cap left stopped at a half turn. "Is it white?" she wonders. No—it was clear, and the morning light only made it shine more convincingly. There is nothing left to hold back now. The option of a convenience-store stop slides off the edge of the map. She laughs—really laughs—and looks ahead. The sea is blue, the sky is blue, the straightaway is colorless; so she will go full throttle, in transparent.

The far end of Seisho draws near. She flicks the turn signal once and slides into the lane that climbs toward the mountains. The scent of brine thins; the scent of green grows thick. From here on is the white chapter—mist, or steam, or that pale smoke—any of them, all of them. The paddle clicks once more, the metronome rushes half a beat ahead, and she sends the car into the opening line of the mountains. On to Hakone.