Morning of summer solstice. The sky stares at the ground with bright blue eyes, redwings sing songs in the trees and the breeze softly rustles the greenery. As the flowers, trees and bushes are gently awakened by the wind, a sweet aroma disperses into the air. In the distance, a steady rattle of wheels clattering against tracks can be heard as a train makes its daily commute; the clash of metal on metal resonates through the waking town and up the swerving mountain pass.

Rays of light pierce through the branches of the overhanging trees upon the old path, revealing its imperfections. The tarmac road is a barren battlefield in an everlasting war between nature and machine. At the edges of the blacktop, a slight dampness resides as the sun cannot encompass it with its generous light and warmth.

A musty odour lingers in the air as a ‘Championship White’ ’92 Honda NSX passes by. Its tyres flick up the water on the side of the road and into the sky. For a split second, the droplets hang in the air. All is silent. Then the rumble of the engine breaks the peace and the earth’s gravity decides the droplets’ fate like a Roman emperor.

As the car manoeuvres through the sweeping hairpins and chicanes, the occasional flicker of sunlight reflects off of its flawless aluminium body. It is a graceful swan gliding on a black river. Miniscule hints of petrol, barely noticeable, linger in the air as the twin exhausts warm the darkness beneath the overhanging trees. The swan then disappears into the pass, not to be seen until the light of the sun no longer shines upon the earth.

Night of summer solstice. No longer are the eyes of the sky blue but a jet black with a slight glimmer from the occasional starlight; no longer do the redwings sing but the insects chirp and the breeze no longer soft, but a heavy buffet. The whole town is asleep. But if you listen carefully, a throaty roar can be heard in the mountains as a beast awakens in the distance.

The grace of the swan that once travelled on the path now replaced by a fiend. Its true self unbound by the chains restricting it in the day. For now, it roams freely but its liberty is limited by time.

The loud rumble of the engine shakes the ground. All six cylinders run at their maximum potential with no mistake to be made, the clutch engages with the flywheel at every shift keeping the transmission in time with the engine, the popping of the exhausts as unburnt petrol lands on the scorching pipes and the screech of rubber as the tyres struggle to find traction; a mechanical masterpiece boundless by the law in the night.

If you watch the swan pass by, at first you can see the kind white eyes illuminating the darkness covering the pass. Then, as it slows down and turns into the chicane, you can hear its downshifts and the screaming of the tyres once again. Watch it slide, showing its elegance and prowess simultaneously. But as the eyes become red, its personality changes and once again, the noise of the engine spreads out into the surroundings.

Now all that can be heard is its beastly growl echoing through the mountain pass as it disappears into the night; not to be seen until dawn.