THE GIRL ON THE RED DUCATI

1: The Girl on the Red Ducati

Sapporo, 1989. A teenage rider from Tokyo crosses paths with a mysterious woman on a red Ducati. He doesn’t know her name—only the color of her bike and the feeling she leaves behind.

Behind the Sapporo Clock Tower, motorcycles with out-of-town license plates lined up in neat rows. Michio parked his quarter-liter Yamaha with full fairing beside a vivid red Ducati 851 Strada. He was sure it was the same Ducati he had seen earlier at Nakayama Pass. The brilliant red reminded him of the blazing sun over the Italian countryside. Compared to the Ducati’s powerful 850cc engine, his own two-tone white-and-red 250 looked light and modest. But to Michio, it was a treasure.

He had made up his mind while listening to his Sony Walkman and watching a monkey named Choromatsu in a lakeside TV commercial that had gone viral in 1987. Even monkeys are evolving—what excuse do I have for staying stuck like this? I’d be worse than a monkey. Four days ago, at the start of his high school summer break, he had quietly slipped out of his home in Tokyo and headed for Hokkaido. He was camping rough, with only a sleeping bag and tent.

The Ducati rider was a woman. He had first seen her about forty kilometers outside Sapporo, at Nakayama Pass. Starving, Michio had just pulled into the parking lot when she rode out—almost as if they were switching places.

Her red leather pants and jacket matched the color of her Ducati. She had unzipped the jacket to let the breeze cool her down, creating a sharp contrast with the black T-shirt underneath. For a moment, she turned her red-and-black full-face helmet toward him. Michio felt her gaze from behind the dark visor.

Just then, a metallic green Nissan Cima roared past, tailing the Ducati and brushing dangerously close to Michio. Instinctively, he locked the front brake and wobbled.

“Hey! Watch it!”

He shouted after the car, but the Cima ignored his puny quarter-liter bike entirely. It turned a curve and vanished behind the birch trees.

He reached Sapporo a little after five in the afternoon. The area around the Clock Tower was crowded with tourists. Other bikers, like him, were taking commemorative photos.

There she was—the girl on the Ducati—sitting in a small plaza beside the Clock Tower. She was perched on the brick edge of a flowerbed where begonias and marigolds bloomed, smoking a cigarette. The summer sun still blazed, and she had taken off her jacket.

She looked about twenty-two or twenty-three. A natural beauty with long hair and a calm, down-to-earth vibe. She reminded Michio of a beloved elementary school teacher.

He stared at her intently, blending into the crowd and pretending to be just another tourist boy admiring the Clock Tower.

A moment later, the same Cima from earlier slowly pulled up next to the old building behind her. The driver’s side window slid down, revealing a young man in sunglasses.

“Jun!”

His voice was deep and steady.

She pulled a portable ashtray from her waist pouch and stubbed out her cigarette. She didn’t even glance back. Michio thought for a second the guy might have mistaken her for someone else.

No. He wasn’t mistaken. Michio could tell. The man ignored everyone else and stared straight at her.

Then something unbelievable happened.

“Long time no see. Fancy meeting you here. Let’s grab a drink.”

She walked straight up to Michio, as if she had picked him out from all the other riders. There was no way she could’ve known he had been interested in her. And yet… She gripped his left arm tightly.

“Walk with me. That guy’s been following me. Please.”

“O-Okay...”

That was all Michio could manage.

As they walked side by side, he noticed she wasn’t much shorter than him. Michio stood at 174 centimeters. She was tall. Her red leather pants, long legs, and touring boots with a gold emblem made a striking impression.

In contrast, Michio was wearing jeans soaked in four days’ worth of dirt and sweat, a brown-and-white rugby shirt, and sneakers. He didn’t think he matched the sleek image of his replica-style quarter-liter bike. A green daypack was slung over his back.

They crossed the street together. From the upper deck of a sightseeing bus, several young passengers looked down at them—some with envy. Michio felt a flicker of smug pride.

“How about here?”

She stopped in front of an unremarkable café and walked in without waiting for an answer.

They took a seat by the window in cool rattan chairs. Michio sat across from her.

“Welcome! May I take your order?”

The waitress, likely a high school part-timer, looked about his age.

“Iced coffee. No gum syrup. How about you?”

“I’ll have the same, please.”

“Two, then.”

She glanced out at the street.

“Still worried?”

“Not really. Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Go ahead.”

She pulled out a pack of Seven Stars Light from her waist pouch. Michio had tried that brand once or twice for fun. Her pink translucent 100-yen plastic lighter looked oddly out of place with her cool, stylish image. “Thanks for earlier. You really helped me out.”

She lit her cigarette.

“Is that guy dangerous?”

“I don’t know him. He’s been following me since Hakodate. Maybe he’s a creep.”

“Wouldn’t it be best to report him?”

“Sounds like a hassle.”

“But… what if he tries to hurt you?”

“No way. I’m sure he has some basic sense of decency.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“You’ve got this troubled look. It’s kind of cute.”

She smiled.

Michio lowered his gaze, flustered.

The iced coffee arrived. Michio sipped silently through the pale blue straw. She kept glancing out the window, as if searching for someone.

After about thirty minutes, she stood. Michio followed. She paid and they left. They returned to the Clock Tower. The Cima was gone.

She mounted her Ducati, flipped her long hair over her shoulder, and put on her helmet.

“Hope we meet again.”

She lowered the visor.

“Mind if I ask… which way are you headed?”

“East. I think I’ll travel east.”

The engine rumbled to life with a deep growl. From behind the visor, she gave him a quick wink.

Instinctively, Michio gave a small bow.

Her red silhouette disappeared into the gaps of Sapporo’s rush-hour traffic.

All he knew about her was her name—Jun.

(To be continued)