Every American family has one man who is racing the GPS. He has been racing her for fifteen years. She does not know. My coworker Sakai found out in New Mexico. Last month, he spent two weeks at a supplier in Albuquerque. On Friday, a guy from the plant named Kurt invited him along for the weekend. His mother's 80th birthday. In Denver. "It's a little drive," Kurt said. Saturday. 4:58 a.m. A minivan in a driveway. Kurt, his wife Lisa, two kids, a cooler, and Sakai. Kurt held up his phone. A calm woman's voice said, "Your destination is six hours and twelve minutes away." Kurt looked at the phone the way a boxer looks at a man at the weigh-in. "We'll see," he said. Lisa leaned back to Sakai. "He's been fighting that woman since 2009." "What is her name?" "We don't say her name in this car." Then Kurt explained the rules. "Rule one. We stop when the tank is empty. Not when your bladder is full. The tank." Sakai raised his hand. "And if the bladder is full first?" "Then you made choices back in Albuquerque." "Rule two. Every stop is gas, bathroom, snacks. All at once. In and out. Like a bank robbery. But polite." "Rule three. The only legal reason to stop early is green chile." The eleven-year-old asked, "What if somebody throws up?" Kurt did not look back. "Window." Sakai understood immediately. In Japan, our bullet trains are famous for running on time, to the minute. It takes thousands of engineers and billions of dollars. In America, the same job is done by one man in a minivan, powered entirely by spite and sunflower seeds. Sakai is an engineer. He took out his phone and started a stopwatch. Kurt saw this in the rearview mirror. He did not say anything. But something passed between them. The way it does between two men who have both checked the time while someone else was talking. The children had gained a second father. They had not asked for one. First stop. Gas, bathroom, snacks. Sakai came back to the van in two minutes and fifty seconds. Kurt looked at his watch. Then at Sakai. "...You're hired." Outside Santa Fe, the calm woman spoke again. "A faster route is available." "No, it isn't," Kurt said. She offered four times. He declined four times. Sakai asked, "But if her route is faster—" "It's not about faster," Kurt said. "It's about who's driving." Lisa said, "Kurt. He's a guest." "Then he can hold it like a guest." Sakai kept records. It's what he does. "We're making good time": 9. "Are we there yet": 14. "Kurt, slow down": 6. "I'm not even speeding": 6. Sunflower seeds: one bag. The whole bag. Kurt. At 10:58 a.m., in a driveway in Denver, the calm woman said, "You have arrived." Her estimate had been 11:10. Kurt did not get out. He turned off the engine. He looked at the phone for a long moment. Then he said, very quietly: "Twelve minutes, sweetheart." Then he got out of the van like he had just landed on the moon. His mother opened the front door. Eighty years old. Apron. Flour on her hands. "You're early. The ham isn't done." "Worth it," Kurt said. He hugged his mother. He hugged his kids. Then he hugged Sakai, and slapped his back twice, which Sakai says is how American men sign a contract. "Best wingman I ever had." The eight-year-old ran inside and told her grandmother, "Dad has a Japanese son now." Her grandmother thought about this. "Does he want ham?" Sakai came home to Tokyo last week. Yesterday morning, Google Maps told him the walk to the station would take nine minutes. He did it in seven. He texted Kurt. Kurt replied in four seconds. "Proud of you, son." His wife asked him who he was racing. Sakai said, "Her."