Great. I now need to own a Skyline.
Some trips are planned with military precision. Others… others happen when you get swept up in a human current so powerful, so single-minded, that fighting it is like trying to swim up a waterfall. That’s how I found myself being disgorged from a train at Kaihin-Makuhari station, caught in a river of people all flowing in one direction. I didn’t know where we were going, but the energy was electric, a strange mix of reverence and raw, manic glee. We were on a pilgrimage, that much was clear. But to what? The signs proclaimed our destination: “Tokyo Auto Salon.”
I have a confession to make. I know nothing about cars. I mean, truly, fundamentally nothing. I know they have wheels and an engine that makes a noise, and that you put gasoline in a hole somewhere. That’s it. To me, a Toyota is a Honda is a whatever-the-hell-else (actually this part is categorically not true. I only drive Toyota’s and love them). So, as I was carried along with the tide towards the massive Makuhari Messe convention center, I was an infidel on the road to Mecca, a clueless lamb heading to a very loud, very shiny slaughter.
Breaching the Gates of Chromehalla
This is the Tokyo Auto Salon Baby.
The sheer scale of the thing hits you first. The exhibition hall is a cavern of biblical proportions, a metal and concrete hangar vast enough to house the egos of a thousand forgotten gods. And inside… inside was a full-blown, high-octane sensory assault. The air was thick with the scent of tire rubber and cleaning polish, a chemical perfume I’d never experienced. A disorienting symphony of booming bass, cheerful announcer chatter, and the ambient roar of tens of thousands of acolytes filled the space.
And the machines. My God, the machines. This was a gathering of idols, a pantheon of strange metal deities polished to a mirror shine under a galaxy of spotlights. There were cars, sure, but these were not the humble boxes that clog the arteries of our cities. These were something else entirely. Fantasies rendered in steel, carbon fiber, and a whole lot of paint.
I saw cars slammed so low to the ground they seemed to be melting into the floor, their wheels tucked up into the bodywork at impossible angles. I saw tiny vans, no bigger than a phone booth, that had been converted into miniature off-road beasts or cozy-looking campers, complete with wood-paneled interiors and pop-up tents on the roof. One was a perfectly scaled-down yellow Hummer, a glorious monument to absurdity.
The Worshipers and Their Wares
This was clearly a religious festival. The faithful moved through the halls with a hushed reverence, their faces illuminated by their phone screens as they captured every angle, every curve, every exposed engine. The engines were a sight to behold—gleaming tangles of chrome and braided hoses, looking less like machinery and more like the intricate organs of some alien creature, lovingly dissected for all to see.
The high priests of this cult stood by their creations, a mix of men in racing jackets and serious-looking business suits, ready to dispense wisdom to any who would listen. And then there were the temple maidens, the models who posed with a practiced, stoic grace beside these metallic gods, their presence drawing swarms of photographers who clicked and flashed in a feverish, rhythmic ritual.
I drifted from one spectacle to the next, a ghost in the machine. A blood-red Nissan, so low and wide it looked like it was built to break the sound barrier standing still. A fleet of legendary Skylines, lined up in a row like a royal family, their paint jobs shifting from purple to green in the light. A Lamborghini that looked more like a stealth fighter than a car, all sharp angles and matte black paint. There was even a classic Chevrolet Impala, its entire body covered in intricate, swirling engravings, a rolling masterpiece of silver filigree.
I left that day with my ears ringing and my eyes wide open. I still don’t know what a V-spec N1 is, and I couldn’t tell you the difference between a turbo and a teapot. But I saw something incredible. I saw a tribe. A passionate, dedicated, and slightly unhinged congregation of people who find beauty and meaning in the art of the automobile. And for a few hours, I was a convert. I didn’t understand the sermon, but damn, I loved the choir.