It’s 6:30 a.m. Cheryl is in the kitchen, briskly performing off-to-school rituals established two decades ago when her first-born matriculated to elementary school.

Peanut butter is married with jelly, yogurt is paired with a plastic spoon, apples slices are bagged. For dessert, a scoop of trail mix dotted with sparkling M&Ms. It all goes into a paper sack, sandwich on top.

Across the counter, Jonathan — Cheryl’s final-born — and I are eating in silence. Absolute silence. Only knaves chatter at this hour.

Jonathan came to the table dressed in a plush bathrobe that makes him look like Daddy Warbucks. Slumped forward, he devours comics and pancakes with equal seriousness.

Cheryl and I may eat cold cereal throughout the school year, but Jonathan never. A growing boy needs a hot start to his day, Cheryl believes. Her belief is deep-seated, more maternal than nutritional.

Leaning over my crunchies to avoid dribbles, I scan the serious parts of the newspaper. Stories about depressed home and car sales compel my interest. Happier stuff I mark for later.

At 6:40, after furiously brushing my teeth and filling my toter with coffee, I announce that the train is leaving the station. Those who are Napa High-bound had better jump aboard.

I head off to the garage while Jonathan piles down the stairs. He grabs his lunch and stuffs it in his backpack. He may eat it, trade it, waste it. Who really knows? All that can be said for certain is that Mom made it. Jonathan will not starve on her watch.

I am Jonathan’s chauffeur for a 7 a.m. early-flight class. That was my job last year, too.

This year’s early class is chemistry. Last year’s? I can’t remember. All I know is that we were never late. Not once.

I don’t mind hitting the road so early. Not one bit. I’m an early kind of guy. If Napa High offered early early flight, I’d happily sign Jonathan up.

There is much to be said for getting on the road at the crack of dawn. Streets are less congested. Beautifully so, although not as empty as you might think.

Lots of people are already in gear by 7. Highway 29 traffic is high intensity. For commuters, it’s prime drive time. Sadly, they may already be late.

Local streets are more relaxed. Jefferson is a pleasure to drive. Trancas is a zoo later in the day, but not at 7. At 7, every motorist is king of the road.

The mind wanders on these school runs. You think, why can’t it always be like this? Lanes wide open, no backups at lights. Listen up, readers. Hit the road sooner and you’ll be way ahead. Drive while the street cloggers are sleeping in.

Even radio is better in the early morning. Jonathan and I bounce between KFOG and an oldies station. We try to maximize music during our 10-minute commute. If a commercial comes on, we punch it out.

If I weren’t transporting a student, I’d be checking out the news on KQED. Honestly, I would. But chemistry students prefer Jackson Browne and The Who to public radio.

The conversational silence established at the breakfast table travels with us. The music has our full attention. I hear oldies as if for the first time. Once-muddled lyrics are suddenly comprehensible.

The music sometimes triggers conversation. Jonathan knows more about the songs and bands that predate his birth than I do. How this came to be I do not know.

Our radio interlude ends when we pull into Napa High’s so-called jock lot, where the action is intense. Parents jockey for parking spots. Students scurry.

As Jonathan exits the front passenger seat, I say, “Good luck.” Retrieving his backpack from the rear, he replies. “Later,” he says.

This minimalist good-bye resonates as I drive on to work. Jonathan could have said volumes, but “later” does the job.

At the risk of inflating a small routine beyond all recognition, I must say I find these early morning school shuttles incredibly pleasing. For 10 minutes we’re two guys on the road, coasting on rock and roll. Nothing else intrudes.

The rest of the day is a roller coaster, a cacophony of chatter and endless tasks.

But not at dawn, not during the school year.

Jonathan and I have our own road trip. The world’s shortest road trip, perhaps, but still, a road trip.

Kevin can be reached at 256-2217 or Napa Valley Register,  P.O. Box 150, Napa 94559 or kcourtney@napanews.com쇓