What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, they say . . .

but why bother to go there in the first place?

---

Tell me, Mr. Siegal
How do I get out of here?

— "Mr. Siegal," by Tom Waits, from "Heartattack and Vine"

---

By Patrick O'Grady
ogrady at maddogmedia dot com

  BEFORE LEAVING FOR the 25th Interbike International Bicycle Expo, I held a brief meeting with my bicycles, lined up with military precision in the garage.

  "You got me into this," I told them. "If it weren't for you, I'd be safely dead by now, or at worst chasing commas around a newspaper copy desk with the rest of the drunks. I certainly would not be driving to Las Vegas to cover another goddamned trade show. What do you have to say for yourselves?"

  Silence. The culprit was a $320 Centurion LeMans 12, bought in 1984 and long since gone, and they knew it. Blaming them for my descent into cycling journalism 15 years ago made as much sense as pinning a nuclear North Korea on Hillary Clinton.

  Still, somebody had to answer for what I was up against. And as usual, it would be me.

A view of Sin City from way up there in the Casino of the Living Dead.

  One Last Stand. Why have we sentenced ourselves to a week of community service in Bugsy Siegal's Fun House every autumn for the past nine years? Parking our industry showcase in this garish temple to The Seven Deadly Sins is like sending your main squeeze to work in a crab-infested massage parlor undergoing a perpetual renovation by car-bombing.

  Stephen King gave Vegas too much credit by making it headquarters to the forces of evil in "The Stand." Still, every time I slouch toward the doors of the Sands Convention Center, the only thing keeping me relatively sane is recalling the final urban-renewal project via deus ex machina that King laid on The Strip.

  Something to look forward to, I think. And then, smiling, I go about my business.

  Yeah, But It's a Dry Hump. My business in Vegas is not unlike my business at home: generate some lightweight word count; draw some screwy pictures; and have a few drams afterward. But it's hard to get even this much accomplished with smelly old Sin City twirling her tattered tassels in your face.

  A self-described "cycling adviser" to the Las Vegas Chamber of Commerce advises me that Vegas proper is less venal than The Strip. This is akin to arguing that a sunny suburban neighborhood is not besmirched by the whorehouse on the corner.

  To him, Las Vegas may be a smart, sexy showgirl. To me, she's a flabby Teamster in drag with a bad wax job and a Lucky Strike cough. And I wouldn't come within a thousand miles of her if I weren't getting paid.

  Leaving Las Vegas. Still, money isn't everything. It can't buy you love (though you can rent some just outside Vegas). Hell, it can't even buy you a brisk September ride through the fallen leaves back home, which is where you will find me during Interbike 2007. If this is fun, someone else can have it, along with the money.

  Certainly, Interbike is, and should be, about the business of bicycling. But it should make more time for what we love about this business, which is hooking up with our friends and playing with all the cool toys. Alas, I don't see anyone getting in a head-clearing morning ride within 30 miles of the Sands anytime soon, unless gas hits $50 a gallon, and then we won't be going there anyway. We'll be holding the annual Gathering of the Tribes by videoconference, or maybe telepathy.

  Outdoor Demo in Boulder City is the best part of Interbike, but it feels wrong up front, like a pair of fake tits, not a real part of the show. As a prelude, it feels rushed — but as a finale, it might feel like recess. Everyone would head home with smiles on their faces, wanting more Interbike, not less.

  Forward Into the Past. I finally straggled home the Sunday after the show closed, but didn't go for a ride for nearly a week. My bikes all looked like commodities. I'd have rather tried to ride a copy of the Wall Street Journal.

  But once I decided that Interbike No. 25 would be my last, my bikes became instruments of liberation once again, as in my childhood. Taking one for a spin along a creekside path, I saw a kid on a BMX bike just ahead, barreling along to nowhere in particular, long blond locks swirling in the wind.

  As I passed, he pulled a John Wayne cavalry dismount, swinging his right leg over the handlebars, spinning around and hollering, "Have a great day!"

  I did.

---

• This pointless screed is exclusive to the DogPage. If you want to see what I submitted in its place, you'll have to wait for the November issue of Bicycle Retailer & Industry News, found crumpled near the toilet in fine bike shops everywhere.

---

Return to The Daily Dog

Read The Daily Dog's 2006 archives

Read The Daily Dog's 2005 archives