Leaving Las Vegas

A funny thing happened on my ride last night. I started to miss Las Vegas.

OK, funnier things have happened during my daily commute to meet Justin. Like the time we tried to stop a Possum from walking in circles. Or the time we bumped into Laura and Dan for the first time when my face was three times its normal size due to poison ivy—the only thing I took home from the Fair Hill race. Heck, even the time I ran over a dog was funnier than this. (I was on a bike and the dog escaped without injury.)

Perhaps the word I’m searching for then is “strange,” not “funny.” It was certainly strange for me to miss Las Vegas. In the past four years I’ve visited Vegas just as many times—for business and pleasure—and never once regretted coming home. Why was this time different?

Maybe it was because I was there for North America's largest bicycle trade event and show. Maybe it was because scantily-clad women and kitted-up cyclists mingled on casino floors. Or perhaps it was because after-hours parties consisted of the first-ever Interbike Tweetup and a bike polo tournament behind the Mandalay Bay Hotel and Casino. Or because the biggest cyclocross race in America took place a few short blocks away from our swanky hotel.

Whatever the reason, during a crisp fall ride I found myself reminiscing about my recent foray into the seasonless, seedy city. And was kind of sad to be home.